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THE LAST TKYST AT THE CONFESSIONAL. 



" Hast more to confess thee? or stay est thou only 

 In dread of the storm and the graveyard so lonely ? 

 Less pale is that passionless face o'er the altar 

 Than thou, O Ladje ;— what is that thou dost falter ? 



Count the bsads on thy rosary; lingering stay not; 

 May Heaven defend thee ! thy footsteps delay not 

 By the tenantless ruin i'the lone forest-alley, 

 Ere the snow-drift has covered the track in the valley. 



Take my benison, Lady, thy sins they are shriven, 



Not more are the saints in their white robes forgiven : 



Thy heart stirs the folds of thy dress in its flutter." 



" I have more to confess, which my tongue dare not utter." 



" Can it be that thine eye gleams so fell and so madly 



'Neath lids mutely-drooping so pallid and sadly ; 



Less wild is the wind in the turret, my daughter." 



" There's blood on ray hand, Sire, for that hast thou water? " 



" Blood ! Paler art thou than the flake on the chancel ; 

 As thou hopest that Heaven thy dark sins wll cancel , 

 If hast secret more fell, unto me thou must show it." 

 «' Priest, there is blood on my heart I avow it. 



Thy bosom woiild freeze did I tell thee my story ; 

 The angels a-nigh would fly back to the glory ; 

 I dare not go on with the cold -blood recital. 

 The dead at our feet would start up for requital." 



" Speak, I am calm as the niche-saints around me." 

 " That light, is it fire ? Do the demons surround me ?" 

 " Peace ! 'tis but the moon glancing white on the casement, 

 And the north wind a-howling from buttress to basement." 



