How name ye yon lone Caloyer?
«His features I have scanned before
In mine owu land: 'tis many a year,
Since, dashing by the lonely shore,
I saw him urge as fleet a steed

«

<< As ever served a horseman's need.
« But once I saw that face, yet then
<< It was so marked with inward pain,
<< I could not pass it by again;

It breathes the same dark spirit now,
« As death were stamped upon his brow.
<< 'Tis twice three years at summer tide
<< Since first among our freres he came;
« And here it soothes him to abide

For some dark deed he will not name. « But never at our vesper prayer, «Nor e'er before confession chair

«

Kneels he, nor reeks he when arise << Incense or anthem to the skies, << But broods within his cell alone; « His faith and race alike unknown.

The sea from Paynim land he crost, "And here ascended from the coast, << Yet seems he not of Othman race, << But only Christian in his face :

I'd judge him some stray renegade, Repentant of the change he made, << Save that he shuns our holy shrine, <<Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. << Great largess to these walls he brought, << And thus our abbot's favour bought; << But were I Prior, not a day

« Should brook such stranger's further stay, << Or pent within our penance cell

«Should doom him there for aye to dwell << Much in his visions mutters he

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Of maiden 'whelmed beneath the sea;

Of sabres clashing, foemen flying;

Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying.

« On cliff he hath been known to stand, « And rave as to some bloody hand Fresh severed from its parent limb, Invisible to all but him,

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Which beckons onward to his grave, «And lures to leap into the wave. »

Dark and unearthly is the scowl
That glares beneath his dusky cowl :
The flash of that dilating eye
Reveals too much of times gone by;
Though varying, indistinct its hue,
Oft will his glance the gazer rue,
For in it lurks that nameless spell
Which speaks, itself unspeakable,
A spirit yet unquelled and high,
That claims and keeps ascendancy;
And like the bird whose pinions quake,
But cannot fly the gazing snake,
Will others quail beneath his look,

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook.
From him the half-affrighted Friar
When met alone would fain retire,
As if that eye and bitter smile
Transferred to others fear and guile :
Not oft to smile descendeth he,
And when he doth 'tis sad to see
That he but mocks at misery.

How that pale lip will curl and quiver!
Then fix once more as if for ever;
As if his sorrow or disdain

Forbade him e'er to smile again.
Well were it so-such ghastly mirth
From joyance ne'er derived its birth.
But sadder still it were to trace
What once were feelings in that face :
Time hath not yet the features fixed,
But brighter traits with evil mixed;

And there are hues not always fated,
Which speak a mind not all degraded
Even by the crimes through which it waded :
The common crowd but see the gloom;
The close observer can espy

A noble soul, and lineage high:

Alas! though both bestowed in vain,

Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain,

It was no vulgar tenement

To which such lofty gifts were lent,
And still with little less than dread
On such the sight is rivetted.
The roofless cot, decayed and rent,
Will scarce delay the passer by:
The tower by war or tempest bent,
While yet may frown one battlement;
Demands and dauuts the stranger's eye;
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone,
Pleads haughtily for glories gone!
<< His floating robe around him folding,
«Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle ;
« With dread beheld, with gloom beholding
«The rites that sanctify the pile,

<< But when the anthem shakes the choir,
<< And kneel the monks, his steps retire,
By yonder lone and wavering torch

<< His aspect glares within the porch;
<< There will he pause till all is done-
<< And hear the prayer, but utter none.
See-by the half-illumined wall

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» That pale brow wildly wreathing round,
«As if the Gorgon there had bound
« The sablest of the serpent-braid
<<That o'er her fearful forehead strayed:
« For he declines the convent oath,

«

And leaves those locks unhallowed growth,

<< But wears our garb in all beside;

« And, not from piety but pride

« Gives wealth to walls that never heard

« Of his one holy vow nor word. Lo!-mark he, as the harmony «Peals louder praises to the sky,

That livid cheek, that stony air «Of mixed defiance and despair!

«Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! «Else may we dread that wrath divine

«Made manifest by awful sign.

If ever evil angel bore

«The form of mortal, such he wore:

By all my hope of sins forgiven,

«Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!

To love the softest hearts are prone, But such can ne'er be all his own; Too timid in his woes to share, Too meek to meet, or brave despair; And sterner hearts alone may feel The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But plunged within the furnace-flame, It bents and melts-though still the same; Then tempered to thy want, or will, Twill serve thee to defend or kill; A breast-plate for thine hour of need, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; But if a dagger's form it bear, Let those who shape its edge, beware! Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Can turn and tame the sterner heart; From these its form and tone are ta'en, And what they make it, must remain, But break-before it bend again.

If solitude succeed to grief;
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.

>>

We loathe what none are left to share :
Even bliss-'twere woe alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,
And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumer of their clay!
It is as if the desart-bird,

Whose beak uulocks her bosom's stream
To still her famished nestlings' scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferred,
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desart of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed.
Who would be doomed to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun?

Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of minds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;-
Better to sink beneath the shock,
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

«Father! thy days have passed in peace, 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; «To bid the sins of others cease,

«

Thyself without a crime or care,

« Save transient ills that all must bear,
<< Has been thy lot from youth to age;
« And thou wilt bless thee from the rage
Of passions fierce and uncontrolled,