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Yes, murmur'd sounds have reach'd us here,

Of proud rebellion's gathering sound,
You say we have no cause of fear,

In Thornton's home of peace profound;
But soon may discord's clarion rude,
Bring dire confusion, death, or feud,
On this, our sacred solitude.

And thou, Sir Knight, hast set thine all,

Upon this fearfull strife,

And if thou shouldst in battle fall,

Then may eternal life

Be thine; our masses daily said,

Will safety on thy journey shed,

And when thy term on earth expires,
Thy trembling soul shall speed
From purgatory's awful fires,

By our petitions freed.

But to this convent, Ralph de Vere,
Must lands of thine be given,
Before our prayers and masses here
Can win thy soul its heaven;
And if thou shouldst in safety come
From the red battle field,

And victory grace thy welcome home,

And the Red Rose should yield,

What gift hast thou for heaven prepared?
There is one flower thy home has shared-
The gentle maid sweet Agnes Vere;—
Before the world a blight has shed,

Upon her unpolluted head,

(Nay, brush away that tear,)

A sacrifice full meet were she,

A heaven-devoted one to be.

So, shouldst thou fall, thy lasting rest,

In heaven will surely be ;

And shouldst thou come with victory blest,

What could we fairer see,

Than thy sweet flower transplanted where,
She will be heaven's peculiar care,
Breathing on earth celestial air!"

Fearful the strife of feelings keen,

Within the warrior's bosom, seen
By One, whose eye could also see,
The sanctimonious mockery,

That claim'd a bribe for every prayer,
In which no parted soul may share.
Why does he draw his beaver low,

And o'er his steed's proud trappings bow?

And stem the tide of holiest feeling,
To all a parent's love appealing.

But, nature claim'd her hour, and tears
Were gushing from the soldier's eye,
As the deep love of by-gone years
In sad review went by.

"Abbot, thou hast required a gift, Far, dearer far, than ought beside; My gentle flower! of thee bereft,

Where can my widow'd heart confide The weary care-the passions' strife, The thousand ills that wait on life? But be it so," He raised his eyes, With tears still humid, to the skies :"If heaven demands my only treasure, My last and best, Oh! what can e'er Awake again the throb of pleasure,

Or my bereaved spirit cheer? The fairy step, the beaming eye,

Her sainted mother's chastened smile, That 'minds me of the days gone by ;

Who will my lonely hours beguile ?

PART FOURTH.

Nay, father, frown not on my grief,

And my vain tears, they shall be brief,-
The last these eyes may ever shed,

For ere down in his ocean bed,

To-morrow's sun may fall;

Old Ralph de Vere may lowly lie,
Clad in his armour's panoply,

And requiem notes be swelling high,

Above my funeral pall!

Or should proud victory grace my brow,
Like Israel's chief, my heart will glow
With mingled joy and woe:

Like his, my sacrifice must rise

Of costly incense, to the skies

But, heaven demands, and be it so!"

27

PART FIFTH.

"And if the world hath loved thee not,

Its absence may be borne."

CAMPBELL.

"In vain

He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop shell."

BYRON.

TWELVE weary moons had roll'd away
O'er Agnes, since the fatal day,
When her reluctant vows were paid,
A Nun in Gokeshill's convent made.
But her lone heart was still repining,
O'er all she fain would be resigning,-
Fain would all earth's affections leave,
And cease o'er blighted hope to grieve;
And turn away from pictures fair,

That memory brought of things that were :-
But failing breath, and pallid cheek,
And languid frame, all plainly speak,
Release was near from earthly woe,
From convent, penance, and from vow.