ETHEL CHURCHILL.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
A SCENE AT THE MASQUERADE.
I do not say, bequeath unto my soul
Thy memory, I rather ask forgetting;
Withdraw, I pray, from me thy strong control;
Though, that withdrawn, what has life worth regretting?
Alas! this is a miserable earth!
Too late, or else too soon, the heart-beat quickens:
Hope finds too late its light was nothing worth,
And round a dark and final vapour thickens.
The silken folds of the crimson curtain which hung over the window, and a stand of odoriferous plants, almost concealed the balcony where Henrietta and Sir George were standing. Behind them were the illuminated rooms, from
