“Yet we should do fair Osvalde wrong
    To class her with the circling throng: 
    Her mind was like a gentle sprite,
    Whose wings, though aptly form’d for flight,
    From cowardice are seldom spread;
    Who folds the arms, and droops the head;
    Stealing, in pilgrim guise along,
      With needless staff, and vestment grey,
    It scarcely trills a vesper song
      Monotonous at close of day. 
    Cross but its path, demanding aught,
    E’en what its pensive mistress sought,
    Though forward welcoming she hied,
    And its quick footstep glanc’d aside.

      “Restraint, alarms, and solitude,
    Her early courage had subdu’d;
    Fetter’d her movements, looks, and tongue,
    While on her heart more weighty hung
    Each griev’d resentment, doubt, and pain,
    Each dread of anger or disdain. 
    A deeper sorrow also lent
    The sharpen’d pang of discontent;
    For unconceal’d attachment prov’d
    Destructive to the man she lov’d.

      “Owning, like her, an orphan’s doom,
    He had not that prescriptive home
    Which wealth and royal sanction buys;
    No powerful friends, nor tender ties;—­
    No claims, save former promise given,
    Whose only witness was in heaven;
    And promise takes a slender hold,
    Where all is selfish, dull, and cold.

      “Slowly that bloomless favour grew,
    Before his stern protectors knew
    The secret which arous’d disdain. 
    Declaring that he did but feign,
    They, in unpitying vengeance, hurl’d
    A sister’s offspring on the world. 
    Thus outrag’d, pride’s corroding smart,
    The fever of a throbbing heart,
    Impell’d him first to wander round,
    And soon to leap that barrier ground,
    And seek the arch’d, embowering way,
    In which her steps were wont to stray.

      “No sleep his heavy eyes could close,
    Nor restless memory find repose,
    Nor hope a plan on which to rest,
    In the wild tumult of a breast
    With warring passions deeply fraught. 
    To see her was his only thought;
    Feel once again the tones that sprung
    So oft to that endearing tongue,
    Flow on his heart; desponding, faint,
    But too indignant for complaint;
    Say how completely he resign’d
    All former influence o’er her mind,
    Where it was better to destroy
    Each vestige of their days of joy. 
    To breathe her name he would not dare,
    Except in solitude and prayer! 
    ’Beyond belief I love, adore,
    But never will behold thee more!’
    Thus thinking o’er each purpose high,
    Tears gather’d blinding in his eye;
    And bitter, uncontroul’d regret
    Exclaim’d, ‘Why have we ever met?’