The fiend he flung her on the horse, And he leapt up before, And the loud commotion, like the rushing of And away like the lightning's speed they ocean, Grew momently more and more, And strokes as of a battering ram, Did skake the strong church-door. The bellmen they, for very fear, The monk and nun forgot their beads, They fell on the ground in dismay, There was not a single saint in heaven To whom they did not pray. And the choristers' song, which late was so strong, Falter'd with consternation, For the church did rock as an earthquakeshock Uplifted its foundation. And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast, That shall one day wake the dead, The strong church-door could bear no more, And the bolts and the bars they fled. And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite, They call'd with trembling tongue. went, And she was seen no more. They saw her no more, but her cries shrieks For four miles round they could hear. And children at rest at their mothers' breas Started and screamed with fear. ST. GUALBERTO. ADDRESSED ΤΟ A FRIEND. THE work is done, the fabric is complete; Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tove. Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat, Must toil for many a league and many an hour Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscer rose. Long were the tale that told Moscera's prid Its columns cluster'd strength and lofty stat How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptur side, What intersecting arches graced its gatr. Its towers how high, its massy walls he strong, These fairly to describe were sure a tedi song. Yet while the fane rose slowly from the Where art exhausted decks the sumptuons ground, But little store of charity, I ween, Hopeless to turn him from the convent-door, hall, Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all? 'Twas but a sorry welcome then you found, With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone: And such as suited ill a guest so dear; O, Father, hear me! if this splendid pile The pile was ruinous old, the base unsound; Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone, It glads me more to bid you welcome here, Bless it, oh Father, with thy fostering smile! For you can call to mind our former state! Still may it stand, and never evil know, Come, brother, pass with me the new Mos-Long as beside its walls the eternal stream cera's gate. shall flow. So spake the cheerful Abbot, but no smile But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then! Aye, cries Rodulfo, 'tis a stately place! well. Nay scowl not round with so severe a face! When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell, High and more high the mass of water grows; And on their Saints and on their God they call, For now the mountain-bulk o'ertops the convent-wall. | George, dost thou deem the legendary derdi It falls, the mountain-bulk, with thundering Plunged headlong down the dark and father sound! less profound? As we write novels to instruct our youth, Wells would have fallen, dear George, our Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, country's pride; who taught it me vain, And Canning's stately church been rear'd in Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain, Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way, Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay. And we should never then have heard, I Had Niagara'd o'er the quadrangle; Then had not Westminster, the house of God, And, eager to destroy the unholy walls, All is not false which seems at first a lie. He chose to forfeit all, not leave unfinish't But while devoutly thus the unarm'd knight The truth is told, and all at once exclaim. And thus the tale is handed down to fame I am not one who scan with scornful eyes Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, The dreams which make the enthusiast's Save the near brooklet's stream that murbest delight; mur'd quietly. Nor thou the legendary lore despise Is there who has not felt the deep delight, The hush of soul, that scenes like these impart? The heart they will not soften is not right, And young Gualberto was not hard of heart. Yet sure he thinks revenge becomes him well, When from a neighbouring church he heard the vesper-bell. The Catholic who hears that vesper-bell, Howe'er employ'd, must send a prayer to Heaven. In foreign lands I liked the custom well, For with the calm and sober thoughts of It well accords; and even wert thou journeying there, It chanced that one in kindred near allied |