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Rh the brink, but not the dark waters below—the hour, the place, the same—all but myself. Then I leant, dreaming of the future—now, I thought only of the present. Then I gazed on the Grecian relics at my feet, and said, even such forms are sleeping in my mind—such are the lovely creations destined to be the work of my hand. I looked forward to praise and achievement; now I feel listless and dispirited—nothing seems worth its toil."

"And I," exclaimed his sister, "shame to see you give way to this unseemly despondency!"

"Ah! it is not I that give way—my imagination is beyond me; I can control its depression as little as I could create its buoyancy. Is it my fault that the beautiful no longer haunts my solitude? And you, my sister—you, who lesson me on endurance, your cheek is pale, and your step languid; even with you, how much has life lost its interest!"

"Why, Guido, should we conceal that each has suffered from bitter disappointment? We have early learnt the cold and harsh truth, that it is hard to brook the passing away of love—passing away, too, as ours has done, because it has been unworthily bestowed? Yet, surely not for that are we to fancy that existence has been