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And yells and cries without arise

And in He came with eyes of flame, That the stoutest heart might shock, The Devil to fetch the dead, And a deafening roaring like a cataract And all the church with his presence glorii


Like a fiery furnace red. Over a mountainrock.

He laid his hand on the iron chains, The monk and nun they told their beads And like flax they moulder'd asander, As fast as they could tell,

And the coffin-lid, which was barr'd so is And aye as louder grew the noise

He burst with his voice of thunder. The faster went the bell.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rie Louder and louder the choristers sung And come with her master away, As they trembled more and more,

And the cold sweat stood on the cold, cell And the priests as they pray'd to heaven for

corpse, aid,

At the voice she was forced to obey. They smote their breasts full sore.

She rose on her feet in her winding sheet. The cock he crew, the fiends they flew Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear,

From the voice of the morning away; And a groan like that which the Old Won Then undisturb'd the choristers sing,

gave And the fifty priests they pray;

Never did mortal hear.
As they had sung and pray'd all night
They pray'd and sung all day.

She follow'd the fiend to the church-door,

There stood a black horse there; The third night came, and the tapers' flame His breath was red like furnace-smoke, A hideous stench did make,

His eyes like a meteor's glare.
And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone-lake.

The fiend he flung her on the horse,

And he leapt up before, And the loud commotion, like the rushing of and away like

ushing of And away like the lightning's speed they ocean,

went, Grew momently more and more,

And she was seen no more.
And strokes as of a battering ram,
Did skake the strong church-door.

They saw her no more, but her cries a The bellmen they, for very fear,


For four miles round they could heir Could toll the bell no longer, And still as louder grew the strokes,

And children at rest at their mothers' breas. Their fear it grew the stronger.

Started and screamed with fear.

The monk and nun forgot their beads,

They fell on the ground in dismay, There was not a single saint in heaven

ST. GUALBERTO. To whom they did not pray.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. And the choristers' song, which late was so


The work is done, the fabric is complete: Falter'd with consternation,

Distinct the Traveller sees its distant toss For the church did rock as an earthquake- Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat


Must toil for many a league and many an bos: Uplifted its foundation.

Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows

Stateliest of convents now, his new Momen And a sound was heard like the trumpet's

rose. blast. That shall one day wake the dead,

Long were the tale that told Moscera's print The strong church-door could bear no more, Its columns cluster'd strength and lofty stat And the bolts and the bars they fled.

How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptur


And the tapers’ light was extinguish'd quite, What intersecting arches graced its gatr. And the choristers faintly sung,

Its towers bow high, its massy walls to And the priests dismay'd panted and pray'd

strong, And on all Saints in Heaven for aid These fairly to describe were sure a teda They call'd with trembling tongue.


l'et while the fane rose slowly from the Where art exhausted decks the sumptuons ground,

hall, But little store of charity, I ween, Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;

of all? Ind often there the mendicant was seen lopeless to turn him from the convent-door,

And ye have rear'd these stately towers on For this so costly work still kept the brethren

high poor.

To serve your God? the monk severe replied.

It rose from zeal and earnest piety, Now all is perfect, and from every side And prompted by no worldly thoughts They flock to view the fabric, young and old,

beside Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride, Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere When on the sabbath-day his eyes behold In humble liermit-cell, God will incline his ear. The multitudes that crowd his chapel-floor, Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera


Rodulfo! while this haughty building rose,
Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door?

D d charity relieve the orphans' woes? so chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way,

Cloathed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor? Since sainted for a life of holy deeds.

He who with alms most succours the distrest, Je pansed the new-rear'd convent to survey, Proud Abbot, know, he serves his heavenly And, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds, Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem

Father best. Chat ill so proud a pile did humble monks


Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell
Who first abandon'd all to serve the Lord ?

Their place of worship was the desart-cell, Tim, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw,

Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal And forth he came to greet the holy guest;

board, For he was known as one who held the law

And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by, Df Benedict, and each severe behest

They blest their gracious God, and thought so duly kept with such religions care,

it luxury. Chat Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders

to his prayer.

Then anger darken'd in Rodulfo's face; Good brother, welcome! thus Rodulfo cries,

| Enough of preaching! sharply he replied,

Thou art grown envious;—'tis a common 'n sooth it glads me to behold you here;

casc, 't is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes Did not deceive me: yet full many a year

Humility is made the cloak of pride.

Proud of our home's magnificence are we, Iath slipt away, since last you bade farewell

But thou art far more proud in rags and 'o me your host and my uncomfortable cell.


