Reluctant still she seem'd,--her feet Sought slowly the appointed seat: Her hand, oft lifting to her head, She lightly o'er her forehead spread; Then the unconscious motion check'd, And, struggling with her own neglect, Seem'd as she but by effort found The presence of an audience round. Meanwhile the murmurings died away Which spake impatience of delay: A pitying wonder, new and kind, Arose in each beholder's mind: They saw no scorn to meet reproof, No arrogance to keep aloof; Her air absorb'd, her sadden'd mien, Combin'd the mourning, captive queen, With _her_ who at the altar stands To raise aloft her spotless hands, In meek and persevering prayer, For such as falter in despair. All that was smiling, bright, and gay, Youth's show of triumph during May, Its roseate crown, was snatch'd away! Yet sorrows, which had come so soon, Like tender morning dew repos'd, O'er hope and joy as softly clos'd As moist clouds on the light at noon. Opprest by some heart-withering pang, Upon her harp she seem'd to hang Awhile o'erpower'd--then faintly sang: "Demand no lay of long-past times; Of foreign loves, or foreign crimes; Demand no visions which arise To Rapture's eager, tearless eyes! Those who can travel far, I ween, Whose strength can reach a distant scene, And measure o'er large space of ground, Have not, like me, a deadly wound! Near home, perforce, alas, I stray, Perforce pursue my destin'd way, Through scenes where all my trouble grows, And where alone remembrance flows. Like evening swallows, still my wings Float round in low, perpetual rings; But never fold the plume for rest One moment in the tranquil nest; And have no strength to reach the skies, No power, no hope, no wish to rise! "Blame me not, _Fancy_, if I now restrain Thy wandering footsteps, now thy wings confine; Tis the decree of Fate,--it is not mine! For I would let thee free and widely stray-- Would follow gladly, tend thee on thy way, And never of the devious track complain, Never thy wild and sportive flights disdain! Though reasonless those graceful moods may be, They still, alas! were passing sweet to me. "Unhappy that I am, compell'd to bind This murmuring captive! one who ever strove By each endearing art to win my love; Who, ever unoffending, ever bright, Danc'd in my view, and pleas'd me to delight! She scatter'd showers of lilies on my mind; For, oh! so fair, so fresh, and so refin'd, Her child-like offerings, without thorns to pain, Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.