But my guilt shall not light upon thee!

My life is a river which glasses a ray
That hath deigned to descend from above;
Whatever the banks that o'ershadow its way,
It mirrors the light of thy love.

Though the waves may run high when the night wind awakes,
And hurries the stream to its fall;
Though broken and wild be the billows it makes,
Thine image still trembles on all!"


While this ominous love between Clifford and Lucy was thus finding fresh
food in every interview and every opportunity, the unfortunate
Mauleverer, firmly persuaded that his complaint was a relapse of what he
termed the "Warlock dyspepsia," was waging dire war with the remains of
the beef and pudding, which he tearfully assured his physicians "were
lurking in his constitution." As Mauleverer, though complaisant, like
most men of unmistakable rank, to all his acquaintances, whatever might
be their grade, possessed but very few friends intimate enough to enter
his sick-chamber, and none of that few were at Bath, it will readily be
perceived that he was in blissful ignorance of the growing fortunes of
his rival; and to say the exact truth, illness, which makes a man's
thoughts turn very much upon himself, banished many of the most tender
ideas usually floating in his mind around the image of Lucy Brandon. His
pill superseded his passion; and he felt that there are draughts in the
world more powerful in their effects than those in the phials of
Alcidonis.--[See Marmontel's pretty tale of "Les Quatres Flacons."]--
He very often thought, it is true, how pleasant it would be for Lucy to