The one, fantastic, light as air,
      ’Mid kisses ringing,
      And joyous singing,
    Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,
  Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,
And whispers, as her brother opes the door,
    “O God! forgive me now!”

    And then the orphan, young and blind,
    Conducted by her brother’s hand,
    Towards the church, through paths unscanned,
    With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,
    Round her at times exhale,
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
    But brumal vapors gray.

    Near that castle, fair to see,
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
    Marvels of nature and of art,
      And proud of its name of high degree,
    A little chapel, almost bare
    At the base of the rock, is builded there;
    All glorious that it lifts aloof,
    Above each jealous cottage roof,
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
    And its blackened steeple high in air,
    Round which the osprey screams and sails.

    “Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!”
Thus Margaret said.  “Where are we? we ascend!”
    “Yes; seest thou not our journey’s end? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! 
Dost thou remember when our father said,
    The night we watched beside his bed,
    ’O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!’
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud. 
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set;
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? 
    Come in!  The bride will be here soon: 
Thou tremblest!  O my God! thou art going to swoon!”

She could no more,—­the blind girl, weak and weary! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—­and she started,
    And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore
    Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
    Touches the crown of filigrane
    Suspended from the low-arched portal,
    No more restrained, no more afraid,
    She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night
    They both are lost to sight.

        At length the bell,
        With booming sound,
        Sends forth, resounding round. 
Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down the dell. 
    It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;
      And yet the guests delay not long,
      For soon arrives the bridal train,
      And with it brings the village throng.