The Nun

The Nun, A Poetical Romance, and Two Others.

by Julia Pardoe

1824

The base text for this edition was prepared from a microfiche of an original copy in the "Edition Corvey," under a special agreement with Belser Wissenschaftlicher Dienst, Wildberg, Germany, and Boyle, Co. Roscommon, Ireland. This text has been used for the present edition with the kind permission of Belser Wissenschaftlicher Dienst.

Transcription and annotation by Sheryl Allen. 2002.

NOTE: This electronic edition contains only the title poem, “The Nun,” which occupies pages 1-71. The other poems are “Bertram” (pp.73-138) and “The Bride of Eclingow” (pp. 139-228). These are not transcribed here.

The Nun,

Poetical Romance,

and

Two Others.

[by Julia Pardoe]

London:

Published for the Author, by

Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green,

Paternoster-Row.

1824.

W. Pardoe, Esq.

this volume

Affectionately inscribed.

[5]

THE NUN.

[6]

[7]

THE NUN.

The organ peal'd with thrilling sound—

The cloister'd sisters knelt around—

The priests, in robes of gorgeous dye

Chaunted their Hallelujahs high—

The tapers blaz'd from many a shrine,
With tempered glow and mellow'd shine,

So calm, so pure, so all divine,
That as their light was shed,

And cast its beauteous rays around
Upon the consecrated ground,

[8]

So bright, so heavenly, that their glare

Was temper'd soft, as to declare
That piety had plac'd them there.

By it the eye was led

To mark, before each sainted shrine,
The gifts religion's hand had oft

(Blessed by the church) with pray'rs breath'd soft
And fervent, pendant hung aloft

Within the spot divine,
Where blaz'd the patron saint, whose eye

Was gazing on the upper sky,
As if to lead the truant thought
Where happiness may best be sought;
And to receive (in glittering vest)

The pious gifts by usage blest!1

All, all was light, and fair, and gay,

Save her—the cause of this array:

[9]

She, who now mutely rais'd her eye,

As if unconscious as she stood
That to her ashy cheek, the blood

An instant rose in deepening flood,
Then sank to paler dye.

As if to such a tint, that face,
So lovely in unearthly grace,

Could scarce one moment yield the place
Of the pale hue, which seem'd to fling

The whiteness of its ashy wing
O'er deep internal suffering;

So softly and so calmly too,
That pallid cheek appear'd its due.

Her arms were folded on her breast—
Yet, struggled faintly 'neath her vest,

No sigh, no murmur ill-represt;
Nor could the eye mark there,

Then in that form which seem'd to stand

[10]

Bowing beneath the chilling hand

Of fate—aught that upon that face
With feverish phrensy e'er could trace

One maddening rush to mar the grace
Of one so pure and fair.

And if upon that cheek of woe,
A full unbidden tear would flow,

It was so calmly and so slow,

That all that in its course you read,

As gently down that cheek it sped,
Was the dark firmness of despair!

Unconsciousness that it was she
Was cause of all this pageantry!—

That eye, which in her happier days
Admiring voices lov'd to praise,

Now beam'd with such a ghastly stare,
That as your gaze might mark the glare,

You'd marvel that expression fair

[11]

Had ever grac'd its shine,

Bright was it still, as on the day
When not a tear obscured its ray;

Yet did its light so wildly play,
'Twas not the ray benign,

That blest, ere yet one thrilling word
Was by the listening senses heard:

The glance, which in her days of bliss,
Pourtray'd her soul of gentleness.

Still motionless she stood—when lo!

The Organ peal'd more soft and slow;
The vestal sisters bent them low,

When Adelina bow'd her knee
And took the fatal vow; 2

No more the world's vain pomp to see,

Nor mark its pleasures flow.

The vow was ta'en—the deed was done,

[12]

And Azo's daughter rose a nun!

II.

Oh! lov'lier than the rosebud's dye

Were once those ashy cheeks;—
Oh! Bright as heaven was once that eye,

Where now pale misery speaks;—
Once o'er that brow luxuriant flow'd

The golden cluster'd hair;

Her polish'd brow, which plainly show'd

The peace of heav'n was there.

But shorn, when first the veil had shed
Its shade upon that brow, now dead

To the light smoothness of young bliss,
Which once lit up its loveliness:

No more those locks around it play'd,
'Twas hidden new beneath the shade

Of falling crape, that darkly hung
Where once their golden charms were flung.3

[13]

E'en as upon a snowy plain
The sunbeams glance, and shed their stain,

And cast their shadow, gaily bright'ning
The surface that their gleams are light'ning—

When, gliding o'er the sunny rays,
A dark obscuring vapour strays,

And chasing thence the gay reflection,
Sheds there a tinge of dark dejection.

And veil'd is now the snowy arm,
Which o'er the harp but softly moving,

Betray'd so exquisite a charm,
That man had been too blest in loving!—

All, all is lost beneath the shade,

Save the full eye which faintly beaming,

'Mid anguish still its light display'd,
Like wat'ry sunbeams wildly gleaming.

[14]

III.

Young Norman saw the maid—more beauteously

No form of nymph4 or naiad5 met the eye—
No poet, ever in his heaven-born dream

Invoked a brighter vision as his theme—
No sculptor with his chisel ever traced

A form with more angelic beauties graced—
Or painter mingled in a work of art,

A glance so full of soul, of mind, of heart:

A smile, whose witchery ruled with sway like hers

The breasts of men, till they turn'd worshippers
Of her bright eyes, and lov'd her. It was bliss

Even to gaze upon such loveliness.
Full was her eye, and in its melting beam

Dwelt charms scarce earthly; yet its gentle gleam
Was temper'd to so soft, so mild a glow,

That it was beauty's purest, tenderest flow:
Tho' large and full, its long and silken shade,

In melting softness every glance array'd;

[15]

And innate modesty, by nature taught,

Mellow'd each varying shade which teem'd with thought.
Her golden locks, with bright and shining flow,

Twin'd round her well turn'd throat of stainless snow;
And then, with self and undulating swell,

Beneath her slender waist unheeded fell.
Her cheek had mock'd the rose's purest dye,

Tho' blushing beauteous 'neath a sun-lit sky;
Her lips, the coral's rosiest, brightest red,

When torn reluctant from its ocean bed.
Simple her garb; for fashion's hand had ne'er

Help'd to adorn a form so peerless fair;
White was her robe, girt round a waist so small,

Her girdle6 seem'd a bracelet—wherewithal
To deck the arm of beauty, or to bind

Some flowing tress that wanton'd in the wind:
'Twas nature's work, where all was harmony,

And art could paint no truer symmetry.

