_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview_.
I AM just returned from a melancholy excursion with _Eliza_. I
will give you the history of it—We generally walk out together, but we
this time went further than usual—The morning was calm and serene—all
Nature was flourishing, and its universal harmony conspired to deceive
us in the length of the way.
WHILE we were pursuing our walk, our ears were struck with a plaintive,
musical voice, singing a melancholy tune.—“This,” said Mrs. _Holmes_,
“must be _Fidelia_—the poor distracted girl was carried off by a ruffian
a few days before her intended marriage, and her lover, in despair,
threw himself into the river,”—_Eliza_ could say no more—for _Fidelia_
resumed her melancholy strain in the following words:—
TALL rose the lily’s slender frame,
It shed a glad perfume;
But ah! the cruel spoiler came,
And nipt its opening bloom.
Curse on the cruel spoiler’s hand
That stole thy bloom and fled—
Curse on his hand—for thy true love
Is number’d with the dead.
Poor maiden! like the lily frail,
’Twas all in vain you strove;
You heard the stranger’s tender tale—
But where was thy true love?
Thou wast unkind and false to him,
But he did constant prove;
He plung’d headlong in the stream—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
’Twas where the river rolls along,
The youth all trembling stood,
Opprest with grief—he cast himself
Amidst the cruel flood.
White o’er his head the billows foam,
And circling eddies move;
Ah! there he finds a watery tomb—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
WE advanced towards the place from where the sound issued, and
_Fidelia_, who heard our approach, immediately rose from the ground; “I
was tired,” said she, “and sat down here to rest myself.”
SHE was dressed in a long white robe, tied about the waist with a pink
ribband; her fine brown hair flowed loosely round her shoulders—In her
hand she held a number of wild flowers and weeds, which she had been
gathering. “These,” she cried, “are to make a nosegay for my love.” “He
hath no occasion for it,” said _Eliza_. “Yes! where he lives,” cried
_Fidelia_, “there are plenty—and flowers that never fade too—I will
throw them into the river, and they will swim to him—they will go
straight to him”—“And what will he do with them?” I asked; “O!” said the
poor girl as she looked wistfully on them, and sorted them in her hand,
“he loves everything that comes from me—he told me so”—“He will be happy
to receive them,” cried _Eliza_. “Where he is,” said _Fidelia_, “is
happiness—and happy are the flowers that bloom there—and happy shall I
be, when I go to him—alas! I am very ill now”—“He will love you again,”
said _Eliza_, “when you find him out”—“O he was very kind,” cried she,
tenderly, “he delighted to walk with me over all these fields—but now, I
am obliged to walk alone.” _Fidelia_ drew her hand across her cheek, and
we wept with her.—“I must go,” she said, “I must go,” and turned
abruptly from us, and left us with great precipitation.
Farewel!