"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.