[16]

What marvel, then that Norman lov'd the maid

In beauty and in innocence array'd;
Norman, whose soul susceptible and free,

Seem'd born for love, and bliss, and harmony:
Whose eye, while yet the thrilling accents hung

Ling'ringly sweet upon his soul-chain'd tongue,

Had told the tale which maidens love to hear

More swiftly than it fell upon the ear.—
What marvel that the maid would pause awhile

To hear his whisper'd vows—and with a smile
Listen to oft-told tales of bliss, and pay

His fond endeavours by protracted stay!
Or was it strange, they never thought it such,

Or guess'd it—for they cherish'd overmuch
The blissful hours, when sweetly they would sit

In converse soft, and fond, and exquisite;
Regardless of a world which might condemn

A love so pure and fervent.—Such an one

[17]

As thrill'd in either bosom, for to them

Life's charm appear'd but now to have begun—
Then wherefore chase the bliss? The youth's bright eye,

The Maiden's smile could never answer, why!

IV.

Azo commenced his orison7 —
For evening's shades came quickly on—

The prayer was said, the father smil'd,
And rais'd his eye to greet his child:

But Adelina was not there—
The harp was mute, nor on the air

Floated the virgin's evening hymn—
'Twas strange! Again he rais'd his eye

Which now by fond anxiety
And fearful dread, was dim.

She was not wont to tarry so—

He rose with feeble step, and slow,

Bending his trembling, painful way,

[18]

Where Adeline was wont to stray;

Nor journey'd far, but saw his child
His own, his lov'd one; and she smil'd

Sweetly, as Norman fondly prest
Her, blushing to his manly breast.

One instant Azo paus'd, his eye
Was rivetted in agony:

'Twas such a look as demon's prize
Mingling a thousand miseries!—

He stood half bent, for age and woe
Had warp'd his stature; sorrow's flow

Had track'd its course with blighting tread;
And every winter as it fled,

Had left its hoar-frosts on his head.
He stood one moment, but his ear

Caught that lov'd voice so sweet, and clear,
'Till now 'twas extacy to hear:—

He listen'd—with a look more bright,

[19]

Than ever met a mortal's sight,

E'en in the fondest hour of bliss,
When all is light and loveliness:

She spoke—His Adelina, her,
Whose innocent and guileless heart

Had never, never learnt to err
'Till now,—and with an inward start

Conviction taught him that 'twas he
Had steeped those words in misery:—

"Yes, Norman, I am yours for ever,
Yours in the face of earth and heaven,

And wed another will I never;
If false may I be ne'er forgiven—

Yes, if e'er false love,"
"Cease—no more"

'Twas Azo's voice—'twas Azo's eye
That seem'd with anguish streaming o'er,

Less in rebuke than agony—

[20]

Instant the maid from earth upsprung,

Her arms around her sire she flung,
And fondly on his bosom hung:

"Nay, frown not thus; that brow did ne'er
T'wards me so harsh a meaning bear;

I've sworn, my sire, whate'er betide
I've sworn to be my Norman's bride—

Oh! He has painted scenes of bliss,
And vow'd to cherish thee,

And had I known that joy like this
Was e'er design'd for me,

Tho' I had never lov'd thee less
I should have sigh'd for happiness;

E'en for the hour when first the vale
Would echo with my Norman's tale."

"Alas!" and Azo's aged eye

Fell on his child's transparent brow,

And on the glance of ecstacy,

[21]

Which, tho' 'twas bliss most sweet to see

Even he must banish quickly now;
"Alas! It cannot, must not be,

For, Adeline, thy sire has sworn,
(A vow too fraught with misery

To call forth one reproach from thee)

From my rack'd soul by phrenzy torn—

My Adeline,—Ah! Look not now
Upon my anguish'd eye and brow,

Avert thy gaze, I cannot bear
That glance of anxious, wild despair—

I've sworn, my Adeline, to see
My child in cloister'd privacy."—

The thunder-bolt blasts where it falls,
On peasants' cot, or princely halls;

Yet does not sound more dark and drear
Than those dire words upon the ear:

[22]

Ev'n as the lightning scathes the pine,
So fell their sound on Adeline—

She heav'd no sigh, no sob confess'd
The agony that swelled her breast,

But vainly did she seek to smother
That anguish; for there was another,

Her wild, her almost madden'd lover,
Who knew too well by sympathy

That deep, internal agony!—
Nor spoke they, 'till young Norman rush'd

With burning eye and forehead flush'd,
And on his bended knee sank down,

Before the man who had o'erthrown
The light of bliss and hope, which shone

Of late so fair and brilliantly,
But ah, alas! so transiently:

"Oh! Hear me, ere the word is said
Which makes a victim of the maid—

[23]

Hear me, I swear, that if 'twill save
Her youth from such a living grave,

I'll fly,—I'll leave her,—Ill resign
The heart e'en now I feel, is mine,

And welcome death could I but know
'Twould save her from such ling'ring woe;

For death were transport, joy, and bliss,
And happiness, compared to this.

Ah! thou relentest,—Adeline,
Oh! mingle in this prayer of mine."

