“These conflicts and these hopes were fled;
    Alas! poor youth! his blood, was shed,
      Before the feet of Osvalde trod
      Again on the empurpled sod. 
    No voice had dar’d to tell the tale;
      But she had many a boding thrill,
      For dumb observance watch’d her still;
      For laughter ceas’d whene’er she came,
      And none pronounc’d her lover’s name! 
      When wilfully she sought this spot,
      Shudderings prophetic mark’d his lot;
    She look’d! her maiden’s cheek was pale! 
      And from the hour did ne’er depart
      That deadly tremor from her heart. 
      Pleasure and blandishment were vain;
      Deaf to persuasion’s dulcet strain,
      It never reach’d her mind again.

    “Arise, lovely mourner! thy sorrows give o’er,
      Nor droop so forlornly that beautiful head! 
    Thy sighs art unheard by the youth they deplore,
      And those warm-flowing tears all unfelt by the dead.

    “Then quit this despondence, sweet Osvalde! be gay! 
      See open before thee the gates of delight! 
    Where the Hours are now lingering on tiptoe, away! 
      They view thee with smiles, and are loth to take flight.

    “See the damsels around thee, how joyous they are! 
      How their eyes sparkle pleasure whenever they meet! 
    What sweet flowers are entwin’d in their long, floating hair! 
      How airy their movements, how nimble their feet!

    “O! bear her from hence! when she sees them rejoice,
      Still keener the pain of her agony burns;
    And when Joy carols by, with a rapturous voice,
      To hopeless Remembrance more poignantly turns.

        “Thus often has her bosom bled;
      Thus have I seen her fainting led
    From feasts intended to dispel
    The woeful thoughts she nurs’d so well. 
    And must she, by the king’s command,
    To Eustace plight that fever’d hand? 
    Proud, loyal as he is, can he,
    A victim to the same decree,
    Receive it, while regretting me? 
    For that poor, withering heart, resign
    The warm, devoted faith of mine!

      “Have I, too, an allotted task? 
    What from the Minstrel do they ask? 
    A nimble finger o’er the chords,
    A tongue replete with gracious words! 
    Alas! the tribute they require,
    Truth, sudden impulse, should inspire;
    And from the senseless, subject lyre,
    Such fine and mellow music flow,
    The skill that forms it should not know
    Whence the delicious tones proceed;
    But, lost in rapture’s grateful glow,
    Doubt its own power, and cry, ’Indeed,
    Some passing angel sweeps the strings,
    Wafting from his balsamic wings
    The sweetest breath of Eden bowers,
    Tones nurs’d and hovering there in flowers,
    Have left their haunts to wander free,
    Linger, alight, and dwell on thee!’