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XLI.

The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!”—dissolved, and left

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,

Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, And in the dawn she started up awake;

- - - XLII. “Ha! has" said she, “I knew not this hard life, I thought the worst was simple misery; I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife Portion'd us—happy days, or else to die; But there is crime—a brother's bloody knife! Sweet Spirit,4hou hast school'd my infancy: I'llyisit thee;for this, and kiss thine eyes, And greet the morn. and even in the skies." ... . . . : :".....Klili. when the full morning came, she had devised How she might secretto the forest hie; How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, ‘And sing; it one latest lullaby; How her short absence might be unsurmised, While she the immost of the dream would try. Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, And went into that dismal forest-hearse.

See, as they creep along the river-side
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
And, after looking round the champaign wide,
Shows her a knife—“What severous hectic flame
Burns in thee, child —What good can thee betide,
That thou shouldst smile again?”—The evening
came, . . .
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed;
The flint was there, the berries at his head.

. . ." XLV. who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard, "...And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, "To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole; Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, And filling it bube more with human soul? Ah! this is flohday to what was felt when Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. . She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though, - One gsance did fully all its secrets tell; Clearly she sdw, as other eyes would know Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, Like to a native lily of the dell: Then with her knife, all sudden, she began To dig more servently than misers can.

w XLVII. Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon Her silk had, play'd in purple phantasies; She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, And put it in her bosom, where it dries And freezes utterly unto the bone Those dainties made to still an infant's cries: Then 'gan she work again, nor stay’d her care, But to throw back at times her veiling hair.

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LIV.

And so she ever fed it with thin tears,

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers

Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew Nature besides, and life, from human fears,

From the fast-mouldering head there shut from

view: So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.

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L St. AGNEs' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was ' The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly sold : Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Imprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III.

Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no—already had his death-bell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung;
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

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