And there she roved among the rocks, and took
Moss from the stone, and pebbles from the brook;
Gazed on the flies that settled on the flowers, 230
And so consumed her melancholy hours.
Again he wrote—The father then was dead;
And Ellen to her native village fled,
With native feeling—there she oped her door,
Her heart, her purse, and comforted the poor,
The sick, the sad—and there she pass’d her days, }
Deserving much, but never seeking praise: }