But I can think of my Cecilia here!” But there did come—and how it came to pass 190 Who shall explain?—a mild and blue-eyed lass.— It was the work of accident, no doubt— } The cause unknown—we say, “as things fall out”— } The damsel enter’d there, in wand’ring round about. } At first she saw not Henry; and she ran, As from a ghost, when she beheld a man. She was esteem’d a beauty through the hall, And so admitted, with consent of all; And, like a treasure, was her beauty kept From every guest who in the mansion slept; 200 Whether as friends who join’d the noble pair, Or those invited by the steward there. She was the daughter of a priest, whose life Was brief and sad: he lost a darling wife, And Fanny then her father, who could save But a small portion; but his all he gave, With the fair orphan, to a sister’s care, And her good spouse; they were the ruling pair— Steward and steward’s lady—o’er a tribe, Each under each, whom I shall not describe. 210 This grave old couple, childless and alone, Would, by their care, for Fanny’s loss atone: She had been taught in schools of honest fame; And to the hall, as to a home, she came, My lord assenting; yet, as meet and right, Fanny was held from every hero’s sight, Who might in youthful error cast his eyes On one so gentle as a lawful prize, On border land, whom, as their right or prey, A youth from either side might bear away. 220 Some handsome lover of th’ inferior class Might as a wife approve the lovely lass; Or some invader from the class above, } Who, more presuming, would his passion prove } By asking less—love only for his love. } This much experienced aunt her fear express’d, And dread of old and young, of host and guest. “Go not, my Fanny, in their way,” she cried; } “It is not right that virtue should be tried; } So, to be safe, be ever at my side.” 230} She was not ever at that side; but still Observed her precepts, and obey’d her will. But in the morning’s dawn and evening’s gloom She could not lock the damsel in her room; And Fanny thought, “I will ascend these stairs To see the chapel—there are none at prayers”; None, she believed, had yet to dress return’d, By whom a timid girl might be discern’d, In her slow motion, looking, as she glides, On pictures, busts, and what she met besides, 240 And speaking softly to herself alone, Or singing low in melancholy tone; And thus she rambled through the still domain, Room after room, again, and yet again. But, to retrace our story, still we say, To this saloon the maiden took her way; Where she beheld our youth, and frighten’d ran, And so their friendship in her fear began. But dare she thither once again advance, And still suppose the man will think it chance? 250 Nay, yet again; and what has chance to do