"And I promised. All my being
    Freely, firmly answered, yea!
Thus absolved, her angel-spirit,
    Breathing blessings, passed away.

"Once more in the noisy, jostling
    Human crowd; I seemed to stand,
Like to him who goes to battle,
    With his life within his hand.

"All things wore a different aspect;
    I was now mine own no more:
Pleasure, wealth, the smile of woman
    All a different meaning bore.

"Thus I toiled—though young, not youthful,
    Ever mingling in the crowd,
Yet apart; my life, my labour,
    To a solemn purpose vowed.

"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
    Towards the pleasant end of May
With thy uncle, here he brought me,
    I who long had kept away.

"He was wilful, 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 recal,
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 pourtrayed.

"'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.

"Said I, 'If that marvellous ballad
    Did not seem my heart to touch;
It was not from, want of feeling,
    But because it felt too much.'

"And even as the rod of Moses
    Called forth water from the rock;
So did now thy sweet reproaches
    All my secret heart unlock.

"And my soul lay bare before thee;
    And I told thee all; how strove,
As in fierce and dreary conflict,
    My stern duty and my love.

"All I told thee—of my parents,
    Of my angel-mother's fate;
Of the vow by which she bound me;
    Of my present low estate.

"All I told thee, while the woodlarks
    Filled with song the evening breeze,
And bright gushes of the moonlight
    Fell upon us through the trees.

"And thou mumured'st, oh! my Ellen,
    In a voice so sweet and low;
'Would that I had known thy mother,
    Would that I might soothe thy woe!

"Ellen, my sweet, life's companion!
    From my being's inmost core
Then I blessed thee; but I bless thee,
    Bless thee, even now, still more!

"For, as in the days chivalric
    Ladies armed their knights for strife,
So didst thou, with thy true counsel,
    Arm me for the fight of life.

"Saidst thou, 'No, thou must not waver;
    Ever upright must thou stand:
Even in duty's hardest peril,
    All thy weapons in thy hand.

"'Doing still thy utmost, utmost;
    Never resting till thou 'rt free!—
But, if e'er thy soul is weary,
    Or discouraged—think of me!'