PART FIRST.

It will not still the aching there,
Nor dry the ever-starting tear,

That falls upon the funeral bier

Of all thine earthly joys,

That on that day, one solemn rite destroys!
Where are the glossy tresses now,

That waved upon her youthful brow,

The dreams of hope, that round her shone?

All faded, wither'd, crush'd, and gone!

The Monks prepare to leave the pile,
The Abbess with a mournful smile,
Bestows her mute farewell;

They chaunt a melancholy strain :—
And who the heart's o'erwhelming pain,

Of Agnes Vere may tell!

The doors are closed, the Friars gone,

And she is kneeling all alone,

Within her cloister dim,

Fainter and fainter, down the dell,
Comes on the ear the wild farewell,
Of the Monks' parting hymn.
And fast the clouds of evening lower,
On waving wood, and convent tower.

9

PART SECOND.

"Soft, as the memory of buried love,

Pure, as the prayer that childhood wafts above,
Was she-the daughter of that rude old Chief."
BYRON'S BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

MORNING, through a misty veil,

Beam'd on the landscape cold and pale;

Light clouds are heralding her way,

And she attired in mantle grey;

With pearly dew begemm'd each flower:

Until the day's awakening power

Shone full on sleeping lids. Oh stay!

And pale thy bright reviving ray,

Thou cheering source of life and light,
Chasing away the weary night.

The wretched shrink before thy beam,
And turn them rather to the dream
That flits in twilight hues, before
The vision'd sense, bringing once more,
Scenes, tones, and voices long pass'd by,
Of former joy the mockery!

PART SECOND.

And Agnes wakes; before her shone,
The statue tall, the cross of stone,
The pendant rosary there she sees;
But not to these,-Oh! not to these!
Her supplicating eyes are beaming,
But, where the light is faintly streaming,
Through the Gothic window high,
She is kneeling tearfully;

With a high and pure emotion,
Raising her young heart's devotion,

To the over-ruling Power,

Watching o'er her in that hour;
To the High and Holy One,

Low she bends before His throne.

All her fears, and all her woes,

All the cares her bosom knows,
On the aid Divine, she throws.
"Mary Mother," not thy name
Ever, from her pale lips came ;—
One sole Comforter she knows,
And to one Mediator bows.
And the humbly whisper'd prayer,
From that form so meek and fair,
Is heard, where blessed Angels are.

11

But who was she, the kneeling Nun,
The gentle, fair, and weeping one;
With deep blue eye and polish'd brow,
Why did she take the life-long vow?
That faultless form, and youthful gladness,
To bury in a convent's sadness ?

Her mind's rich promise may not bloom,

But deep within that living tomb

Must pine and die;

And wherefore such a lot was hers,

I trace, in the faint characters,

Of that sad history.

Sir Ralph de Vere, in Vere's old court,

Had rear'd one simple flower,

Through "merrie England," had you sought

A fairer never had been brought,

From castle, hall, or bower.

With feelings keen, and taste refined,

Tender of heart, of lofty mind,

Was Agnes Vere,

With eyes, that with their sparkling ray,
Would chase the frowns of care away;

The ready tear

PART SECOND.

Of sympathy for other's woe,

Adown her youthful cheek would flow
While meek devotion's glow of feeling,
Rose with the sacred anthem pealing,
Beyond the empty mummeries round her,
Where bigotry's dark chain had bound her.
Bereft a mother's tender care

In early youth, whose precepts were

Deep in her memory stored :—

For she, among the scatter'd few,

From Truth Divine, her maxims drew.

The one unerring word

Of Christian faith, pure as at first,

In Switzerland's lone vallies nurs't;
Where true Religion's shrine,

Was undebased by worldly strife;
Where flourished fair the Word of Life,
In Truth's own light sublime!

Secluded there, for ages dwelt,

And round their simple altars knelt,
Alone, apart, a faithful band,

Who persecution's rage withstand.

Like to the star, that high and clear,

Gives notice that the day is near,

13