And Thought's wide banner flew unfurl'd.

"Yet we should do fair Osvalde wrong
To class her with the circling throng:
Her mind was like a gentle sprite,
Whose wings, though aptly form'd for flight,
From cowardice are seldom spread;
Who folds the arms, and droops the head;
Stealing, in pilgrim guise along,
With needless staff, and vestment grey,
It scarcely trills a vesper song
Monotonous at close of day.
Cross but its path, demanding aught,
E'en what its pensive mistress sought,
Though forward welcoming she hied,
And its quick footstep glanc'd aside.

"Restraint, alarms, and solitude,
Her early courage had subdu'd;
Fetter'd her movements, looks, and tongue,
While on her heart more weighty hung
Each griev'd resentment, doubt, and pain,
Each dread of anger or disdain.
A deeper sorrow also lent
The sharpen'd pang of discontent;
For unconceal'd attachment prov'd
Destructive to the man she lov'd.

"Owning, like her, an orphan's doom,
He had not that prescriptive home