Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make—­
  That of a mother of her darling child—­
That of a child, who, for her Saviour’s sake,
  Leaves the fond face that o’er her cradle smiled. 
They who may think that God doth never need
  So great, so sad a sacrifice as this,
While they take glory in their easier creed,
  Will feel and own the sacrifice it is.

All is prepared—­the sisters in the choir—­
  The mitred abbot on his crimson throne—­
The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire
  Poured o’er the sacred cup and altar-stone—­
The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears—­
  The censer’s fragrant vapour floating o’er;
Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears,
  Entering with solemn step the sacred door.

She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale,
  Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud;
The jewels of her dress shone through her veil,
  As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud;
The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid
  Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o’er,
Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid,
  Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore.

She reached the narrow porch and the tall door,
  Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed—­
Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor—­
  Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. 
Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book,
  Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? 
Who looks for pardon as the damned may look—­
  That ever pray, and know they pray in vain.

’Tis he, the wretched youth—­the Demon’s prey;
  One sudden bound, and he is at her side—­
One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away,
  Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart’s warm tide. 
Horror and terror seize the startled crowd;
  The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright;
When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud,
  The youth bears off the maiden from their sight.

Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by,
  His little boat lay moored beneath the bank,
Hid from the shore, and from the gazer’s eye,
  By waving reeds and water-willows dank. 
Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow,
  He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream—­
Placed the insensate maiden in the prow—­
  Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream.

Scarce had he left the river’s foamy edge,
  When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain;
The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege,
  Fled from the heavens with all his golden train;
The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared;
  Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green,
And though the calm and brightness reappeared
  The youth and maiden never more were seen.

Whether the current in its strong arms bore
  Their bark to green Hy-Brasail’s fairy halls,
Or whether, as is told along that shore,
  They sunk within the buried city’s walls;
Whether through some Elysian clime they stray,
  Or o’er their whitened bones the river rolls;—­
Whate’er their fate, my brothers, let us pray
  To God for peace and pardon to their souls.