University of Virginia Library

III.

And, as these moonlight-towers we trace,
A living look, a saintly grace
Beams o'er them, when we seem to hear
The midnight-hymn breathe soft and clear,
As from this choir of old it rose.
Each hallowed thought they seem to own,
Expressed by music's heavenly tone;

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And patient, sad, and pale and still,
As if resign'd to wait Time's will.
Such choral swell and dying close
Stole on the Abbot's hour of rest,
Like solemn air from spirit blest,
And shaped his vision of repose.
The pious instinct of his soul,
Not even slumber might control:
Soon as he caught the distant lay,
His gathering thoughts half woke to pray;
Celestial smile came o'er his brow,
Though sealed in sleep the lid below;
And, when in silence died the strain,
The lingering prayer
His lips forbear,
And deep his slumbers fall again.