E'en 'mid my woe
Will aye remain.
Oh! blessed sun
Of love and purity,
Glad soul, from guile so free,
How bright thy rays!
My flower of life unfolds to thee--
Thou dost not dream--how short its days!
Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had written the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a rhyme. This was no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy himself a poet, (on the contrary, he declared that the real poet was Edwin, only that he was too proud to let his light shine); it was only a kind of soliloquy, and by writing down these improvisations, instead of merely murmuring them to himself, he simply increased and prolonged his solitary pleasure. He always carried in his own pocket the key of the drawer where he kept the papers, and even Edwin, from whom he usually had no secrets, was not permitted to touch this hidden treasure.
He now took another sheet, and wrote the following lines:--