But, were I prior, not a day

Should brook such stranger's further stay;
Or, pent within our penance cell,
Should doom him there for aye to dwell.
Much in his visions mutters he

Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea;
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying,
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.
On cliff he hath been known to stand,
And rave as to some bloody hand
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb,
Invisible to all but him,

Which beckons onward to his grave,
And lures to leap into the wave.'

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, 't is 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, 'T will 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.

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-'t were 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, 59

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 droop 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
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd,
Such as thy penitents unfold,
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest
Within thy pure and pitying breast.
My days, though few, have pass'd below
In much of joy, but more of woe;
Yet still, in hours of love or strife,
I've 'scaped the weariness of life :
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes,
I loathed the languor of repose.
Now nothing left to love or hate,
No more with hope or pride elate,
I'd rather be the thing that crawls
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls,
Than pass my dull, unvarying days,
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze.
Yet, lurks a wish within my breast
For rest-but not to feel 't is rest.
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ;

And I shall sleep without the dream
Of what I was, and would be still,
Dark as to thee my deeds may seem:
My memory now is but the tomb

Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:

Though better to have died with those,
Than bear a life of lingering woes.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain

The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded
grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave :
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet;
And in the field it had been sweet,
Had danger woo'd me on to move
The slave of glory, not of love.
I've braved it—not for honour's boast;
I smile at laurels won or lost;

To such let others carve their way,
For high renown, or hireling pay:
But place again before my eyes
Aught that I deem a worthy prize;
The maid I love, the man I hate,
And I will hunt the steps of fate
To save or slay, as these require,
Through rending steel, and rolling fire:
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one
Who would but do-what he hath done.
Death is but what the haughty brave,

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;
Then let life go to him who gave:

I have not quail'd to danger's brow
When high and happy-need I now?

"I loved her, friar! nay, adored-
But these are words that all can use-
I proved it more in deed than word;
There's blood upon that dinted sword,
A stain its steel can never lose :
'T was shed for her, who died for me,

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd.
Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee,
Nor midst my sins such act record:
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,
For he was hostile to thy creed!
The very name of Nazarene
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.
Ungrateful fool! since but for brands
Well wielded in some hardy hands,
And wounds by Galileans given,
The surest pass to Turkish heaven,
For him his Houris still might wait
Impatient at the prophet's gate.