But this he little mark’d. Doretta’s form
Had cast a shade, perhaps, that dimm’d his view.
Then, too, within the year, still subtler charms
Had cast their spells about him: work had come.
He needed now no more to earn his bread
By joining us wig-makers while we plied—
My sister and myself—our father’s trade.
The church that had dismiss’d him, when from change
It could now keep that voice, whose tones, of yore,
Had touch’d my father so that heart and house
Had both sprung open that the sweet-voiced boy
Might find a home,—the church had called him back
To aid again, but in the orchestra,
The fresher singing of his younger mates.
With this had pupils fill’d his vacant hours
And, far away, an organ, play’d at Mass,
Besiren’d all the Sundays. Thus cheer’d on,
His brighten’d prospects had renew’d the charms
Of music rivalling all things else with him.
Full often, could we watch him, listless, gaze,
Ay, even toward Doretta’s voice and form;
Then turn, like one bewildered by a dream
Fast-closing every sense to all besides,
And seek our small bare attic, where anon,
For hours together, pausing not for aught,
The ringing strings within his harpsichord
Would seem to call toward form that formless force
Enrapturing so the spirit. When his moods
Would note Doretta not, nor waiting meals,
Nor sunset hues, nor moonlight at its full,
Nor e’en the striking of the midnight bell,
What could I think that he could care for me?