And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,

And gazed so gaspingly on me-
The demon in my bosom died!
"Not thine," I said, "another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt !"

VI.

St. Mona's morning mass was done,

The shrine-lamps struggled with the day;

And rising slowly, one by one,

Stole the last worshippers away. The organist play'd out the hymn, The incense, to St. Mary swung, Had mounted to the cherubim,

Or to the pillars thinly clung;

And boyish chorister replaced

The missal that was read no more,
And closed, with half irreverent haste,
Confessional and chancel door ;

And as, through aisle and oriel pane,
The sun wore round his slanting beam,

The dying martyr stirr'd again,

And warriors battled in its gleam; And costly tomb and sculptured knight Show'd warm and wondrous in the light.

I have not said that Melanie

Was radiantly fair

This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!

She glided up St. Mona's aisle

That morning as a bride,

And, full as was my heart the while,
I bless'd her in my pride!
The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,

And a sister for her loveliness,

May not be loved the more;
But as, the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe
Its brightness over mine!

St. Mona has a chapel dim

Within the altar's fretted pale, Where faintly comes the swelling hymn, And dies, half lost, the anthem's wail. And here, in twilight meet for prayer, A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine, And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair,

Looks down with sweetness half divine, And here St. Mona's nuns alway Through latticed bars are seen to pray.

Avé and sacrament were o'er,

And Angelo and Melanie

Still knelt the holy shrine before;

But prayer that morn was not for me!

My heart was lock'd! The lip might stir,

The frame might agonize and yet,

Oh God! I could not pray for her!

A seal upon my brow was set

My brow was hot-my brain oppress'd

And fiends seem'd muttering round, "Your bridal is unblest!"

With forehead to the lattice laid,

And thin, white fingers straining through,

A nun the while had softly pray'd.

Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew!
Each faltering word-each mournful tone-
Each pleading cadence, half suppress'd-
Such music had its like alone

On lips that stole it at her breast!

And ere the orison was done

I loved the mother as the son !

And now, the marriage vows to hear,
The nun unveil'd her brow-

When, sudden, to my startled ear,
There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear,

"De Brevern! is it thou !"

The priest let fall the golden ring,

The bridegroom stood aghast,

While, like some weird and frantic thing,

The nun was muttering fast;

And as, in dread, I nearer drew,

She thrust her arms the lattice through,

And held me to her straining view—
But suddenly begun

To steal upon her brain a light

That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,

She shriek'd, "It is his son!

The bridegroom is thy blood-thy brother! Rodolph de Brevern wrong'd his mother!" And, as that doom of love was heard, My sister sunk-and died-without a sign or word!

I shed no tear for her. She died

With her last sunshine in her eyes.
Earth held for her no joy beside

The hope just shatter'd—and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell ;
And near her, in a newer bed,
Her lover-brother-sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!

LORD IVON AND HIS DAUGHTER.

"Dost thou despise

A love like this? A lady should not scorn
One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be." }

LORD IVON.

How beautiful it is! Come here, my daughter!
Is't not a face of most bewildering brightness?

ISIDORE.

The features are all fair, sir, but so cold-
I could not love such beauty!

LORD IVON.

Yet, e'en so

Look'd thy lost mother, Isidore! Her brow
Lofty like this-her lips thus delicate,

Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads--
Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve

Thus matchless, from the small and "pearl round ear"

To the o'er-polish'd shoulder. Never swan
Dream'd on the water with a grace so calm!

ISIDORE.

And was she proud, sir?