_(For the Mirror.)_
She was amiable, accomplished, fascinating, beautiful; yet her's were
beauties which description cannot heighten; fascinations which
language were vain to embellish. There was soul in her deep hazel eye as
its flashes broke through their long, dark, encircling fringe; her jetty
locks waved harmoniously, contrasting with the virgin snow of the
forehead they wreathed in glossy luxuriance, the unclouded smile played
on her lip like the zephyr over a bed of gossamer, or a sunbeam on the
cheek of Aurora.
Scarce eleven summers had passed over my head when I first saw Annette.
She was by about three years my elder. Young, though I was, I was not
insensible; she rivetted my gaze, I felt an emotion I could not
comprehend--cannot describe--as it were love in the germ just beginning
to expand, waiting but for the genial warmth of a few summer suns to
nourish and bring it to maturity. We parted, still her image pursued me,
the recollection was sweet, and I loved to cherish it.
Four years had elapsed; we again met. My soul thrilled with delight in
beholding, in contemplating, her perfections! How was that delight
increased when I saw her countenance shed its loveliest smiles, her eye
pour its heavenliest beams--on _me_--happy presumption--I loved. _We_
loved; but words spoke not our love. No, each read it in the burning
glances that were reciprocated--in the spirit-breathing sighs that would
ever and anon steal forth--spite of suppression. Let me shorten the tale
of rapture. She was mine; Annette was mine--mine undividedly. SHE IS MINE
NO LONGER. Ask not the cause. I was infuriated, befooled, infatuated; my
own "hands threw the pearl away;" my own lips gave, sealed the sentence,
that robbed me for ever, ay, for ever, of a heart--a treasure, it had
been heaven to possess. SHE IS MINE NO LONGER--yet a pleasure it is, a
melancholy pleasure, how I love it, to recall those moments of refined,
of voluptuous enjoyment, my sole remaining happiness, that they _were_,
my bitterest pang, that they _are not_--moments, when amid the busy
circle--scarce could the eagle glance of surrounding observation control
the bursting emotions of the soul, or, oh, more blest--moments of
solitude--where those motions broke forth, unobserved, unrestrained. SHE
IS MINE NO LONGER. Yet Annette sleeps not in the sombre grave. A blast,
not of death, but more dire, hath scattered those hopes, too
unsubstantially fond to be realized: a chill not of the grave, but more
piercing, hath nipped those blossoms of happiness, too ethereally
delicate for earth. Still Annette lives, beautiful as ever, enchanting
as ever, lives, but for another. Stay, let me recall that word, I wrong
her; it must not, cannot be; her _heart_ is not, never shall be his; with
mine it hath lost its _one_ resting place, and like the dove, seeks not
another. Cruel fate, but I have ceased to repine--ceased to regret.