66 LAYS OF HEPTONSTAL. 



As the night dews Avere falling — now cawed the raven, 

 And my heart in its passionate frenzy was craven. 



father, I ween that where mortal aye turueth, 

 No hotter or deadlier hell ever burneth 



Than that, where the bosom is racked with remorse's 

 Fell fire, that through blood-vein so scorchingly courses. 



'Tia useless, O Priest, there is never forgiving 



For sin such as mine is. — Ah ! vain is thy shriving; 



Hark ! the dead in the vault at our feet they are moaning !" 



" Peace ! 'tis but the snow -burdened yew-branches groaning. 



" Look behind ! Who are they with the haggard pale faces, 



Noiselessly stepping with spell- woven paces ? 



Do the dead keep ■\vatch in their cerements nightly ?" 



" Peace ! 'tis but the moonbeam on pillar flashed whitely." 



" Nothing more ! nothing more ! for my lips they will falter, 



1 know I shall die as I kneel by the altar : 



Is it blessing I hear ? or thy tongue does it cm-se me ?" 

 " Heed not blessing or curses — thy story rehearse me." 



„ O Priest, I do vow, as I kneel by the altar. 

 My lips nothing more of that story shall falter. 

 For a hell that is fiercest and deadliest racketh, 

 And in blood and in brain so remorselessly tracketh." 



" Take courage ! the storm-wind it bloweth but faintly, 

 And the moon re-appeareth with coimtenance saintly, 

 And the silence that filleth the aisle solemnizes 

 More than presence of angels ; — away with surprises. 



Look up, Ladye, on my countenance readest 

 Thou ought but forgiveness for sin which thou pleadest ? 

 Face to face let us stand ; thy sins the}- are shriven, 

 Of the darkest of crimes I pronoimce thee forgiven." 



" I cannot, Priest, for thy gaze makes me tremble. 

 Thy features the features of hivi so resemble ; 

 I cannot say more, lest should rise at my story 

 The dead from his sepulchre clammy and gory." 



