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,