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"Which beckons onward to his
"And lures to leap into the wave."

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Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl:
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquell'd and high,
That claims and keeps ascendancy;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,

Will others quail beneath his look,

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted Friar

When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferr'd to others fear and guile:
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth 'tis sad to see
That he but mocks at Misery.

How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain
Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so-such ghastly mirth
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth.



But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face:
Time hath not yet the features fix'd,
But brighter traits with evil mix'd;
And there are hues not always faded,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded:
The common crowd but see the gloom
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom;
The close observer can espy

A noble soul, and lineage high:

Alas! though both bestow'd in vain,

Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain,

It was no vulgar tenement

To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is riveted.
The roofless cot, decay'd and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer by;
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement,
Demands and daunts the stranger's eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,

Pleads haughtily for glories gone!

"His floating robe around him folding,

"Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle; "With dread beheld, with gloom beholding "The rites that sanctify the pile.

"But when the anthem shakes the choir, "And kneel the monks, his steps retire;

"By yonder lone and wavering torch "His aspect glares within the porch; "There will he pause till all is done"And hear the prayer, but utter none. "See-by the half-illumined wall

"His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, "That pale brow wildly wreathing round, "As if the Gorgon there had bound "The sablest of the serpent-braid "That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd: "For he declines the convent oath, "And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, "But wears our garb in all beside; "And, not from piety but pride, "Gives wealth to walls that never heard "Of his one holy vow nor word. "Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony "Peals louder praises to the sky, "That livid cheek, that stony air "Of mix'd defiance and despair!

"Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! "Else may we dread the wrath divine

"Made manifest by awful sign.

"If ever evil angel bore

"The form of mortal, such he wore:

"By all my hope of sins forgiven,

"Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!"

To love the softest hearts are prone,
But such can ne'er be all his own;
Too timid in his woes to share,
Too meek to meet, or brave despair;

And sterner hearts alone may feel
The wound that time can never heal.
The rugged metal of the mine

Must burn before its surface shine,
But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same;
Then temper'd to thy want, or will,
'Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;
But if a dagger's form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta'en,
And what they make it, must remain,
But break-before it bend again.

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If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness

Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share:
Even bliss-'twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,

Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird, (39)

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream
To still her famish'd nestlings' scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd,
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,

The waste of feelings unemploy'd.
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay;-
Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!




"Father! thy days have pass'd in peace, "Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; "To bid the sins of others cease,

"Thyself without a crime or care, "Save transient ills that all must bear, "Has been thy lot from youth to age; "And thou wilt bless thee from the rage

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