"Yet even duty had its pleasure, And I proudly kept apart; Lord of all my weaker feelings; Monarch of my subject heart.
"Foolish boast! My pride of purpose Proved itself a feeble thing, When thy uncle brought me hither, In the pleasant time of Spring.
"Said he, 'Thou hast toiled too closely; Thou shalt breathe our country air; Thou shalt come to us on Sundays, And thy failing health repair!'
"Now began my hardest trial. What had I with love to do? Loving thee was sin 'gainst duty, And 'gainst thy good uncle too!
"Until now my heart was cheerful; Duty had been light till now, --Oh that I were free to woo thee; That my heart had known no vow!
"Yet, I would not shrink from duty; Nor my vow leave unfulfilled! --Still, still, had my mother known thee, Would she thus have sternly willed?
"Wherefore did my angel-mother Thus enforce her dying prayer? --Yet what right had I to seek thee, Thou, thy uncle's wealthy heir!
"Thus my spirit cried within me; And that inward strife began, That wild warfare of the feelings Which lays waste the life of man.
"In such turmoil of the spirit, Feeble is our human strength; Life seems stripped of all its glory: --Yet was duty lord at length.
"So at least I deemed. But meeting Toward the pleasant end of May With thy uncle, here he brought me, I who long had kept away.
"He was willful, thy good uncle; I was such a stranger grown; I must go to hear the reading Of a ballad of his own.
"Willing to be won, I yielded. Canst thou not that eve recall, When the lilacs were in blossom, And the sunshine lay o'er all?
"On the bench beneath the lilacs, Sate we; and thy uncle read That sweet, simple, wondrous ballad, Which my own heart's woe portrayed.
"'Twas a simple tale of nature-- Of a lowly youth who gave All his heart to one above him, Loved, and filled an early grave.
"But the fine tact of the poet Laid the wounded spirit bare, Breathed forth all the silent anguish Of the breaking heart's despair.
"'Twas as if my soul had spoken, And at once I seemed to know, Through the poet's voice prophetic, What the issue of my woe.
"Later, walking in the evening Through the shrubbery, thou and I, With the woodlarks singing round us, And the full moon in the sky;
"Thou, my Ellen, didst reproach me, For that I had coldly heard That sweet ballad of thy uncle's, Nor responded by a word.