Still she was well and happy. Oh! the heart
Makes its own happiness, perchance the best,
When consecrate to one engrossing love!
Two years had past away;—but once again
She is to stand within her father’s hall;
Her vows dispensed with just for one brief day,
Her brother had besought so earnestly
Her presence when he wed the Lady Blanche.
He said no other hand but hers should give
The bride her orange flowers; for Emily
Would bring a blessing with her.
’Twas early morning when that youthful nun
Gazed once again on her forgotten face.
How strange the mirror seemed! Again her hair
Was gathered up with pearls on each dark wave,—
Once more the silken robe, the silver veil,
Beseemed the Baron's daughter:—but she turned
From the fair glass, and knelt with lifted hands
Before the Virgin‘s image; while her eyes
Swam with sweet tears of earnest gratitude.
She thought upon her brother and his bride—
Of her old father’s joy;—and if one thought
Had crossed her when she saw her own sweet face—
How fair the world she had for aye resigned—
That thought had past like some unholy thing,
Which found her heart too pure a resting-place;
And tenderest hopes, and gentle thankfulness,
And self-forgetfulness, filled up the soul,
Whose earthly love but bore it on to heaven.
