And still I know not why,--
Thou answerest with a sigh,
(Fond heart!) Ah me!--
Ah me!

3.

As this twilight o'er the skies,
Doubt brings the sorrow;
Who knows when the daylight dies,
What waits the morrow?
Ah me, ah me!
Be blithe, be blithe, my lute,
Thy strings will soon be mute;
Be blithe--hark! while it dies,
The note forewarning, sighs
Its last--Ah me!
Ah me!

"My own Adeline--my sweetest night-bird," half-whispered Montreal, and
softly approaching, he threw himself at his lady's feet--"thy song is
too sad for this golden eve."

"No sound ever went to the heart," said Adrian, "whose arrow was not
feathered by sadness. True sentiment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy,
though not with gloom."

The lady looked softly and approvingly up at Adrian's face; she was
pleased with its expression; she was pleased yet more with words of
which women rather than men would acknowledge the truth. Adrian returned