Not even masses daily said,

Nor all our prayers for heavenly aid,
Will save thee from eternal fires :-
Then haste thee to confession, fall
Low on thy knees,-unburthen all,
Thy secret woe, thy hope, thy fear,
In father Anselm's patient ear-
Then should thy soul be call'd away,
From its frail tenement of clay,

We shall have hope-yes, e'en for thee:—
Abjure that sinful heresy,

That would the sacred book explore,

Read, judge, and search its mysteries o'er,
Which Holy Church forbids." The Nun,
Was standing where the sun-beams shone,
On a stone cross, that rear'd on high,
Prefigured that dread agony
The world's Divine Redeemer knew;
Around that cross her arm she threw,
With bended knee, in humble prayer,
All her dependence offered there!

66

'Oh, urge me not," the mourner said,

And to the Abbess turn'd her head,

PART SEVENTH.

And stemm'd the bitter tear that rose ;
"One only hope this bosom knows!
One faith, one trust, one Advocate ;-
All earthly solace comes too late,
Soon will this fluttering pulse be still,
And this pale cheek be paler grown ;

And holy ire may work its will

Upon the senseless stone

That soon will hide the every tear-
The earthly woe of Agnes Vere!

Yes! I have mark'd the page of truth,

And read it in my joyous youth;

From it derived my hopes above,

Reliance on that Saviour's love,

Who bade us search therein, and know,

Eternal life its precepts show.

Who bade the weary rest in Him,

And the o'er-burden'd soul its care:

And like the voice of Cherubim,

To me those holy precepts were !

They guard my heart from shrinking fear,
Though early death is hastening near:

And, Lady, bid me not confess

All my poor heart's sad guiltiness,

45

To one of mortal mould;-alone,

I humbly bring it to that throne,

Where love Divine, that once for me
Did put on frail mortality,

Will ever pitying mercy show,
To His frail erring creatures' woe;
In Him alone my hope,-while deep,
Within my grave, let memories sleep,
That tell how soon my sunny day,

Faded among dark clouds away!"

PART EIGHTH.

"Peace to the lovely spirit flown;

It was not form'd for earth!"

MRS. HEMANS.

BRIGHT Summer's flowers are faded all,

And the dark leaves of Autumn fall,

And driven by the chilly breeze,

They rustle from the old oak trees,

That round proud Thornton's green domain Their many-colour'd hues display;

And threatening Winter once again,

Stole beauty from the shortening day.

Adjacent to that monastry;

The white walls of a church arose, And down the long aisles you might see, Where forms of other days repose, O'er arched columns rising high,

The Gothic windows tracery,—

The crosses carved on every tomb

The sun-light shaded into gloom,

And the high altar's place of state.

The dusky eve was waxing late,
And dimly lighted was the choir,
As the cold beams of day retire.
A newly open'd grave was there;
And by their lamps' uncertain glare,
Two Monks, in converse deep and low,
Were murmuring of unwilling vow,
Of disobedient heresy,

And all the sins that darkest be,

Of one whose mortal part might lay,

Deep, deep in consecrated clay,

But for whose soul must many a prayer,

And intercession rise in air,

Before its flight could heaven-ward be,

From all earth's low defilements free.

"They say that sister Agnes pined, And her sad thoughts to death resign'd, E'er since the day a stranger came,

Clad as a palmer grey.—

Suspicion whispers that his name,

Was one she loved for many a day!"

"Cease, brother, cease this slander pray,