CHAPTER XIII.
"Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening's song,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, e'er I cease to love!"
Pope.
The season, though still smiling in beauty, no longer possessed charms for Oriana. The sun's brilliant rays diffused their vivifying beams—but not for her. And now deserted was the grove, so late her happy resort, while wandering with Philimore beneath the ample shade afforded by the venerable oak, and the majestic beech, or, while seated upon a bank, listening to the feathered choir, and their enchanting notes of love, in unison with their feelings, the sprightly ash fanned them by its light and quivering branches.
Sometimes, indeed, an intimate association of ideas inclined her lonely steps long to linger around her favourite haunts; but alas! no longer each external object reflected back, as formerly, the