He said no more, nor would the maid

Have heard the sound: one rush she made
And Norman caught her in his arms,

And strain'd her to his breast,
Yet did not gaze upon her charms;

No, tho' she clung to him as fast,
As if that feeling were the last.

[24]

Ere she should sink to rest,
He was so full of misery,

His very grasp was agony;
Nor did he feel how blest,

Even in that hour of darkling woe,
He was to clasp the maiden so!

"My children," Azo murmured, "thus

Just providence chastises us,
When in our youth, we sacrifice

Our future peace; but time, which flies
Reckless of joy or sorrow, fast

Brings retributive pangs at last."

The old man paused, and o'er his brow

Pass'd a long, lingering shade of woe,
Yet no tear trembled in his eye

His was too deep a misery:

[25]

'Twas dark, 'twas rayless, not a beam

Of joy not brighten'd life's dull stream:
That eye a moment own'd a glow

That mock'd at locks of age's snow;
And tho' his voice might pause awhile,

And tremble, still with bitter smile
He spoke—and Her, his all of bliss,

His Adeline, his happiness,
The child of her for whom his soul,

In youth had spurn'd a sire's controul,
The breathing image of the One

Whose charms had blest, whose love undone,
She was beside him, and her eye

Was fixed on his with agony;
The hour was come, the dreadful time,

To listen to a mother's crime:
Ev'n from a Father's lips to hear

The fall of all that once was dear;

[26]

That Father gaz'd with painful pride

On her, who bending by his side,
Seem'd to mock fancy's skill to trace,

Aught teeming with more faultless grace;
It seem'd a vision that but taught,

Too deep intensity of thought.

"My Adeline, the vow is past

Which to eternity will last;
That vow which dooms thee to a fate

Thy father mourns, alas! too late,—
Hear me, and pity while you blame,

But do not curse my ages name.
My daughter, once I lov'd like thee

With ardour, and sincerity,
As fondly and as fervently.

But ah! when once the wild'ring flow
Of love, mans heart has dared to know;

[27]

Then, mingled with the sacred flame,
Come feelings which admit no name;

So wildly do they sway the breast
And rob it of its wonted rest.

I saw thy mother—innocent
As babe, ere its first day is spent—

Nor knew I when my heart aspired
To charms, which every eye admired,

That she was fated e'en like thee
To cloister'd gloom and privacy;

We lov'd—and when she learnt her fate
We vow'd no more to separate—

Yet still she fear'd to fly—the dread
That on her young and rebel head

A Father's curses would be shed,—
And that her flight would draw on her

The church's dire anathema, 8
Restrain'd her steps—and in a minute

[28]

Which mingled woe and torture in it,
I vow'd, should heaven prolong my race

That our first-born should fill the place
Of her fair parent, at the throne

Of God, and for her fault atone.—
She yielded to my heart-wrung sighs,

And—thou—thou art the sacrifice."—

See'st thou yon light from the casement peeping

At midnight's hour, when all are sleeping?
See'st thou yon lamp from the window gleaming

Its ray o'er night's dark mantle streaming?
There Norman watches by his sire

To mark the breath of life decline—
To see its dying flame expire,

And watch its slowly closing shine
In awful dread suspense.—And lo!

This hour the maiden takes her vow;

[29]

And he must not list to the convent bell,

Tho' it peals on the air with solemn swell;
It is his Adelina's knell!

The knell of all her happiness,
Her early dream of earthly bliss.

But he must watch the closing eye
Of his suffering sire, and hear the sigh

So hardly breath'd, ere he sink and die:—
And he must not fly to claim his bride,

Tho' she kneels even now at the altar's side,
And swears, whatever may betide,

Religion's thorny path to tread,
To rank her with the living dead—

And he must watch by his father's bed.

VI.

What form is that which glides along

The vaulted aisle, and stops among
The pillars of the dome?9 Alone,

[30]

And uttering in a hurried tone

The words of misery, tho' the tongue
That speaks, the ear that hears are one.

Is that the voice, whose mellow'd tone
O'er Norman's soul its spells had thrown?

Can it be Adelina's eye
So dim, so full of misery?

Can it be Adelina's brow
By mental anguish bent so low?

Is that her form of matchless grace?
Hers the pale hue of yon wan face?

Alas! that vow, with awful roll,
Rushed and laid heavy on her soul!

VII.

The convent bell has toll'd loud an deep,

And St. Clara's maids10 are lock'd in sleep;
Save one—who with step, as noiseless and still

As the tread of the hare on the moss-cover'd hill,

[31]

And with deep-drawn breath which she seeks to smother,
Steals from her cell to meet her lover!

The stars above her with twinkling ray
Just mark out the path where she dares to stray;

But the moon, as she sees her steal from her bed,
Half hides 'mid vapours her silv'ry head;

And the trees wave and mournfully sigh in the blast,
But still she hurries on, silent and fast,

And marks not the sound as the winds moan past.

VIII.

Enough, he's there, and in his grasp,

He dares the cloistered maid to clasp—
To gaze upon her tear-dimmed eye—

To listen to her thrilling sigh—
To call her all he loves—to press

His lips to hers in mute caress—
To talk to her, in tone too dear

For Santa Clara's maids to hear.—

[32]

"Nay, Adeline, tell me not,

Thy vow11 can ne'er be shaken;
But tell me, love, hast thou forgot

The first thy heart had taken.
There was no convent bell to toll

That—deck'd in terrors on thy soul;
Its peal was but the mellow tale

That warbled forth the nightingale.
No priest stood near to bend and listen,

To every heart-wrung tone of thine;
But there we saw the bright stars glisten

Upon our vows, my Adeline.—
Return then, sweetest, and again

Bound o'er our ever-verdant plain,
Oh! Mount once more the mountain's breast,

And I will ramble by thy side,
And as I watch the azure sky,

See there an image of my bride—

[33]

See there the lustre of her eye—

And mark her as by all carest,

Blessing she'll ever be, and blest."

