Long she stands, as if enchanted — what has wrought that
sudden spell ?
In her eye are love and pity — is it Freya's miracle ?*
Toward the palace then she turned her, but with languid foot
and slow,
Minding now nor bird nor blossom, nor the bees that mur
mur low.
Some new thought her soul oppresses — how an hour hath
changed that face !
Late there shone but careless pleasance, now misease usurps
its place.
Paler grew the gentle Ellen as the listless days rolled by,
Till the sad cheer of his daughter caught the troubled father's
eye.
"Say, my child, what is't that grieves thee ? where the glad
some step and smile,
With which thou wert wont to meet me, and my weary
cares beguile ?
* In the Scandinavian mythology, Freya is the goddess of love.
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