Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions.

The smoothness of the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heaven and trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm.

As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to the remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned to the memory of St.Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes.

The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.
Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmed the expression of the character.
The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own.
The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords with the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness.

To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed: Strike up, my master, But touch the strings with a religious softness! Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear Till Melancholy starts from off her couch, And Carelessness grows concert to attention! With such powers of expression the Count sung the following RONDEAU Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps Upon the ocean's trembling tide; Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps Yon sad, that swells in stately pride: Soft as the surge's stealing note, That dies along the distant shores, Or warbled strain, that sinks remote-- So soft the sigh my bosom pours! True as the wave to Cynthia's ray, True as the vessel to the breeze, True as the soul to music's sway, Or music to Venetian seas: Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep Upon the ocean's trembling breast; So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep, So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.
The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last, were such as only exquisite taste could give.