"No, Norman, tho' thine entrance here

Seems by a mystery too dear
To weaken e'en religion's pow'r,

Yet fly, oh fly! Ere yet the hour,
The little space is past and o'er,

When the portress quits St. Clara's door.
Dost thou not know the vow is taken,

My soul to the world must never waken;
Less happy than the senseless dead,

Thine Adelina now is wed
To a living grave, which cannot pass,

While one grain of life's sand shall remain in the glass."

"My Adeline, my love, my life,

[34]

My chosen, fond, affianc'd 12 wife,
Yet hear me once"—

"It cannot be,
My Norman, I am dead to thee.—

Nay, clasp me not—for by the vow
I lately took, yet break it now,

I must not, are not, see thee more.
Ah! would that life with love were o'er—

One kiss, my Norman, and we sever,
But one—and then, adieu for ever.—

By the grave in which thou hast laid thy sire,
Swear to restrain thy bosom's fire;

Nor doubt again this heart of mine,
It was—it is—it must be thine.

Tho' oft they say, (these holy maids,)
This love must die, must sever,

E'vn from the breast whose inmost shades
Will bear thine Image ever.

[35]

Farewell,—if thou can'st give again,
That heart which now is mine,

Oh! Still one secret thrill retain—
One for thine Adeline!"

Could it be Norman's arm that prest her

Against his wildly throbbing breast?
Could it be Norman's voice that blest her?

That voice that had so often blest!
But ah! those lights, whose rays were streaming

From the still chapel, faint and pale,
Were not in love upon her gleaming—

Alas! they told another tale!—
Again he spoke, "My love, the night

Is dark, as if to shield our flight—
We may away, ere yet the eye

Of bigotry, our course can spy—
Thou can'st not stay and learn to bear

[36]

A lingering period of despair,
And coldly bid thy female heart

From every thrill of love depart."

"My Norman, vainly dost thou sue—

Thy words are arrows, keen and true,
Each wounds more deep, more lastingly,

More keenly than the first, to Thee,
'Twere mockery to say, I'll brave

The horrors of this lingering grave,
O'ercome their terrors, and resign

To peaceful calm my life's decline.
This, this were vain indeed to Thee,

Thou know'st too well it cannot be;
Yet leave me ere 'tis yet too late,

If thou art safe, I'll bear my fate;
If thou art happy with another,

Norman, my love, I'll try to smother

[37]

Each rebel feeling that may rise

To check my course to Paradise.13
Yes! Bless the maid that thou'lt adore,

What can a woman's love do more?
Norman, the heart-wrung thrilling word

Of benison 14 may not be heard,
Enough that its unerring roll

Shall grave its meaning on my soul;—
Yet fly—tho' innocent as light,

These too-dear stolen scenes at night,
Must not profane the holy ground,

Which sainted vestals15 wander round.
They, they, would tell me that thy touch

Is profanation overmuch;
And that the gazing of thine eye

Will 'whelm my soul in misery.
And yet I love thee!—Lov'd I less,

I think 'twould not be happiness.—

[38]

Thine Adelina would not sigh

For the world's empty vanity;
Yet I could weep when memory brings,

The retrospect of by-gone things;
The scenes of love and liberty,

I never, never more can see.—

Those moments, when thy thrilling touch

Taught me I lov'd, and lov'd too much—
Those moments, when thy 'witching tone

Made me too lastingly thine own—
When green woods, waving high their boughs,

Heard, love, and registered our vows—
When the bright streamlet rushing shone,

Like diamonds in the setting sun,
And every glance thy bright eye gave

Shed a new lustre on its wave—
Yes, I remember all, and more

Than thou hast known I mark'd, before

[39]

St. Clara's walls received me,—I

Unworthy of such destiny,
Dead to its pious charm, and One

Who thought not thus her race to run,
And yet the fatal deed is done."—

She paus'd, and Norman ill represt,

The tumult raging in her breast.
But ah! too well the maiden guess'd,

By his wild gaze of fire,
What lit the torch of agony—

The look of mental misery—
The swell of innate ire.—

She clasp'd her hands, and wildly rushing
To his spread arms, the warm tears gushing

Down her fair cheeks, which horror flushing,
Now lit more beauteously:

"Curse fate," she cried, "curse fate alone,

[40]

But spare him—spare that sorrowing one—

Oh! Norman, spare my sire!"

That voice, that press, dispelled the reign

Of passion, but its lingering stain
Still glisten'd on his crimson'd brow,

And flashed from out his eye;
As when the thunderbolt is low,

The lightning dances on the brow
Of stately mountain, glancing o'er

The forest trees, altho' no more
It owns the pow'r to desolate,

Or mar, by its wild brilliancy,
The scene, the lovely scene, elate

In unharm'd fair tranquillity;
But fresher from the fallen dew,

Which late the heavens upon it threw.

[41]

"My love, my Adeline, thy tone

Makes e'en my passions all thine own.
Yet, 'mid these shades, which never heard

'Till now one rash unheavenly word,
I'll curse—it will—it must be so;

All, all, who urged the fatal blow
Which was our love's dark overthrow—

On all except thy sire and thee,
May it dark, deep, and lasting be!"

He paus'd, and she in terror bound,

Refus'd his ear one answering sound;
An instant did he gaze around,

And then, as tho' the light
Of the pale moon, that feebly shone

Above, about him, from her throne,
Had horrors far too dreadful shown

Through the dark veil of night,

[42]

For him to gaze on—closed his eye

With such a look of agony,
That Adeline pressed closer still,

"My Norman, oh! Be calm"—

"I will,

I am"—he smiled, but with a look
That Adeline ill could brook—

So full of meaning, that she spoke
Its spell to break; and it was broke,

When the first tone of one so dear
Fell upon Norman's listening ear.

