The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain

For death itself I did not fear-'tis love that makes the

pain.

Love feareth death. I was no child-I was betrothed

that day;

I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone, And feel mine own betrothed go by-alas! no more

mine own,

Go leading by, in wedding pomp, some lovely lady brave, With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were white in grave?

How could I bear to sit in Heaven, on e'er so high a

throne,

And hear him say to her to her! that else he loveth

none?

Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he

spake,

As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take

That her's, forsooth, are heavenly eyes-ah, me! while very dim

Some heavenly eyes (indeed of Heaven!) would darken down to him.

Evil Spirit.

Who told thee thou wert called to death?

Onora in sleep.

I sate all night beside thee—

The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee,

And ever he flapped his heavy wing all brokenly and

weak,

And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak.

I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay

forlorn,

Strewn round us like a dead world's shroud, in ghastly fragments torn :

And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flapping wing,

We heard beside the Heavenly Gate the angels murmuring :

We heard them say, 'Put day to day, and count the days to seven,

And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of

Heaven:

And yet the Evil ones have leave that purpose to defer,

'For if she has no need of HIM, He has no need of her.'—

Evil Spirit.

Speak out to me-speak bold and free.

Onora in sleep.

And then I heard thee say,

'I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast

to stay!

'Yet God permits us Evil ones to put by that decree,

Since if thou hast no need of HIM, He has no need of

thee

And if thou wilt forego the sight of angels, verily

'Thy true love gazing on thy face, shall guess what angels be

'Nor bride shall pass, save thee'. . . Alas!—my father's hand's acold—

The meadows seem

Evil Spirit.

Forbear the dream, or let the vow be told!

Onora in sleep.

I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique

beads,

By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the

weeds

This rosary brown, which is thine own,-lost soul of buried nun,

Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone,

I vowed upon thy rosary brown,-and, till such vow should break,

A pledge always of living days, 'twas hung around my

neck

I vowed to thee on rosary, (Dead father, look not so!), I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in

my woe.

Evil Spirit.

And canst thou prove―

Onora in sleep.

O love-my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!

Was this no weal for me to feel?—is greater weal than

this?

Yet when he came, I wept his name-and the angels heard but his.

Evil Spirit.

Well done, well done!

Onora in sleep.

Ay me! the sun. . . the dreamlight 'gins to pine,— Ay me! how dread can look the Dead!-Aroint thee, father mine!

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,

And her breath comes in sobs while she stares through the night.

There is nought. The great willow, her lattice before,
Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor;
But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and free
From the death-clasp close over-the BROWN ROSARY.

THIRD PART.

'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle,

And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,

And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside

At the work shall be doing.

While down through the wood rides that fair company, The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,— Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once

All the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce ' And so endeth a wooing!'

And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way,
With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say:
Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,-
And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath,
When she sigheth or speaketh.

And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware
From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,-
Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before
She seeth her little son stand at the door,-
Is it play that he seeketh?

Is it play? when his eyes wander innocent-wild
And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child!
He trembles not, weeps not—the passion is done,
And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun
On his head like a glory.

'O fair-featured maids, ye are many!' he cried,'But, in fairness and vileness, who matcheth the bride? O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom, For the courage and woe, can ye match with the groom,

As ye see them before ye?'