Byron's awful dream would be realized,--darkness would indeed be the universe.

They who praise a writer for omitting love from the page which purports to be a record of life, would praise God for creating a world, over whose sunless realms no warmth or light was diffused, (if such a creation were possible,)--a world without flowers or music, without hope or joy.
But as the sun is only an emanation from the first great fountain of light and glory, so love is but an effluence from the eternal source of love divine.
"Bright effluence of bright essence increate." And woe to her, who, forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in the earthly stream, without seeking the living spring whence it flows; who worships the fire-ray that falls upon the altar, without giving glory to him from whom it descended.

The stream will become a stagnant pool, exhaling pestilence and death; the fire-ray will kindle a devouring flame, destroying the altar, with the gift and the heart a _burning bush_, that will blaze forever without consuming.
Whither am I wandering?
Imagine me now, in a very different scene to the president's illuminated drawing-room.

Instead of the wild buzzing of mingling voices, I hear the mournful sighing of the breeze through the weeping grave trees; and ever and anon there comes a soft, stealing sound through the long, swaying grass, like the tread of invisible feet.

I am alone with my mother's spirit.