But this he little mark’d. Doretta’s form Had cast a shade, perhaps, that dimm’d his view. Then, too, within the year, still subtler charms Had cast their spells about him: work had come. He needed now no more to earn his bread By joining us wig-makers while we plied— My sister and myself—our father’s trade. The church that had dismiss’d him, when from change It could now keep that voice, whose tones, of yore, Had touch’d my father so that heart and house Had both sprung open that the sweet-voiced boy Might find a home,—the church had called him back To aid again, but in the orchestra, The fresher singing of his younger mates. With this had pupils fill’d his vacant hours And, far away, an organ, play’d at Mass, Besiren’d all the Sundays. Thus cheer’d on, His brighten’d prospects had renew’d the charms Of music rivalling all things else with him. Full often, could we watch him, listless, gaze, Ay, even toward Doretta’s voice and form; Then turn, like one bewildered by a dream Fast-closing every sense to all besides, And seek our small bare attic, where anon, For hours together, pausing not for aught, The ringing strings within his harpsichord Would seem to call toward form that formless force Enrapturing so the spirit. When his moods Would note Doretta not, nor waiting meals, Nor sunset hues, nor moonlight at its full, Nor e’en the striking of the midnight bell, What could I think that he could care for me? XI. At last his illness came. How pale he lay! We fear’d for him, lest life should slip its net: The fleshly cords were worn to film so thin! But how the soul would shine through them! Its light, I would not say that it could gladden me, Yet—strange is it?—while sitting near him then, The fresh air fanning toward him, which his lungs Were all too weak to draw there for themselves, For that so gentle, babelike sufferer, I lost all fear; and, true to womanhood, I loved him more for low and helpless moans Than ever I had loved him when in health. XII.