"'Approach! approach, thou gallant knight!
England's first champion in the fight,
Of grace and courtesy the flower,
Approach the high-born Osvalde's bower!
And forth let manly valour bring
Youth's timid meekness, beauty's spring!
"'Thou darling of a vassal host,
Thy parents' stay, thy kinsman's boast;
Thou favourite in a monarch's eyes,
Whose gracious hand awards the prize;
Thee does the brightest lot betide,
The best domain, the fairest bride!'
"Mine sunk beneath the mournful look
Which glanc'd disdainful as I spoke;
And, when his step past hurrying by,
And when I heard his struggling sigh,
A moment on my quailing tongue
The speech constrain'd of welcome hung;
But in the harp's continuous sound
My wandering thoughts I quickly found.
"'Haste on! and here thy duteous train
In rapt expectance shall remain;
Till, with thee, brilliant as a gem
Set in a kingdom's diadem,
Thy lovely mistress shall appear!
O! hasten! we await thee here!'
"Again did that upbraiding eye
Check my false strain in passing by;
And its concentred meaning fell
Into my soul:—It was not well
To triumph thus, though but in show;
To chant the lay that joyance spoke,
To wear the gay and careless look.—
The ardent and the tender know
What pain those self-reproaches brought,
When conscience took the reins of thought
Into her hand, avenging more
All that she seem'd to prompt before.
O tyrant! from whose stern command
No act of mine was ever free,
How oft wouldst thou a censor stand
For what I did to pleasure thee!
The well-propp'd courage of my look,
The sportive language, airy tone,
To wounded love and pride bespoke
A selfish hardness not my own!
And only lulling secret pain,
I seem'd to fling around disdain.
"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.
"The air reviv'd her—but again
She left not, for the social train,
The stillness of her chamber;—ne'er
Its threshold pass'd, but on her bier:
Spoke but to one who seem'd to stand
Anear, and took his viewless hand,
To promise, let whate'er betide,
She would not be another's bride.
Then, pleading as for past offence,
Cried out aloud, 'They bore me hence!
My feet, my lips, refus'd to move,
To violate the vows of love!
My sense recoil'd, my vision flew,
Almost before I met thy view!
Almost before I heard thee cry
Perfidious Osvalde! look and die!
"'Oppose them? No! I did not dare!
I am not as a many are,
Ruling themselves: my spirits fly,
My force expires before reply.
Instinctively a coward, free
In speech, in act, I could not be
With any in my life, but thee!
Nor strength, nor power do I possess,
Except, indeed, to bear distress!
Except to pour the aching sigh,
Which only can my pain relieve;
Inhuman ye who ask me why,
And pause, to wonder that I grieve:
Mine are the wounds which never close,
Mine is a deep, untiring care;
A horror flying from repose,
A weight the sickening soul must bear.
The tears that from these eyelids flow,
The sad confusion of my brain,
All waking phantoms of its woe,
Your anger, and the world's disdain,—
Seek not to sooth me!—they are sent
This feeble frame and heart to try!
It is establish'd, be content!
They never leave me till I die!'
"So little here is understood,
So little known the great and good,
The deep regret that Eustace prov'd,
Brought home conviction that he lov'd
To many: others thought, her dower,
The loss of lordships, wealth, and power,
Full cause for sorrow; and the king
Hop'd he might consolation bring,
And bind a wavering servant o'er,
(Not found too loyal heretofore,)
By linking his sole daughter's fate
In wedlock with an English mate—
His favourite too! whose own domain
Spread over valley, hill, and plain;
Whose far-trac'd lineage did evince
A birth-right worthy of a prince;
Whose feats of arms, whose honour, worth,
Were even nobler than his birth;
Who, in his own bright self, did bring
A presence worthy of a king—
A form to catch and charm the eye,
Make proud men gracious, ladies sigh;
The boldest, wisest, and the best,
Greater than each presuming guest;—
I speak from judgment, not from love,—
In all endowments far above
Who tastes this day of festal cheer,
And whom his death assembles here!