The generous beauty gave her heart away } Before he said, “I love!”—alas! he dared not say. 380} Cecilia yet was mistress of his mind, But oft he wish’d her, like his Fanny, kind; Her fondness sooth’d him, for the man was vain, And he perceived that he could give her pain; Cecilia liked not to profess her love, But Fanny ever was the yielding dove; Tender and trusting, waiting for the word, And then prepared to hail her bosom’s lord. Cecilia once her honest love avow’d, To make him happy, not to make him proud; 390 But she would not, for every asking sigh, Confess the flame that waked his vanity; But this poor maiden, every day and hour, Would, by fresh kindness, feed the growing power; And he indulged, vain being! in the joy, That he alone could raise it, or destroy; A present good, from which he dared not fly, Cecilia absent, and his Fanny by. O! vain desire of youth, that in the hour Of strong temptation, when he feels the power, 400 And knows how daily his desires increase, Yet will he wait, and sacrifice his peace; Will trust to chance to free him from the snare, Of which, long since, his conscience said, beware! Or look for strange deliverance from that ill, That he might fly, could he command the will! How can he freedom from the future seek, Who feels already that he grows too weak? And thus refuses to resist, till time Removes the power, and makes the way for crime. 410 Yet thoughts he had, and he would think, “Forego My dear Cecilia? not for kingdoms! No! But may I, ought I, not the friend to be Of one who feels this fond regard for me? I wrong no creature by a kindness lent To one so gentle, mild, and innocent; And for that fair one, whom I still adore, By feeling thus I think of her the more”— And not unlikely, for our thoughts will tend To those whom we are conscious we offend. 420 Had Reason whisper’d, “Has Cecilia leave Some gentle youth in friendship to receive, And be to him the friend that you appear } To this soft girl?”—would not some jealous fear } Proclaim your thoughts, that he approach’d too near? } But Henry, blinded still, presumed to write Of one in whom Cecilia would delight: A mild and modest girl, a gentle friend, If, as he hoped, her kindness would descend— But what he fear’d to lose or hoped to gain 430 By writing thus, he had been ask’d in vain. It was his purpose, every morn he rose, The dangerous friendship he had made to close; It was his torment nightly, ere he slept, To feel his prudent purpose was not kept. True, he has wonder’d why the timid maid Meets him so often, and is not afraid; And why that female dragon, fierce and keen, } Has never in their private walks been seen; } And often he has thought, “What can their silence mean? 440} “They can have no design, or plot, or plan,—