Twas but a sorry welcome then you found, With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone: And such as suited ill a guest so dear; 0, Father, hear me! if this splendid pile Che pile was ruinous old, the base unbound; / Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone, 't 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 Of answering joy relax'd Gualberto's brow; Have wasted here the wealth, which thou le raised his hand and pointed to the pile:

i hast lent, Moscera better pleased me then, than now! To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then!

palace this, befitting kingly pride! Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent! Will holiness, my friend, in palace-pomp Let yonder brook that flows so calm beside,

abide ?
| Now from its base sweep down the unholy

house of pride! \ye, crica Rodulfo, 'tis a stately place! And pomp becomes the house of worship He said, and lo the brook no longer fows!

well. .

The waters pause, and now they swell on Nay scowl not round with so severe a face!

high; When earthly kings in seats of grandeur High and more high the mass of water grows;

| The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly,

And on their Saints and on their God they call, George, dost thou deem the legendary derde For now the mountain-bulk o'ertops the Of Romish saints a useless medley store

convent-wall. Of lies, that he flings time away who reada!

And wonldst thou rather bid me puzzle s'e It falls, the mountain-bulk, with thundering

Matter and Mind and all the eternal round

Plunged headlong down the dark and father

sound! Full on Moscera's pile the vengeance falls!

less profound! Its lofty tower now rushes to the ground, Prone lie its columns now, its high arch'a

Now do I bless the man who undertook

walls, Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide, I.

These monks and martyrs to biographine; That from its base swept down the unholy

And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book house of pride.

The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies.
Where Angels now, now Beelzebubs appear.
And blind and honest zeal, and boly faith

Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth,
Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound?
This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth,

oth All is not very truth, and yet 'twere har He only play'd his pranks on foreign ground;

1. The fabling Priests for fabling to abuse; For had he turn’d the stream on England too,

What if a monk, from better theme debarr I. The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a

Some pious subject for a tale should ches. goodly view. How some good man the flesh and field


His taste methinks, and not his consciencia Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my

were to blame. sight, Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile; I had not traversed then with such delight in after-years, what he, good Christian. The hallow'd ruins of our Alfred's isle,

wrote, Where many a pilgrim's curse is well as we write novels to instruct our youth.


| Went travelling on, its origin forgot, On those who rob its walls to mend the

Till at the length it past for gospel-truth turnpike-road. A fair account! and shouldst thou like the

plea, Wells would have fallen, dear George, our | Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George country's pride;

who taught it And Canning's stately church been rear'd in

vain, Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, All is not false which seems at first a lie Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny Fernan Antolinez a Spanish knight,


Knelt at the mass, when lo! the troops hard Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way, Before the expected hour began the fight. Its ancient beauties sure will well reward Though courage, duty, honour, summer! delay.


He chose to forfeit all, not leave unfinish And we should never then have heard, I

prayer. think, At evening-hour, great Tom's tremendous


But while devoutly thus the unarmd knight The fountain-streams that now in Christ | Waits till the holy service shonld be ofer,

Church stink, Even then the foremost in the furious fight Had Niagara'd o'er the quadrangle;

Was he behold to bathe his sword in gare But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood, First in the van his plumes were seen to pln I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey And Spain to him decreed the glory of the day

might have stood.


Then had not Westminster, the house of God, The truth is told, and all at once exclain.
Served for a concert-room, or signal-post; His guardian angel Heaven had deigad ta
Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod,
Had swept down Greenwich, England's And thus the tale is handed down to fum

noblest boast; Now if our good Sir Fernan had a friend And, eager to destroy the unholy walls, Who in the hour of danger served him wel Fleet-ditch had roll'd up hill to overwhelm Dear George, the tale is true, and yet s St. Paul's.


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 If of Gualberto yet again I write, How first impellid he sought the convent-cell; Is there who has not felt the deep delight, A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me The hush of soul, that scenes like these well.

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, Fortune bad smiled upon Gualberto's birth, When from a neighbouring church he heard The heir of Valdespesa's rich domain.

the vesper-bell. An only child, he grew in years and worth, And well repaid a father's anxious pain. Oft had his sire in battle forced success, The Catholic who hears that vesper-bell, Well for his valour known, and known for Howe'er employ'd, must send a prayer to haughtiness.

In foreign lands I liked the custom well,

For with the calm and sober thoughts of It chanced that one in kindred near allied

even Was slain by his hereditary foc;

It well accords; and wert thou journeying Much by his sorrow moved and more by pride,

there, The father vow'd that blood for blood should It would not hurt thee, George, to join that flow,

vesper-prayer. And from his youth Gualberto had been

taught l'hat with unccasing hate should just revenge Gualberto had been duly taught to hold

be sought.

