“To him, with warm affections crost,
    Who, owning happiness was lost,
    Had said, ’Dear maiden, were I free,
    They would not let me think of thee;
    The only one who on my sight
    Breaks lovely as the morning light;
    Whom my heart bounding springs to greet,
    Seeks not, but always hopes to meet;
    With eager joy unlocks its store,
    Yet ever pines to tell thee more!’
    To him, should feign’d indifference bring
    A killing scorn, a taunting sting? 
    To Osvalde, drooping and forlorn,
      A flower fast fading on the stem,
    All exultation seem’d like scorn,
      For what was hope and joy to them? 
    As with awakening judgment came
    These feelings of remorse and shame,
    With the throng’d crowd, the bustling scene,
    Did deep abstractions intervene,
    O’er yielding effort holding sway,
    As, humbled, I pursued my way.

      “The festive flowers, the incens’d air,
    The altar taper’s reddening glare;
    The pausing, slow-advancing pair,
    Her fainter, his most watchful air;
    The vaulted pile, the solemn rite,
    Impress’d, then languish’d on my sight;
    And all my being was resign’d
    To that strong ordeal, where the mind,
    Summon’d before a heavenly throne,
    Howe’er surrounded, feels alone. 
    When, bow’d in dust all earthly pride,
    All earthly power and threats defied,
    Mortal opinion stands as nought
    In the clear’d atmosphere of thought;
    And selfish care, and worldly thrall,
    And mean repining, vanish all. 
    When prayers are pour’d to God above,
    His eyes send forth their beams of love;
    Darkness forsakes our mental sky,
    And, demon-like, our passions fly. 
    The holy presence, by its stay
    Drives failings, fears, and woes away;
    Refines, exalts, our nature draws
    To share its own eternal laws
    Of pure benevolence and rest,
    The future portion of the blest—­
    Their constant portion!  Soon this flow
    Of life I lost—­recall’d below: 
    From prayers for them recall’d.  Around,
    A sudden rush, of fearful sound,
    Smote on my ear; of voices crying,
    ’The bride, the Lady Osvalde dying! 
    Give place! make room!’ the hurrying press
    Eustace alarm’d; and, in distress,
    Calling for air, and through the crowd
    Which an impeded way allow’d,
    Forcing slow progress; bearing on
    Her pallid form; when, wholly gone
    You might have deem’d her mortal breath,
    Cold, languid, motionless as death,
    I saw before my eyes advance,
    And ’woke, astounded, from my trance.