Where are the plaudits, warm and long,
    That erst have follow’d Marie’s song? 
    The full assenting, sudden, loud,
    The buz of pleasure in the crowd! 
    The harp was still, but silence reign’d,
    Listening as if she still complain’d: 
    For Pity threw her gentle yoke
    Across Impatience, ere he spoke;
    And Thought, in pondering o’er her strains,
    Had that cold state he oft maintains. 
    But soon the silence seem’d to say,
    “Fair mourner, reassume thy lay!”
    And in the chords her fingers stray’d;
      For aching Memory found relief
      In mounting to the source of grief;
    A tender symphony she play’d,
    Then bow’d, and thus, unask’d, obey’d.

The Lay of Marie

CANTO THIRD.

    “Careless alike who went or came,
    I seldom ask’d the stranger’s name,
    When such a being came in view
    As eagerly the question drew. 
    ‘The Lady Osvalde,’ some one cried,
    ‘Sir Eustace’ late appointed bride,
    His richest ward the king’s behest
    Gives to the bravest and the best.’

      “Enchantments, wrought by pride and fear,
    Made me, though mute, unmov’d appear. 
    My eye was quiet, and the while
    My lip maintain’d a steady smile. 
    It cost me much, alas! to feign;
    But while I struggled with the pain,
    With beauty stole upon my sight
    An inward feeling of delight.

      “Long did the silken lashes lie
    Upon a dark and brilliant eye;
    Bright the wild rose’s finest hue
    O’er a pure cheek of ivory flew. 
    Her smile, all plaintive and resign’d,
    Bespake a gentle, suffering mind;
    And e’en her voice, so clear and faint,
    Had something in it of complaint. 
    Her delicate and slender form,
    Like a vale-lily from the storm,
    Seem’d pensively to shrink away,
    More timid in a crowd so gay. 
    Large jewels glitter’d in her hair;
    And, on her neck, as marble fair,
    Lay precious pearls, in countless strings;
    Her small, white hands, emboss’d with rings,
    Announc’d high rank and amplest wealth,
    But neither freedom, power, nor health.

      “Near her Sir Eustace took his stand,
    With manner sad, yet soft and bland;
    Spoke oft, but her replies were tame;
    And soon less frequent both became. 
    Their converse seem’d by labour wrought,
    Without one sweet, free-springing thought;
    Without those flashes of delight
    Which make it tender, deep, or bright! 
    It was not thus upon the sea
    He us’d to look and talk with me! 
    Not thus, when, lost to all around,
    His haughty kinsmen saw and frown’d! 
    Then all unfelt the world’s controul,—­
    Its rein lay lightly o’er his soul;
    Far were its prides and cautions hurl’d,
    And Thought’s wide banner flew unfurl’d.