Away, you drunkards! to your cells,
And pray till you hear the matin-bells;

You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul!
And as a penance mark each prayer

With the scourge upon your shoulders bare;
Nothing atones for such a sin

But the blood that follows the discipline.
And you, Brother Cuthbert, come with me
Alone into the sacristy;

You, who should be a guide to your brothers,
And are ten times worse than all the others,

For

you I've a draught that has long been brewing, You shall do a penance worth the doing!

Away to your prayers, then, one and all!
I wonder the very convent wall

Does not crumble and crush you in its fall!

THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY.

The ABBESS IRMINGARD sitting with ELSIE in the moonlight.

IRMINGARD.

THE night is silent, the wind is still,

The moon is looking from yonder hill

Down upon convent, and grove,

and garden;

The clouds have passed away from her face,
Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace,
Only the tender and quiet grace

Of one, whose heart has been healed with pardon!

And such am I. My soul within

Was dark with passion and soiled with sin.
But now its wounds are healed again;
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain;
For across that desolate land of woe,

O'er whose burning sands I was forced to go,

A wind from heaven began to blow;

And all my being trembled and shook,

As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field, And I was healed, as the sick are healed,

When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book!

As thou sittest in the moonlight there,
Its glory flooding thy golden hair,
And the only darkness that which lies
In the haunted chambers of thine eyes,
I feel my soul drawn unto thee,

Strangely, and strongly, and more and more,
As to one I have known and loved before;
For every soul is akin to me

That dwells in the land of mystery!

I am the Lady Irmingard,

Born of a noble race and name!
Many a wandering Suabian bard,

Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard,
Has found through me the way to fame.

Brief and bright were those days, and the night
Which followed was full of a lurid light.

Love, that of every woman's heart
Will have the whole, and not a part,
That is to her, in Nature's plan,
More than ambition is to man,
Her light, her life, her very breath,
With no alternative but death,
Found me a maiden soft and young,
Just from the convent's cloistered school,
And seated on my lowly stool,

Attentive while the minstrels sung.

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall,
Fairest, noblest, best of all,
Was Walter of the Vogelweid;
And, whatsoever may betide,

Still I think of him with pride!
His song was of the summer-time,
birds sang in his rhyme;
The sunshine, the delicious air,

The very

The fragrance of the flowers, were there;
And I grew restless as I heard,

Restless and buoyant as a bird,

Down soft, aerial currents sailing,

O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom,
And through the momentary gloom
Of shadows o'er landscape trailing,
Yielding and borne I knew not where,
But feeling resistance unavailing.

And thus, unnoticed and apart,
And more by accident than choice,
I listened to that single voice
Until the chambers of my heart
Were filled with it by night and day.
One night,
- it was a night in May,
Within the garden, unawares,
Under the blossoms in the gloom,
I heard it utter my own name
With protestations and wild prayers;
And it rang through me, and became
Like the archangel's trump of doom,
Which the soul hears, and must obey;
And mine arose as from a tomb.
My former life now seemed to me
Such as hereafter death may be,
When in the great Eternity
We shall awake and find it day.

It was a dream, and would not stay;
A dream, that in a single night
Faded and vanished out of sight.
My father's anger followed fast
This passion, as a freshening blast

rage

Seeks out and fans the fire, whose
It may increase, but not assuage.
And he exclaimed: "No wandering bard
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard!
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck
By messenger and letter sues."

Gently, but firmly, I replied:
"Henry of Hoheneck I discard!
Never the hand of Irmingard

Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride!"
This said I, Walter, for thy sake;

This said I, for I could not choose.
After a pause, my father spake
In that cold and deliberate tone
Which turns the hearer into stone,
And seems itself the act to be
That follows with such dread certainty;
"This, or the cloister and the veil!"
No other words than these he said,
But they were like a funeral wail;
My life was ended, my heart was dead.

That night from the castle-gate went down,
With silent, slow, and stealthy pace,
Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds,
Taking the narrow path that leads
Into the forest dense and brown.
In the leafy darkness of the place,
One could not distinguish form nor face,
Only a bulk without a shape,

A darker shadow in the shade;

One scarce could say it moved or stayed.
Thus it was we made our escape!
A foaming brook, with many a bound,
Followed us like a playful hound;
Then leaped before us, and in the hollow
Paused, and waited for us to follow,

And seemed impatient, and afraid
That our tardy flight should be betrayed
By the sound our horses' hoof-beats made.
And when we reached the plain below,
We paused a moment and drew rein
To look back at the castle again;
And we saw the windows all aglow
With lights, that were passing to and fro;
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat;
The brook crept silent to our feet;

We knew what most we feared to know.
Then suddenly horns began to blow;
And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp,
And our horses snorted in the damp
Night-air of the meadows green and wide,
And in a moment, side by side,

So close, they must have seemed but one,
The shadows across the moonlight run,
And another came, and swept behind,
Like the shadow of clouds before the wind!

How I remember that breathless flight
Across the moors, in the summer night!
How under our feet the long, white road
Backward like a river flowed,
Sweeping with it fences and hedges,
Whilst farther away, and overhead,
Paler than I, with fear and dread,
The moon fled with us, as we fled
Along the forest's jagged edges!

All this I can remember well;
But of what afterwards befell
I nothing farther can recall

Than a blind, desperate, headlong fall
The rest is a blank and darkness all.
When I awoke out of this swoon,
The sun was shining, not the moon,