sink behind the western hill.

But as he grew to manly stature, and the down of years had begun to
clothe his blushing cheek, he felt a new sensation in his breast
hitherto unexperienced. He could not now behold his favourite companion
without emotion; his eye sparkled when he approached her; he watched her
gestures; he hung upon her accents; he was interested in all her
motions. Sometimes he would catch the eye of prudent age or of
sharp-sighted rivalry observing him, and he instantly became embarrassed
and confused, and blushed he knew not why. He repaired to the
neighbouring wake, in order to exchange his young lambs and his hoard of
cheeses. Imogen was not there, and in the midst of traffic, and in the
midst of frolic merriment he was conscious to a vacancy and a
listlessness for which he could not account. When he tended his flocks,
and played upon his slender pipe, he would sink in reverie, and form to
himself a thousand schemes of imaginary happiness. Erewhile they had
been vague and general. His spirit was too gentle for him not to
represent to himself a fancied associate; his heart was not narrow
enough to know so much as the meaning of a solitary happiness. But
Imogen now formed the principal figure in these waking dreams. It was
Imogen with whom he wandered beside the brawling rill. It was Imogen
with whom he sat beneath the straw-built shed, and listened to the
pealing rain, and the hollow roaring of the northern blast. If a moment
of forlornness and despair fell to his lot, he wandered upon the heath
without his Imogen, and he climbed the upright precipice without her
harmonious voice to cheer and to animate him. In a word, passion had
taken up her abode in his guileless heart before he was aware of her
approach. Imogen was fair; and the eye of Edwin was enchanted. Imogen
was gentle; and Edwin loved.