XII.

Know, father abbot, at the gate there stands "A pilgrim faint and weary from the way; "Who now by me solicits at your hands "A slight repast, and further bids me say, "He comes a Stranger, at the close of day, "To seek a shelter from the cheerless night, "Nor here intends he longer to delay "Than till the morning breaks upon his sight, "And gilds the abbey walls with streaks of purpling light."

XIII.

"Return, good brother John," the abbot said, Return, and bring the weary pilgrim in; "I grieve he at the gate so long has staid, "To slight the Stranger's suit were deadly sin; "Nor dare we seek that bliss we hope to win, "Should we deny the hapless wand'rer's pray'r: "No, let him come ere yet the night begin, "And freely this the trav'ler's refuge share, "Welcom❜d to safe repose, and cheer'd with simple fare."

XIV.

The Stranger enter'd at the twilight hour,
By brother John in th' abbot's name address'd;
The curfew-bell now toll'd from the abbey tow'r,
While thus the monk would cheer his pensive
guest:

"Sad pilgrim, enter, and securely rest

"Where the world's vanities can ne'er intrude; "Where calm devotion is alone profess'd, "And ev'ry wayward feeling is subdued, "While still the teeming heart to heav'n pours

gratitude."

XV.

But little said the Stranger in reply,

Nor might you from his face his feelings learn,
Or mark his spirit speaking from his eye;
For on his head a crested helm was borne,
And through his sable cloak you might discern
The arms and martial raiment of a knight;
And in his stately port was grandeur stern,
Which into silence aw'd each meaner wight,
Checking enquiries, vain, impertinent and light.

XVI.

Gath'ring his vest into one ample fold,

He cross'd his arms upon his coat of mail;
And pacing onward where the friar told,

Seem'd as he mov'd, through ev'ning's shadows pale,

Indignant that his fate should so prevail,

As to compel him humbly to implore

From lonely monks, who their repasts curtail, A portion of their vegetable store,

And shelter from the night within their friendly

door.

XVII.

Meantime Augustine in the abbey-porch
Did with the brothers of his order stand;
And each of them had ta'en a lighted torch,
And held it brightly blazing in his hand,
For darkness now had cover'd sea and land;
And night his leaden-sceptre 'gan to sway,
And sleep with fairy dreams at his command
Did o'er the heavy eyes of mortals play,
And thrice three hours must pass ere the return

of day.

XVIII.

It was a solemn spectacle, yet fair

To view, discover'd by the pale torch-light,
The ghostly fathers that assembled were
To rescue from the perils of the night,
And to their holy abbot's cheer invite
The weary Stranger, whom perchance some saint,
Or friendly angel, or propitious sprite,

Had seen, when with long toil and wand'ring faint,

He came in sullen guise to murmur his com

plaint.

XIX.

The fitful glimmer which the torches gave,

With sickly lustre, ever and anon,

Disclos'd the records of the silent grave,
Glancing on many a monumental stone

And sepulchre, where crumbling bone by bone,
The monks of former days, had long been laid;
And when upon the living ones it shone,
Such ghastly, meagre faces it display'd,

As never yet the light of burning torch betray'd.

XX.

And oft too by that melancholy beam,

The abbey's stately structure might be seen; And ever as it rose in the red gleam, 'Twas venerably grand, but yet I ween

"Twas but a shade of what it once had been: For envious time had worn that gothic pile, While round its walls crept moss and ivy green; And wan destruction grinn'd with horrid smile, To mock the builder's art, that would his pow'r beguile.

XXI.

Slow steps are heard within the cypress grove,
Their morbid echoes fill the list'ning ear;
A steel-glov'd hand the wicket latch did move,
The Stranger came, and brother John was near:
But wherefore do the monks amaz'd appear,
And what has struck the abbot with surprise?
Does their strange guest inspire an awe severe,
That at a glance can bid such wonder rise,
And touch with secret dread th' experienc'd

and the wise?