"The night wears, love, yet thou art here"—

"Yes, Adeline, the coming day

Warns me to turn my steps away
From happiness and thee. . . Above,

Heaven's stars are beaming brightly, love,

[43]

And shine in as calm loveliness,

As in our fondest hours of bliss:
They are unchang'd, and yet their light,

Piercing the inky veil of night
Which we were wont to love, might here

Betray us to a fate more drear
Than even this; and yet to die—

Tho' 'twere the death of agony,
Methinks were dearer to my heart

With Thee, than life, dull life, apart.—
Oh! Ev'n in death the thought would bless

Of thy first look of loveliness;
Thy thrilling laugh which seem'd to rise

From thy young heart, and light thine eyes
With brighter, purer brilliancy

Than e'er before had shone on me—
And thy fond smile, whene'er my hand

Unloos'd thy hair's luxuriant band,

[44]

And culling from the streamlet's brink

The flowers that lov'd its wave to drink,
Them oe'r thy golden locks I threw

And tress'd up every braid anew."

The maiden earthward cast her eye,

Her breast heav'd one regretful sigh,
Which threw its gloom athwart her brow

As she said murmuringly and low,
":Alas! thou can'st not tress them now."

"And wherefore not?—when liberty

Shall smile once more on thee, and me;
That liberty of soul and heart,

Which bids us meet, but never part—
Then, then thy Norman's hand shall twine

With flow'ry wreaths their glossy shine."

[45]

She paus'd awhile, that gentle maid,

A hectic o'er her features play'd,
As in soft murmuring tone she said—

"Norman, when first religion's veil

Render'd more wan this forehead pale,
And blanched this cheek, now moisten'd by

The unbidden weakness of mine eye—
When first this veil of piety,

Alas! so sad for thee and me!
Wound round the brow where oft had play'd

The ringlets of thy mountain maid,
Then fell those tresses, one by one,—

Then was the work of years undone—
The hand of zeal displac'd the tress

That floated there in playfulness—
Religion will'd it so—they fell—

Perchance one sad regretful swell

[46]

Bewail'd them as they left my brow:

For ah! I thought on days, when thou
With all the fondness of a lover,

Sever'd one ringlet from another,
And bade them wave more light and free,

Nor cluster all so lovingly—
I thought e'vn then, I felt thy finger

Wont 'mid their twining curls to linger,
Still threading lightly thro' the maze

Of wanton locks, as softly plays
The trembling zephyr 16 with the spray,

It agitates upon its way—
Nay, frown not thus,—though piety

Blighted their growth, they left them me,
See here:—and from beneath the vest,

That folded closely o'er her breast,
She drew with a half moistened eye,

Those tresses, whose soft brilliancy

[47]

Once deck'd a brow, so high, and fair,

That pale description sicken'd there
At her incapability!—

The night breeze wav'd them in her hand
They floated gently as it fann'd;

But what avail'd their clustering flow?
They graced no matchless beauty now—

Still twined each light and glossy tress,
Around its fellow's loveliness,

But 'twas in vain.—The maiden pass'd
Her fingers thro' them, and she cast

One sorrowing look—it was the last.
Again she spoke—"The zealous care,

That lost to me my flowing hair,
Has taught me where I best can place,

My last poor shade of earthly grace—
Norman, receive what once thine eye

Lov'd ere they parted Thee and I—

[48]

Tis all the sorrowing child of woe

Has left of beauty to bestow—
Gaze on me, see, that lip whose hue

Has drawn so many a praise from you,
Is wasted, livid, wan, and blue—

My cheek which match'd the rose's tint
Now bears pale misery's death-like print

Mine eye once beam'd with love and bliss,
Can sorrow dim it more than this?

My step, once buoyant as the wing
Of the young bird that hails the spring,

Is trembling now with feebleness!"

He gaz'd one moment on the eye

That wildly gleam'd with misery,
Dearer she seem'd to him, tho' in it

He read the anguish of the minute
Than when at first the maid he knew,

[49]

Tho' lovely, and as tender too,
Yet wanting still that something dearer,

Which anguish lent to join them nearer—
Then, she was pure as forms of air,

As beauteous, sylphic,17 soft, and fair;
Nay, could there be a bliss untaught,

By the most wild expansive thought;
Something yet undescrib'd, a charm

Form'd ev'ry heart and eye to warm,
A chasten'd spell, a tender glow,

Which virtuous love alone can know,
Unfelt by midnight revellers—

That secret spell, that charms was hers!
But now there was a something more,

Tho' beauty's brilliant glare was o'er,
A something that around her spread,

And like a halo o'er her head,
Cast such a radiance, that she stood

[50]

Like the blest guardian of the good!
Serenely beautiful—and fair

E'en 'mid the blightings of despair.

"My Adeline," he fondly cried,

"My ever beauteous, faultless bride,
Altho' perchance to steal within

St. Clara's walls, may be a sin,
It is the last shall ever roll

Its blight upon thy Norman's soul;
For pure indeed that heart should be

Which dares to fix its love on thee—
Ah! do my words, my anguish move thee,

It cannot be a crime to love thee!
Again I swear to cling to thee,

In torture, death, and agony:
My Adeline, my vows receive,

For ah! thou canst not, love, believe

[51]

That cloister'd hearts to feeling dead,

Upon whose gloom was never shed,
The light of love and sympathy,

Can own one kindred thrill with thee.

Say, wouldst thou join the pale moon's ray

To lightnings that around thee play?

Or bind the eagle and the dove,

And bid them mingle, trust, and love?
Unite the silvery, silent lake

To torrents, that a passage break
Thro' the dark rocks, and bathe their sides

With dashing spray, and rushing tides!
Would'st thou do this? The trial's vain,

Yet sooner should those ties remain
Stedfast and firm, than thou shalt live

'Till coldly thou has learnt to give
Thy heart's warm thrills to those who know,

Themselves have dealt the deadly blow,

[52]

Which laid thy blissful visions low."

