The sick, the sad—and there she pass’d her days, } Deserving much, but never seeking praise: } Her task to guide herself, her joy the fallen to raise. } Nor would she nicely faults and merits weigh, But loved the impulse of her soul t’ obey; 240 The prayers of all she heard, their sufferings view’d, Nor turn’d from any, save when Love pursued; For, though to love disposed, to kindness prone, She thought of Cecil, and she lived alone. Thus heard the lover of the life she past Till his return—and he return’d at last; For he had saved, and was a richer man Than when to teach and study he began; Something his father left, and he could fly To the loved country where he wish’d to die. 250 “And now,” he said, “this maid with gentle mind May I not hope to meet, as good, as kind, As in the days when first her friend she knew And then could trust—and he indeed is true. She knew my motives, and she must approve The man who dared to sacrifice his love And fondest hopes to virtue: virtuous she, Nor can resent that sacrifice in me.” He reason’d thus, but fear’d, and sought the friend In his own country, where his doubts must end. 260 They then together to her dwelling came, And by a servant sent her lover’s name— modest youth, whom she before had known, His favourite then, and doubtless _then_ her own. They in the carriage heard the servants speak At Ellen’s door—“A maid so heavenly meek, Who would all pain extinguish! Yet will she Pronounce my doom, I feel the certainty!”— “Courage!” the friend exclaim’d, “the lover’s fear Grows without ground;” but Cecil would not hear: 270 He seem’d some dreadful object to explore, And fix’d his fearful eye upon the door, Intensely longing for reply—the thing That must to him his future fortune bring; And now it brought! like Death’s cold hand it came— “The lady was a stranger to the name!” Backward the lover in the carriage fell, Weak, but not fainting—“All,” said he, “is well! Return with me—I have no more to seek!” And this was all the woful man would speak. 280 Quickly he settled all his worldly views, And sail’d from home, his fiercer pains to lose And nurse the milder—now with labour less } He might his solitary world possess, } And taste the bitter-sweet of love in idleness. } Greece was the land he chose; a mind decay’d } And ruin’d there through glorious ruin stray’d; } There read, and walk’d, and mused—there loved, and wept, and pray’d. } Nor would he write, nor suffer hope to live, But gave to study all his mind could give; 290 Till, with the dead conversing, he began To lose the habits of a living man, Save that he saw some wretched, them he tried To soothe—some doubtful, them he strove to guide; Nor did he lose the mind’s ennobling joy Of that new state that death must not destroy;