Chapter II

As silver flakes of falling snow
Tell the pure sphere from whence they flow,
So the chaste beauties of her eye
Faintly impart
The chaster heart
Of her for whom I sigh.

Lyddy, however, objected to the last line of each stanza, as she did not understand what he meant by _sighing_ for her; and he not being able to solve the question, she seemed to entertain rather a contempt for his intellects, and palpably gave the preference to one of his schoolfellows—a _bolder_ boy.

In the next stage toward maturity the poet and lover began to know better what he would be at; and determined to pay a visit to the fair one, and try if any lucky circumstance might give him a _delicate_ opportunity of disclosing his sentiments and sufferings, and _why_ he _sighed_ for her.

He unfortunately found that the innocent cause of his torment had gone on a tour, and that his interview must be adjourned _sine die_: however, he explored the garden; sat down in all the arbours; walked pensively over the flower-plats; peeped into her chamber-window, which was on the ground-floor, and embroidered with honeysuckles and jasmine: his very soul swelled with thoughts of love and rural retirement: and thus his heart, as it were, burst open, and let out a gush of poetry, which he immediately committed to writing in the garb of a lamentation for the fair one’s absence, and forced under the window-frame of her bed-chamber; after which he disconsolately departed, though somewhat relieved by this effort of his Muse.—The words ran thus:

LAMENTATION OF CRONEROE FOR THE ABSENCE OF ITS SYLVAN NYMPH.

I.

Ah, where has she wander’d? ah, where has she stray’d?
What clime now possesses our lost sylvan maid?—
No myrtle now blossoms; no tulip will blow;
And the lively arbutus now fades at Croneroe.

II.

No glowing carnation now waves round her seat;
Nor crocus, nor cowslip weave turf for her feet;
And the woodbine’s soft tendrils, once train’d by her hand,
Now wild round her arbour distractedly stand.