“’The sun, from his meridian heights declining
  Mirrored his richest tints upon the shining
  Bosom of a lake.  In a light shallop, two
    Young men, whose dress, etcaetera, proclaims,
    Etcaetera,—­so would write G.P.R.  James—­
  Glided in silence o’er the waters blue,
  Skirting the wooded slopes.  Upward they gazed
  On Nornyth’s ancient pile, whose windows blazed

  “’In sunset rays, whose crimson fulgence streamed
  Across the flood:  wrapped in deep thought they seemed. 
  ‘You are pensive, Reginald,’ at length thus spake
    The helmsman:  ’ha! it is the mystic power
    Fraught by the sacred stillness of the hour: 
  Forgive me if your reverie I break,
  Craving, with friendship’s sympathy, to share
  Your spirit’s burden, be it joy or care.’"—­pp. 48, 49.

Sir Reginald Mohun’s story is soon told.—­Born in Italy, and losing his mother at the moment of his birth, and his father and only sister dying also soon after, he is left alone in the world.

  “’My father was a melancholy man,
    Having a touch of genius, and a heart,
    But not much of that worldly better part
  Called force of character, which finds some plan
    For getting over anguish that will crush
  Weak hearts of stronger feeling.  He began
    To pine; was pale; and had a hectic flush
    At times; and from his eyelids tears would gush.

  “’Some law of hearts afflicted seems to bind
    A spell by which the scenes of grief grew dear;
    He never could leave Italy, tho’ here
  And there he wandered with unquiet mind,—­
    Rome, Florence, Mantua, Milan; once as far
  As Venice; but still Naples had a blind
    Attraction which still drew him thither.  There
    He died.  Heaven rest his ashes from their care.

  “’He wrote, a month or so before he died,
    To Wilton’s father; (he is Earl of Eure,
    My mother’s brother); saying he was sure
  That he should soon be gone, and would confide
    Us to his guardian care.  My uncle came
  Before his death.  We stood by his bedside. 
    He blessed us.  We, who scarcely knew the name
    Of death, yet read in the expiring flame

  “’Of his sunk eyes some awful mystery,
    And wept we knew not why.  There was a grace
    Of radiant joyful hope upon his face,
  Most unaccustomed, and which seemed to be
    All foreign to his wasted frame; and yet
  So heavenly in its consolation we
    Smiled through the tears with which our lids were wet. 
    His lips were cold, as, whispering, ’Do not fret

  “‘When I am gone,’ he kissed us:  and he took
    Our uncle’s hands, which on our heads he laid,
    And said:  ’My children, do not be afraid
  Of Death, but be prepared to meet him.  Look;
    Here is your mother’s brother; he to her
  As Reginald to Eve.’  His thin voice shook.—­
    ‘Eve was your Mother’s name.’  His words did err,
    As dreaming; and his wan lips ceased to stir.’”—­pp. 55-57.