But Ellen, though lovers in regiments threw The darts of their eyes at her heart, From the sorrow no pitying sympathy knew; For, cold as an icicle-shower, they drew Not a drop from that petrified part. Yet still did the heart of fair Ellen implore A something that could not be found; Like a sailor it seem'd on a desolate shore, With nor house, nor a tree, nor a sound, but the roar Of breakers high-dashing around. From object to object, still, still would she stray Yet nothing, alas! could she find; Through Novelty's mazes she rambled all day, And even at midnight, so restless, they say, In sleep would run after the wind. Nay, rather than sit like a statue so still, When the rain made her mansion a pound, Up and down would she go like the sails of a mill, And pat every stair, like a wood-pecker's bill, From the tiles of the roof to the ground. One morn, as the maid from her casement reclin'd, Pass'd a youth with a frame in his hand. The casement she clos'd; not the eye of her mind; For do all she could, no, she could not be blind; Still before her she saw the youth stand. "And what can he do," said the maid with a sigh, "Ah! what with that frame can he do? I wish I could know it." When suddenly by The youth pass'd again; and again did her eye The frame, and a sweet picture view. "Oh! sweet, lovely picture!" the fair Ellen sigh'd, "I must see thee again or I die;" Then under her white chin her bonnet she tied, And after the youth and the picture she hied, Till the youth, looking back, met her eye. "Fair damsel," said he (and he chuckled the while), "This picture, I see, you admire; Then take it, I beg you, perhaps 'twill beguile Some moments of sorrow: (pray pardon my smile) Or, at least, keep you home by the fire." Then Ellen the gift, with delight and surprise, From the cunning young stripling receiv'd. But she knew not the poison that enter'd her eyes, When beaming with rapture they gazed on her prize: Yet thus was fair Ellen deceiv'd! 'Twas a youth o'er the form of a statue inclin'd; And the sculptor he seem'd of the stone; Yet he languish'd, as though for its beauty he pin'd, And gaz'd, as the eyes of the statue so blind Reflected the beams of his own. 'Twas the tale of the sculptor, Pygmalion of old; Fair Ellen remember'd and sigh'd, "Ah! could'st thou but lift from that marble so cold, Thine eyes so enchanting, thy arms should enfold, And press me this day as thy bride." She said: when, behold, from the canvass arose The youth ... and he stepp'd from the frame; With a furious joy, his arms did enclose The love-plighted Ellen; and, clasping, he froze The blood of the maid with his flame!