Chapter 12 - Page 2

not, I know
not why, regret his departure with any bitterness. It seemed that
after one great shock all other change was trivial to me; and I walked
on wondering when the time would come when we should all four, my
dearest father restored to me, meet in some sweet Paradise[.] I
pictured to myself a lovely river such as that on whose banks Dante
describes Mathilda gathering flowers, which ever flows

---- bruna, bruna,
Sotto l'ombra perpetua, che mai
Raggiar non lascia sole ivi, n� Luna.[76]

And then I repeated to myself all that lovely passage that relates the
entrance of Dante into the terrestrial Paradise; and thought it would
be sweet when I wandered on those lovely banks to see the car of light
descend with my long lost parent to be restored to me. As I waited
there in expectation of that moment, I thought how, of the lovely
flowers that grew there, I would wind myself a chaplet and crown
myself for joy: I would sing _sul margine d'un rio_,[77] my father's
favourite song, and that my voice gliding through the windless air
would announce to him in whatever bower he sat expecting the moment of
our union, that his daughter was come. Then the mark of misery would
have faded from my brow, and I should raise my eyes fearlessly to meet
his, which ever beamed with the soft lustre of innocent love. When I
reflected on the magic look of those deep eyes I wept, but gently,
lest my sobs should disturb the fairy scene.

I was so entirely wrapt in this reverie that I wandered on, taking no
heed of my steps until I actually stooped down to gather a flower for
my wreath on that bleak plain where no flower grew, when I awoke from
my day dream and found myself I knew not where.

The sun had set and the roseate hue which the clouds had caught from
him in his descent had nearly died away. A wind swept across the
plain, I looked around me and saw no object that told me where I was;
I had lost myself, and in vain attempted to find my path. I wandered
on, and the coming darkness made every trace indistinct by which I
might be guided. At length all was veiled in the deep obscurity of
blackest night; I became weary and knowing that my servant was to
sleep that night at the neighbouring village, so that my absence would
alarm no one; and that I was safe in this wild spot from every
intruder, I resolved to spend the night where I was. Indeed I was too
weary to walk further: the air was chill but I was careless of bodily
inconvenience, and I thought that I was well inured to the weather
during my two years of solitude, when no change of seasons prevented
my perpetual wanderings.

I lay upon the grass surrounded by a darkness which not the slightest
beam of light penetrated--There was no