AND

IRRESOLUTION:

A New Series of

THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE.

Like an Æolian harp that wakes

No certain air, but overtakes

Far thought with music that it makes:

Such seemed the whisper at my side.

"What is't thou know'st, sweet voice?" I cried.
"A hidden hope!" the voice replied.

To feel, although no tongue can prove,
That every cloud that spreads above
And veileth love-itself is love.

TENNYSON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

ADA MOWBRAY.

CHAPTER X.

I know I love in vain-strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Rosaline. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? B. I know, you did.

R. How needless was it, then, to ask the question. LOVE'S LABOUR LOST.

LADY ROBERTSON, a lady who had worked herself, not into fashion, but into note and attention, by the number of balls and parties which she contributed towards the entertain