I.
It was the hour for evening prayer—there came a goodly throng
Within that dim cathedral church to join the vesper song;
And she was there amid the crowd, and on the altar stair,
As if she were alone she knelt in the depth of her despair.
She did not heed the many eyes upon her beauty turned;
One vision still oppressed her soul, one grief within her burned.
The tones of holy minstrelsy, the solemn anthem strain,
They were like voices in a dream—as meaningless and vain.
Strange tumult reigned within her soul—there came a gush of tears,
Deep, wild, as if it bore along the passion-flood of years;
And 'Mary! Mary!' was her prayer, and 'Mary!' still she prays,
'O give me back the love of old—the light of other days!'
A deeper gloom o'erspread the aisles—the altar-lamp grew dim,
And fainter still the echoes came from the dying vesper hymn;
She listened for an answering voice—but no response was given:
The marble steps were cold as death, and silence was in heaven.