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Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhime;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time.
And when she sooth'd her friend, thro' all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!
And then her wrist she spann'd:
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand.
And gaz'd upon her, and at first
She gently press'd her hand;
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
Alas! said she, we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!
