THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE 379 
Above the works of farmers dead, 
Their fields untilled, their harvests gone, 
Romance resumes its airy tread 
Within the haunts of Oberon. 
THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE 
Tuat silent man, who gazes on the waves, 
Clad in the garb which severs him from life 
And bars all hope of home or child or wife, 
Once knew the bliss that thrills, the grief 
that raves. 
Kings were his friends, and queens his meek- 
voiced slaves. 
Each crowded day with passionate impulse 
rife, 
He tasted hope, fear, anguish, longing, strife ; 
Remorse that hates, yet seeks, condemns, yet 
craves. 
Perhaps some dream, as sinks yon evening sun, 
Leads back the dramas of his stormy prime, — 
Beauty embraced, foes quelled, ambitions 
won, — 
A tangled web of courage and of crime. 
Those years, long wholly vanished, throb for 
him 
Like pangs which haunt the amputated limb. 
