“In Osvalde’s porch, where, full in bloom,
    The jasmine spread its rich perfume;
    And, in thick clustering masses, strove
    To hide the arch of stone above;
    While many a long and drooping spray
    Wav’d up, and lash’d the air in play;
    Was I ordain’d my harp to place,
    The pair with bridal strains to grace.

      “The royal will,—­and what beside? 
    O! what I since have lost,—­my pride,
    Forbade the wonted song to fail: 
    I met him with a cheerful hail. 
    I taught my looks, my lips, to feign
    I bade my hand its task sustain;
    And when he came to seek the bride,
    Her rival thus, unfaltering, cried:—­

    “’Approach! approach, thou gallant knight! 
    England’s first champion in the fight,
    Of grace and courtesy the flower,
    Approach the high-born Osvalde’s bower! 
    And forth let manly valour bring
    Youth’s timid meekness, beauty’s spring!

    “’Thou darling of a vassal host,
    Thy parents’ stay, thy kinsman’s boast;
    Thou favourite in a monarch’s eyes,
    Whose gracious hand awards the prize;
    Thee does the brightest lot betide,
    The best domain, the fairest bride!’

      “Mine sunk beneath the mournful look
    Which glanc’d disdainful as I spoke;
    And, when his step past hurrying by,
    And when I heard his struggling sigh,
    A moment on my quailing tongue
    The speech constrain’d of welcome hung;
    But in the harp’s continuous sound
    My wandering thoughts I quickly found.

      “’Haste on! and here thy duteous train
    In rapt expectance shall remain;
    Till, with thee, brilliant as a gem
    Set in a kingdom’s diadem,
    Thy lovely mistress shall appear! 
    O! hasten! we await thee here!’

      “Again did that upbraiding eye
    Check my false strain in passing by;
    And its concentred meaning fell
    Into my soul:—­It was not well
    To triumph thus, though but in show;
      To chant the lay that joyance spoke,
      To wear the gay and careless look.—­
    The ardent and the tender know
    What pain those self-reproaches brought,
    When conscience took the reins of thought
    Into her hand, avenging more
    All that she seem’d to prompt before. 
    O tyrant! from whose stern command
      No act of mine was ever free,
    How oft wouldst thou a censor stand
      For what I did to pleasure thee! 
    The well-propp’d courage of my look,
      The sportive language, airy tone,
    To wounded love and pride bespoke
      A selfish hardness not my own! 
    And only lulling secret pain,
    I seem’d to fling around disdain.