 | Poems, Fables, and Plays |  |
200
THE NUN:
A CANTATA.
RECITATIVE.
Of Constance holy legends tell,The softest sister of the cell;
None sent to heav'n so sweet a cry,
Or roll'd at mass so bright an eye.
No wanton taint her bosom knew,
Her hours in heav'nly vision flew,
Her knees were worn with midnight pray'rs,
And thus she breath'd divinest airs.
201
AIR.
In hallow'd walks, and awful cells,
Secluded from the light and vain,
The chaste-ey'd maid with virtue dwells,
And solitude, and silence reign.
Secluded from the light and vain,
The chaste-ey'd maid with virtue dwells,
And solitude, and silence reign.
The wanton's voice is heard not here,
To heav'n the sacred pile belongs;
Each wall returns the whisper'd pray'r,
And echoes but to holy songs.
To heav'n the sacred pile belongs;
Each wall returns the whisper'd pray'r,
And echoes but to holy songs.
RECITATIVE.
Alas, that pamper'd monks should dareIntrude where sainted vestals are!
Ah, Francis! Francis! well I weet
Those holy looks are all deceit.
With shame the muse prolongs her tale,
The Priest was young, the Nun was frail,
Devotion faulter'd on her tongue,
Love tun'd her voice, and thus she sung.
202
AIR.
Alas, how deluded was I,
To fancy delights as I did!
With maidens at midnight to sigh,
And love, the sweet passion, forbid!
O, father! my follies forgive,
And still to absolve me be nigh;
Your lessons have taught me to live,
Come teach me, O! teach me to die!
To fancy delights as I did!
With maidens at midnight to sigh,
And love, the sweet passion, forbid!
O, father! my follies forgive,
And still to absolve me be nigh;
Your lessons have taught me to live,
Come teach me, O! teach me to die!
To her arms in a rapture he sprung,
Her bosom, half-naked, met his;
Transported in silence she hung,
And melted away at each kiss.
Ah, father! expiring she cry'd,
With rapture I yield up my breath!
Ah, daughter! he fondly reply'd,
The righteous find comfort in death.
Her bosom, half-naked, met his;
Transported in silence she hung,
And melted away at each kiss.
Ah, father! expiring she cry'd,
With rapture I yield up my breath!
Ah, daughter! he fondly reply'd,
The righteous find comfort in death.
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