Wildly the Vestal to her breast

Clasp'd the fond youth in anguish blest—
"No, no, it cannot be a sin,

To love so true, so fervently—
Or 'tis to virtue so akin,

And blended with such harmony,
That surely we may be forgiven,

For missing thus our road to heaven.
And I will bless thee, even here

Tho' torture, death, or both are near;
For the proud sparkle of thine eye

Flashes the soul's sincerity—
And now I know that ecstacy

Can blend itself with misery!"—

An instant in a mute embrace,

[53]

Memory was lost of time, and place,
Of hopeless love, of joys now blasted,

Of happiness, that had but lasted
Sufficient space to bid them feel,

Each ruled the other's dearest weal;
All was forgotten, —for that minute

Had a whole age of rapture in it.
The moon, just feebly from her shroud,

Formed by the ever varying cloud
That pass'd below her, cast her light

Upon them, as in wild delight,
Render'd still wilder by despair,

Each held the other closely there.
Another moment, and that ray,

Abruptly, quickly, passed away—
Instant they miss'd the silvery shine,

And with affright fair Adeline
Rais'd her wan cheek from Norman's arm

[54]

And gaz'd in breathless, wild alarm,
As the long shadow lengthen'd o'er them,

And lo! the Abbess stood before them!

IX.

The Abbess stood, stern, lofty, high,

As with commanding dignity
She turn’'d on them her keen grey eye;

When Adlelina met that look,
Another glance she trembling took,

And then she turn'd away;
A smile, like that the Abbess wore,

Ne'er curled upon a lip before;
'Twas scorn, 'twas rage, 'twas irony,

Something that mock'd at agony,
So darkling did it play.

Her form was in youth erect,
Commanding awe, and cold respect,

[55]

But nothing in her look could move

So warm a sentiment as love;

The loose-girt girdle that she wore,
Her rosary,18 and relics19 bore;

The veil that floated round her face,
Had no soft lovliness to grace,

But only lent a darker shade
To features, over which there play'd

No gentle feeling of the mind,
But every winter that had pass'd,

Had left her colder than the last;
As if each year had lent its chll

To make those features sterner still,
And left some blight behind!

Her's was a heart which ne'er had prov'd
The sweet delight of being lov'd;

Her's was a soul which ne'er had burn'd
To prove that soften'd thrill return'd.

[56]

Immur'd from earliest infancy
In dull monastic privacy,20

She own'd no feeling with the world,
Its empty vanities she hurl'd,

Together with the joys which please,
The hearts that own'd the say of these,

To that perdition,21 which she knew,
Was justly—truly—all their due!

From such a nature, thus unbending,
What single ray could Hope be lending?

From such a form as hover'd here,
Nought was to hope, and all to fear!

"Oh! Mother, by that holy shrine

Which I have dared to slight,
Oh! by that spotless soul of thine

In innocency bright;

[57]

Oh! As thou pardonest every one

Who says repentant Orizon;
Oh! as thou blessest even they

Who know not how to bend and pray:
Conceal my fault, and by that sky

Beaming in midnight brilliancy,
I swear to err no more—and He,

My best-beloved, shall leave me, flee
To Earth's remotest bound—Oh! speak,

The colour rushes to thy cheek,
Norman, say, wilt thou not, love, fly?

Nay, turn not wildly thus thine eye
On Santa Clara's holy Dame,

But tell, oh! tell her, love, the same,
Nay, mother, hear me, by thy truth—

By all thy vows in early youth—
Oh! spare the child of Azo's age,

Nor yield me to the reckless rage

[58]

Of holy wrath, so will I swear

To swerve no more in word or look
From the dread oath I lately took,

To live alone for Santa Clare."—

"Tis vain," the Abbess coldly said,

"It is in vain, unholy maid,
Thou wilt not move my nature now

By a damp eye, and anguish'd brow,
It is too late—thy glances low'r

Ev'n now upon thy paramour.
And dar'st thou talk of mercy? Thou?

Still on thy cheek the guilty glow
Of fell iniquity is beaming;

Still on thy brow the flush is gleaming
Of thine unholy passion.—Thou

To crave for mercy! while the flow,

Of thine impassion'd tongue still dares

[59]

To blend thy lover with thy prayers!
Away, nor thus my habit seize,

Withdraw thy hold upon my knees—
Dash off thy tears—Hypocrisy

Can never have effect on me—
Unworthy sister, stir not hence,

Thy sands are run, and penitence
Has but brief space to work its end;

Nor can this guilty passion lend
One blessing to allay the sting

Of death's dark, rayless sufffering—
To damp thine early sinful bier,

St. Clara's daughters yield no tear;
To soothe thy hour of agony,

St. Clara's daughters lend no sigh—
Unwept, unpitied, scorn'd, and lost,

Thine hour of death no thought can boast
That can allay the parting throe,

[60]

Or soothe the bitter pangs of woe—
By all unmourn'd, forgot, despised,

Or deeply anathematised.—"

The abbess ceas'd, her voice was hush'd

In silence, but her cheek was flush'd;
And wildly dancing in her eye

Flash'd scorn, contempt, and irony!

XI.

"Tis well since nought can move thy soul,

But still thine Anathemas roll,
I am resolved—nor torturing ire,

Nor monkish rage, nor bigot fire,
Shall ever quench this inward flame;

It burns,—will ever burn the same!
It is too late to shake its force,

'Tis as a rushing torrent's course

[61]

And tho' it may o'erwhelm me, still

It will boil onwards ever, till
You have consumed your bigot hate,

And have repented ye too late."

