restless and disturbed in spirit, had been wandering about her dwelling. In seeing the light beam from her window, that innocent object, who had been the chief theme of their conversation, and whom they imagined to be wrapt in quiet slumbers, stood revealed before them.
The moon had risen in all her pale majestic grandeur; the watchman, in pacing his usual round, had called the hour of twelve; but Rosilia, in preference to retiring to rest, contemplated that heavenly orb, so often the subject of the poet's muse. Scarcely a cloud chequered the dark expanse, the general stillness being only occasionally broken by the bark of a watch-dog, and the tolling of a bell as if from some distant church. What a night for meditation!
Rosilia felt her soul, transported above the vanity of earthly things, to rest solely upon its Omnipotent Creator. "Alas!" she thought, "how often have I sighed for other pleasures! The seclusion which attends my youth, how often have I lamented—what a sacrifice have I thought it! But never! Oh! never! have I wished for an over-indulgence in the tumultuous pleasures of life. Plays, operas, concerts, afford me no relief; I return from them vexed, dissatisfied with myself, weary of a scene that never presents any one who could associate with me in the bonds of friendship,—one whom I could truly esteem,—one in whom I could place an entire confidence,—who could participate with me in joys, pure, elevated, refined,—who could direct and influence my taste, enlighten my
