Chapter_28

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Why, dear Cousin,

why

Ask for verses,

when a poet’s

fount of song is

dry?

Or, if aught be

there,

Harsh and chill, it

ill may touch the

hand of lady

fair.

Who can perfumed waters

bring

From a convent

spring?

“Monks in the olden

time,

“They were rhymesters?”⁠—

they were rhymesters,

but in Latin

rhyme.

Monks in the days of

old

Lived in secret,

in the Church’s

kindly-sheltering

fold.

No bland meditators

they

Of a courtly

lay.

“They had visions

bright?”⁠—

they had visions,

yet not sent in

slumbers soft and

light.

No! a lesson

stern

First by vigils,

fast, and penance

theirs it was to

learn.

This their soul-ennobling

gain,

Joys wrought out by

pain.

“When from home they

stirr’d,

“Sweet their voices?”⁠—

still, a blessing

closed their merriest

word;

And their gayest

smile

Told of musings

solitary,

and the hallow’d

aisle.

“Songsters?”⁠—hark! they answer!

round

Plaintive chantings

sound!

Grey his cowlèd

vest,

Whose strong heart has

pledged his service

to the cloister

blest.

Duly garb’d is

he,

As the frost-work

gems the branches

of yon stately

tree.

’Tis a danger-thwarting

spell,

And it fits me

well!