The vestal ceas'd—without delay

The abbess coldly turn'd away,
With stately step, and haughty air;

But ah! she left behind her there
Hearts torn, and bursting with despair;—

Yet still 'mid 'whelming misery
The maiden fix'd her eager eye

Upon her lover—tho' too late,
Still, she urged his instant flight—

Still bid him shun so dark a fate—
And as she mark'd each flitting light

That danc'd along the gloomy pile,
She utter'd with a sickly smile,

[62]

With hands fast clench'd and eyeball's dim,
Her useless unheard prayers to him.—

"Norman, this last embrace—now fly

Thou canst not soothe death's agony.
'Tis sweet to me, love, to descry

The ready shaft that bids me die;
But thou, oh! save thyself—away

'Tis certain death should'st thou delay—
Dost thou not hear the Matron's call

Re-echoing thro' the lofty hall?
Dost thou not mark each hurrying light

Shewing the horrors of the night?
Hark! Hear'st thou not the distant sound

Of many voices all around?
Nay, clasp me not—away, away,

For thy sake, mine, thou must not stay—
Oh! leave me, —leave me, —it were dear

[63]

To know thee safe, tho' far from here—
Hast thou to learn the fate that waits thee,

Which from Heav’n's mercy separates thee?—
Ha! dost thou mark the coming tread

Of all the Sisters, hither led
By the stern Abbess?—Norman, fly—

Thy hot hand burns me, and thine eye
Scorches my cheek—they come, they come!

Farewell—yet even thus 'tis sweet
So very, very soon to meet

In the dark grave, the wretch's home."

XII.

'Twas a damp cell, where not a ray,

Proclaim'd the brilliant reign of day;
No sunbeam lingering lov'd to crawl

O'er its moist floor and moss-grown wall;
No sound to mar its silence came,

Save those dull signs of coming death,

[64]

Which superstition shuns to name,

Or whispers them with faultering breath—
'Till midnight's hollow pealing bell

Upon the awe struck senses fell.

The maiden spoke, and echo's tone

Was her sole answer, drear, and lone—
Shudd'ring she ceas'd and Silence strode

With noiseless steps round her abode,
And in his train came Fear—and she

Brought cold insensibility—

XIII.

Then dwelt in the lost maiden's eye

Despair's most deep intensity—
No tear confess'd her bursting heart

No trembling grasp, no phrensied start—
Her bosom did not own a swell,

Calmly, and still, it rose and fell—
But on her lip there faintly curl'd

[65]

A pitying smile at that vain world,
Which came to mock life's parting pang—

On torture's maddening throes to hang—

To gaze upon the death-struck eye—

To fear, but not to learn, to die!
Her order's vest in mantling fold,

Upon her breast she seem'd to hold,
As firmly and as gracefully,

As if no dire fatality
Had doom'd its dark'ning folds to press

In Death, that form of loveliness—
Yet sometimes would her glazing eye

Give one wild glance of agony,
On Norman's pale, and haggard brow,

Half veil'd by the luxuriant flow
Of his long raven tresses, then

Awhile she seem'd to live again,
And murmur'd in a tone as drear

[66]

As ever broke upon the ear,
And wild as winter's rushing blast:

"My Norman, we shall meet at last!"—
And then as if that thought was o'er,

She seem'd to feel and breathe no more;
Nor did she note his answering tone,

Wild, deep, and sorrowing as her own.

XIV.

The death fraught sentence came at last—

The sound which told that hope was past—
The maiden bow'd her beauteous head,

Soon as the fatal shaft was sped,—
And from beneath her veil's dark shroud

Gave one long gaze upon the crowd.

XV.

"It is not for that life I sue,

'Twere worse than vain to hope from you
But she, the Maid, oh! spare her, save

[67]

Her youth from such a darkling grave,
And I will bless you; though the flame

Scorch on my tongue her angel name:
Yes, tho' the fire should roar around,

If she is sage, I'll bless the sound;
And tho' the world stood scowling by

See sympathy in ev'ry eye!—
Oh! if the love we've dared to cherish,

Condemns one fated soul to perish,
On me, on me, your work begin—

The penance mine, as mine the sin!—
But spare the maid—Oh! can you gaze

On such a bright, a brilliant blaze
Of faultless loveliness, nor feel

The thrill of mercy o'er you steal?
Your souls relenting melt as snow;

Your madd'ning rage forget to flow—
And ev'n your hearts so callous grown

[68]

Urge you to make her cause your own.
Oh! had you ever lov'd as we

Have lov'd, so warmly, fervently,
You'd pity, but you could not blame

The warmth, the fervour of our flame."

The maiden wildly bent her gaze

Full on her once lov'd Norman's face
And coldly fix'd it on the brow

Which late had been her heaven—but now
She mark'd it with so dead a stare,

That to her eye it seem'd to bear
No vision of delight—his tone

Awoke one feeling; but 'twas gone
Ee’n in the instant—when he spoke,

His voice a moment's start awoke;
She gave one sigh, long, deep, and low,

And then she press'd her burning brow,

[69]

As if to quell the tumult dire,

That scorch'd her brain with maddening fire;
And sorrow veil'd in deadlier shade

The features of the grief-spent maid.—

It was a woe so closely knit

With life—a grief so exquisite,
That not one tear suffused her eye

In that dark hour of agony!

XVI.

There was a time—but now 'twas past—

There was a time—it could not last—
'Twas bright as meteor on its course—

'Twas wild as mountain torrent's force—
'Twas flitting as the lightning's glare—

And yet as night's pale monarch, fair.—
Now was that hapless passion o'er,

Extinguish'd to relume no more!
No more the eye of Adeline

[70]

On Norman's grief-rent heart could shine;—
No more upon the maiden's soul,

The youth's fond accents now could roll;
For death's cold hand the lid can press,

O'er eyes that beam'd with tenderness,—
And death can hush the dearest tone,

That e'er around its spells had thrown!

XVII.

High rose the flame, and lit the air,

With sweeping sound and far-seen flare:
From either pile advancing higher,

And mingling oft their fatal fire—
As conscious that in death 'twas sweet,

Altho' in flame, to rush and greet,
The last, sole, object worthy thought,

Which once had lived for us, and dies
In the same blinding faith it caught

In early youth, from beaming eyes,

[71]

And register'd 'mid listening skies!

