XII. Retouch, sweet Friend-retouch the Lute!

171

XIII. The Pains of Memory

172

XIV. The Soul that was shrouded

173

XV. What need of Years-long years to prove?

THE PROFESSION,

A SKETCH.

For her the Fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Her life a long dead calm of fixed repose,
No pulse that riots and no blood that glows.

POPE.

I.

ON Santa Croce's golden-pillared shrine,

A thousand tapers pour

their blended rays

In one rich tide of radiance.—Like a pine,
Lifting its lofty head amid the blaze

Of sunlit snows, stands forward to the gaze
Of the assembled throng, the Priest supreme,
In full pontificals. His hand he lays

Upon a gorgeous crucifix, the theme

Of the oracular words from his pale lips that stream.

B

II.

Upon his open brow a dignity

That well beseems his office is enthroned;
And if the brightness of his coal-black eye
Is something tamed by Time, it must be owned,
It hath a chastened lustre far beyond

The fire of youthful glances ;-and if care,
With lines of premature decay hath crowned

His thoughtful forehead, as in fervent prayer

He bends, unfailing faith, hope, peace, are beaming

there!

III.

The chancel-portals, with a crash, unfold,

And a long train of close-veiled nuns pour in,

And gather round the palisades of gold

That gird that glorious shriving-place for sin.
The stately Abbess enters :-then begin

Sweet far-off voices on the ear to steal

With dim, delicious melodies, that win

Their way to the deep heart,-till bursts the swell

From organ, harp, voice, lute, in one magnificent peal!

IV.

The chaunt hath ended ;—and throughout the throng
Heart-hushing silence reigns, and every brow

Is raised in keen expectancy.-Ere long,
Once more the Pontiff at the shrine doth bow
Before the golden crucifix; and now
Calls on the fated victim.-She attends

The awful summons, and with footstep slow
Draws near; the altar's marble stair ascends ;-
And on the velvet pall, with knee submissive, bends.

V.

Then pours the man of God, in eloquent strain,
The pious exhortation ;-he dilates

Upon the wild variety of pain

Which, in each labyrinth of life, awaits

'The world's tired denizen ;'-pourtrays their fates Whom Pleasure 'witches with her syren charms; And promises to her who dedicates

Her youth to God,-from Passion's vain alarms

A shield, and sure repose in mild Religion's arms!