Other speech they have little; light foam playing upon waves of feeling, and of feeling compact, that bursts only when the sweeping volume is too wild, and is no more than their sigh of tenderness spoken.

Perhaps love played his tune so well because their natures had unblunted edges, and were keen for bliss, confiding in it as natural food.  To gentlemen and ladies he fine-draws upon the viol, ravishingly; or blows into the mellow bassoon; or rouses the heroic ardours of the trumpet; or, it may be, commands the whole Orchestra for them.  And they are pleased.  He is still the cunning musician.  They languish, and taste ecstasy:  but it is, however sonorous, an earthly concert.  For them the spheres move not to two notes.  They have lost, or forfeited and never known, the first super-sensual spring of the ripe senses into passion; when they carry the soul with them, and have the privileges of spirits to walk disembodied, boundlessly to feel.  Or one has it, and the other is a dead body.  Ambrosia let them eat, and drink the nectar:  here sit a couple to whom Love’s simple bread and water is a finer feast.

Pipe, happy sheep-bop, Love!  Irradiated angels, unfold your wings and lift your voices!

They have out-flown philosophy.  Their instinct has shot beyond the ken of science.  They were made for their Eden.

“And this divine gift was in store for me!”

So runs the internal outcry of each, clasping each:  it is their recurring refrain to the harmonies.  How it illumined the years gone by and suffused the living Future!

“You for me:  I for you!”

“We are born for each other!”

They believe that the angels have been busy about them from their cradles.  The celestial hosts have worthily striven to bring them together.  And, O victory!  O wonder! after toil and pain, and difficulties exceeding, the celestial hosts have succeeded!

“Here we two sit who are written above as one!”

Pipe, happy Love! pipe on to these dear innocents!

The tide of colour has ebbed from the upper sky.  In the West the sea of sunken fire draws back; and the stars leap forth, and tremble, and retire before the advancing moon, who slips the silver train of cloud from her shoulders, and, with her foot upon the pine-tops, surveys heaven.

“Lucy, did you never dream of meeting me?”

“O Richard! yes; for I remembered you.”

“Lucy! and did you pray that we might meet?”

“I did!”

Young as when she looked upon the lovers in Paradise, the fair Immortal journeys onward.  Fronting her, it is not night but veiled day.  Full half the sky is flushed.  Not darkness, not day, but the nuptials of the two.

“My own! my own for ever!  You are pledged to me?  Whisper!”

He hears the delicious music.

“And you are mine?”

A soft beam travels to the fern-covert under the pinewood where they sit, and for answer he has her eyes turned to him an instant, timidly fluttering over the depths of his, and then downcast; for through her eyes her soul is naked to him.