We now retrace our tale, and forward go,— Thus Henry rightly read Cecilia’s “No!” His prudent father, who had duly weigh’d, And well approved the fortune of the maid, Not much resisted—just enough to show 130 He knew his power, and would his son should know. “Harry, I will, while I your bargain make, That you a journey to our patron take. I know her guardian; care will not become A lad when courting; as you must be dumb, You may be absent; I for you will speak, And ask what you are not supposed to seek.” Then came the parting hour—and what arise When lovers part! expressive looks and eyes, Tender and tear-full—many a fond adieu, 140 And many a call the sorrow to renew; Sighs such as lovers only can explain, And words that they might undertake in vain. Cecilia liked it not; she had, in truth, No mind to part with her enamour’d youth; But thought it foolish thus themselves to cheat, And part for nothing but again to meet. Now Henry’s father was a man whose heart Took with his interest a decided part; He [knew] his lordship, and was known for acts 150 That I omit—they were acknowledged facts; An interest somewhere—I the place forget, And the good deed—no matter—’twas a debt. Thither must Henry, and in vain the maid Express’d dissent—the father was obey’d. But, though the maid was by her fears assail’d, Her reason rose against them, and prevail’d; Fear saw him hunting, leaping, falling—led, } Maim’d and disfigured, groaning to his bed; } Saw him in perils, duels—dying—dead. 160} But Prudence answer’d, “Is not every maid With equal cause for him she loves afraid?” And from her guarded mind Cecilia threw The groundless terrors that will love pursue. She had no doubts, and her reliance strong Upon the honour that she would not wrong. Firm in herself, she doubted not the truth Of him, the chosen, the selected youth; Trust of herself a trust in him supplied; } And she believed him faithful, though untried; 170} On her he might depend, in him she would confide. } If some fond girl express’d a tender pain Lest some fair rival should allure her swain: To such she answer’d, with a look severe, “Can one you doubt be worthy of your fear?” My lord was kind—a month had pass’d away, } And Henry stay’d—he sometimes named a day; } But still my lord was kind, and Henry still must stay. } His father’s words to him were words of fate— “Wait, ’tis your duty; ’tis my pleasure, wait!” 180 In all his walks, in hilly heath or wood, Cecilia’s form the pensive youth pursued; In the gray morning, in the silent noon, } In the soft twilight, by the sober moon, } In those forsaken rooms, in that immense saloon; } And he, now fond of that seclusion grown, There reads her letters, and there writes his own. “Here none approach,” said he, “to interfere,