“Ella, what wouldst thou?—’tis a tale
Will make that cheek as marble pale!
Yet what avails it to conceal
All thou too soon must know and feel?
It must, it must be told—prepare,
And nerve that gentle heart to bear.
But I—oh, was it then for me
The herald of thy woes to be!
Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy,
And wake thee first from dreams of joy?