Each pious duty with religious care,
And,- for the young man's feelings were

not cold, Long did they wait; at length the tidings came He never yet had mist his vesper-prayer. That through a lone and unfrequented way, But strange misgivings now his heart invade, soon would Anselmo-such the murderer's And when the vesper-bell had ceased he had name,

not pray'd. Pass on his journey home, an casy prey. io, cried the father, meet him in the wood ! Ind young Gualberto went, and laid in wait And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd ?

for blood.

The sudden doubt arose within his mind,
And many a former precept then he weigh'd,

The words of Him who died to save mankind; When now the youth was at the forest-shade How 'twas the meek who should inherit Irrived, it drew toward the close of day;

heaven, Inselmo haply might be long delay'd, And man must man forgive, if he would be Ind he, already wearied with his way,

forgiven. Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclined, Ind thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd

his mind.

Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope,
That yet some chance his victim might delay.

So as he mused, adown the neighbouring low sunk the glorious sun, a roscate light

slope pread o'er the forest from his lingering rays; He saw a lonely traveller on bis way; 'he glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight And now he knows the man 80 much oftcn'd in shade,he could not chuse but


His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the nd now a placid grayness clad the heaven,

murderous sword. ave where the west retain'd the last green

light of even.

“The house of Valdespesn gives the blow !

Go! and our vengeance to our kinsman tell!" ool breathed the grateful air, and fresher Despair and terror seized the unarm'd foe,


And prostrate at the young man's knees he fell, 'he fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose; And stopt his hand and cried, oh, do not 'he passing gale scarce moved the o’erhang

take ing bough, A wretched sinner's life! mercy for Jeans' nd not a sound disturb'd the deep repose,


At that most blessed name, as at a spell, Weaver of snares, thou emblemest then Conscience, the God within him, smote his Of Satan, Sire of lies;


Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind kr His hand, for murder raised, unharming fell; His toils, as thou for flies. He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead When Betty's busy eye runs round the ma


Woe to that nice geometry, if seen! A moment mute in holy horror stood,

But where is he whose broor Then cried: "Joy, joy, my God! I have not The earth shall clean?

shed his blood!”

Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thos He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live, And 'twas a likeness true, And bless, for both preserved, that holy To emblem laws in which the weat a name;

caught, And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive But which the strong break throur The bloody purpose led by which he came. And if a victim in thy toils is ta'e.. Then to the neighbouring church he sped | Like some poor client is that wretched away,

I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain His over-burden'd soul before his God to lay. His life-blood dry.

He ran with breathless speed. he reach'd | And is not thy weak work like human scheme the door,

And care on earth employ'a ? With rapid throbs his feverish pulses swell. Such are young hopes and Love's deligion He came to crave for pardon, to adore

dreams For grace vouchsafed, before the cross he

So easily destroyed! fell,

So does the Statesman, whilst the Areas And raised his swimming eyes, and thought

sleep, that there

Self deem'd secure, his wiles in secret He saw the imaged Christ smile favouring on

Soon shall Destruction sweep his prayer.

His work away.

A blest illusion! from that very night

Thou busy labourer! one resemblance The monk's austerest life devout he led; I Shall yet the verse prolong, And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight. For, Spider, thou art, like the Poet. po Seraphic visions floated round his head;

Whom thou hast help'd in song, The joys of heaven foretasted fill'd his soul. /Both busily our needful food to win, And still the good man's name adorns thé! We work, as Nature taught, with ceases sainted roll.

pains, Thy bowels thou dost spin

I spin my brains.


THE DEATH OF WALLACE SPIDER! thou needst not run in fear about To shun my curious eyes;

Joy, joy in London now! I won't humanely crush thy bowels out He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to den

Lest thou shouldst eat the flies; At length the traitor meets the traiter Nor will I roast thee with a damn'd delight

Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, Joy, joy in London now!
For there is one who might
One day roast me.

He on a sledge is drawn,

His strong right arm unweapon 2 294 Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore perplext, Land garlanded around his helmless hem

chains, The subject of his verse:

The laurel-wreath of scorn.
There's many a one who on a better text

Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my

They throng to view him now

| Who in the field had fled before his * But quictly like me spin out the line; Who at the name of Wallace once " Do thou thy work pursuc:

pale As I will mine.

And faulter'd out a prayer.

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