The Mysteries of Udolpho

Let those deplore their doom,

Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.

But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,

Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.

Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?

Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--

Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,

And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,

Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!

BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little

refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the

kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,

looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the

pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering

freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she

heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be

allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the

sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which

she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with

the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive

tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,

waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged

themselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,

When early twilight, from the eastern bound,

Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,

And fades as morning spreads her blush around! When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,

Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,

Expands its tender blossom to the light,

And gives its incense to the genial air. How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,

And swells the melody of waking birds;

The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,

And woodman's song, and low of distant herds! Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,

Seen through the parting foliage from afar;

And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,

With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share. But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,

The voice of music floating on the gale,

And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,

If health no longer bid the heart be gay!

O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,

Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the

voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth

from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now

risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as

herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they

had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set

out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.