"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!