“He has arrived! arrived at last! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
    Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! 
And knows that of my night he is the star! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away! 
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! 
What joy have I without thee? what delight? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
    Forever night! forever night! 
When he is gone ’t is dark! my soul is sad! 
I suffer!  O my God! come, make me glad. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes! 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above,
    No more of grief! no more of lassitude! 
Earth I forget,—­and heaven, and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
    But when alone, remember all! 
Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! 
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
    I need some bough to twine around! 
In pity come! be to my suffering kind! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound! 
    What then—­when one is blind?

    “Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! 
Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave! 
    O God! what thoughts within me waken! 
Away! he will return!  I do but rave! 
    He will return!  I need not fear! 
    He swore it by our Saviour dear;
    He could not come at his own will;
    Is weary, or perhaps is ill! 
    Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
    Prepares for me some sweet surprise! 
But some one comes!  Though blind, my heart can see! 
And that deceives me not! ’t is he! ’t is he!”

    And the door ajar is set,
    And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes;
’T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:—­
    “Angela the bride has passed! 
    I saw the wedding guests go by;
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked? 
    For all are there but you and I!”

    “Angela married! and not send
    To tell her secret unto me! 
    O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?”
    “My sister, ’t is Baptiste, thy friend!”

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
    An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
    Descending, as her brother speaks,
    Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,
    Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.

    At length, the bridal song again
    Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.