‘Gone, is it true? but oft he went before, And came again before a month was o’er. Gone—though I could not venture upon art, It was perhaps a foolish pride in part; He had such ready fancies in his head, And really was so easy to be led; One might have failed; and yet I feel ’twas pride, And can’t but half repent I never tried. Gone, is it true? but he again will come, Wandering he loves, and loves returning home.’ Gone, it was true; nor came so soon again; Came, after travelling, pleasure half, half pain, Came, but a half of Europe first o’erran; Arrived, his father found a ruined man. Rich they had been, and rich was Emma too. Heiress of wealth she knew not, Edmund knew. Farewell to her!—In a new home obscure, Food for his helpless parents to secure, From early morning to advancing dark, He toiled and laboured as a merchant’s clerk. Three years his heavy load he bore, nor quailed, Then all his health, though scarce his spirit, failed; Friends interposed, insisted it must be, Enforced their help, and sent him to the sea. Wandering about with little here to do, His old thoughts mingling dimly with his new, Wandering one morn, he met upon the shore, Her, whom he quitted five long years before. Alas! why quitted? Say that charms are nought, Nor grace, nor beauty worth one serious thought; Was there no mystic virtue in the sense That joined your boyish girlish innocence? Is constancy a thing to throw away, And loving faithfulness a chance of every day? Alas! why quitted? is she changed? but now The weight of intellect is in her brow; Changed, or but truer seen, one sees in her Something to wake the soul, the interior sense to stir. Alone they met, from alien eyes away, The high shore hid them in a tiny bay. Alone was he, was she; in sweet surprise They met, before they knew it, in their eyes. In his a wondering admiration glowed, In hers, a world of tenderness o’erflowed; In a brief moment all was known and seen, That of slow years the wearying work had been: Morn’s early odorous breath perchance in sooth, Awoke the old natural feeling of their youth: The sea, perchance, and solitude had charms, They met—I know not—in each other’s arms. Why linger now—why waste the sands of life? A few sweet weeks, and they were man and wife. To his old frailty do not be severe, His latest theory with patience hear: ‘I sought not, truly would to seek disdain, A kind, soft pillow for a wearying pain, Fatigues and cares to lighten, to relieve; But love is fellow-service, I believe.’ ‘No, truly no, it was not to obtain, Though that alone were happiness, were gain, A tender breast to fall upon and weep, A heart, the secrets of my heart to keep; To share my hopes, and in my griefs to grieve; Yet love is fellow-service, I believe.’ ‘Yet in the eye of life’s all-seeing sun We shall behold a something we have done,