**********************************

And the flickering light has died away—

And the sisters have turn'd aside to pray—
And the sweeping wind the ashes caress,

And in whirling playfulness onward press—
And blend them together in one dark heap,

Then hurl them along in hurried sweep.
'Tis enough, they are mingled, now bear them away

Far from St. Clara's pile—the day
Must see them calm and quiet laid,

Beneath the bending willow's shade;
Or scatter'd on the streamlet's breast

In unison so pure, so blest,
That every wave o'er which they ride,

Upon its bright and sparkling tide,
May mingle them, altho' too late,

[72]

Never again to separate.
And every breeze, whose airy wing

A ripple o'er its breast may fling,
Will lend its sound to be to them

A wailing and a requiem!

1. The Middle Ages saw much success in the development of science, art, and religion. In particular, th Catholic faith enhanced the daily lives of those living in England. As society became Christianized, many people began to live in towns, and there was an increase in the number of religious orders as well as churches. The Council of Trent (1545-1563) helped to establish the official doctrines of the Church.

2. The development of monastic life began during the persecutions of Christians ordered by the Roman Emperor Decius in 250. The Roman Empire had begun an organized effort to destroy the Catholic Church. Hermits left the world and retired to the desert to live the Christian life in solitude. These men (and eventually women) began to form communities or congregations around themselves. Though they lived rather individual lives in their cells, they would elect a common spiritual director. This superior was either an abbot (in male monasteries) or an abbess (in female convents). The monks and nuns of the early centuries dedicated their time to singing hymns of praise to God, meditating on the holy scriptures, praying, tilling the soil, administering to the needs of the poor, taking care of the sick, and protecting those persecuted by the civil government.

3. Medieval nuns wore long tunics (to the ankles) with a hood or veil. Colors ranged from black or brown to gray, white, or blue.

4. A female nature spirit from Greek and Roman mythology. In poetry it signifies a beautiful woman.

5. From Greek mythology, an aquatic nymph; one that lives in or presides over brooks, springs, or fountains.

6. A belt or sash worn at the waist.

7. A prayer.

8. "If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maranatha" (1 Corinthians 16:22). Anathema: Originally, "dedicated to God." Since the ancient Hebrews dedicated their defeated enemies to God by sacrificing them (1 Samuel 15), the word came to mean something hateful and therefore to be destroyed. In the New Testament, it means "accursed" (Romans 9:3); thence it passed into Christian usage in formulas of imprecation (e.g., in the Athanasian Creed). In English, it is a noun meaning (1) the thing accursed, or (2) the act of cursing; also a quasi-adjective used only in the predicate (not the attributive) position. "Maranatha" is actually two Aramaic words meaning "the Lord has come" (cf. Philippians 4:5). It should be read as a separate sentence, which is the way Paul uses it in Corinthians 17 as a concluding benediction for his epistle. Most Christians, not knowing any Aramaic, erroneously took Paul's formula as a solemn intensification of "anathema," and they therefore read the two words a a double curse. -- Dictionary of Classical, Biblical, and Literary Allusions.

9. During the epoch of the Middle Ages, immense cathedrals were built, which still stand as monuments of faith. These Gothic cathedrals had flying buttresses, huge steeples, and magnificient windows.

10. St. Clare of Assisi, co-foundress of the Order of Poor Ladies, was born on July 16th, 1194. As a child she was very devoted to prayer, and as she grew older, her distatse for the world and her yearning for a more spiritual life increased. Having been profoundly inspired by the preaching of St. Francis, she left home at the age of eighteen, to pursue a life dedicated to the service of Jesus Christ. Clare, along with her sister Agnes, eventually established the second branch of the Franciscan family called the Order of the Poor Ladies, or Poor Clares. The Church of San Damiano in Italy became Clare's home. She ruled there as abbess for nearly forty years, until her death in 1253. It is doubtful that she ever set foot outside the boundaries of San Damiano during that entire time. She became a living example of the poverty, humility, and mortification preached by St. Francis. Clare had a special devotion to the Holy Eucharist, and under her guidance the community of San Damiano became a wonderful refuge for like-minded women. This sanctuary ultimately included another of Clare's sisters, Beatrix, as well as her mother Ortolana and her aunt Bianca. The silent influence of this gentle abbess did much to guide the women of medieval Italy to higher aims. Clare was also able to witness, during her lifetime, the spread of monastaries of this order far and wide throughout Europe. (Medieval England would probably have included several such convents.) Clare was canonized by Pope Alexander IV in September 1255. The feast of Saint Clare is celebrated throughout the Church on 12 August.

11. As members of a religious community of women, nuns typically lived under the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

12. Used in its traditional sense, indicating a woman engaged to be married.

13. From paradeisos, a Greek word of Persian origin meaning a garden or park. In the Old Testament, it signifies the Garden of Eden. In the New Testament, the word is synonymous with heaven. The modern usage of the word has weakened to mean any extremely pleasant place.

14. A blessing or benediction.

15. A virgin woman, or a nun.

16. In classical mythology, the west wind, Zephyrus, is the son of Astraeus and Aurora and the lover of Flora, identified with the Roman Favonius; hence, any soft, gentle wind is a zephyr. -- Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.

17. Slim and graceful.

18. A Catholic prayer said with beads. Each set of an "our Father," ten "Hail Marys," and a "Glory be to the Father," is accompanied by a meditation on a mystery in the life of Jesus Christ. The history of the rosary reaches back to the days of early Christianity. A devout person who desired to say a certain number of prayers (usually "Our Fathers") would gather a hundred or more pebbles or seeds into a basket. He would then place them, one at a time, into another container as he said his prayers. In the Western Church, the "Hail Mary" came into general use at about the middle of the twelfth century; this prayer, along with the "Our Father," began to be recited upon knotted cords or strings of beads. Devotions, such as the Rosary, became especially popular with the faithful laity in the 1500s to copmpensate for their being deprived of the Mass and other rituals and sacraments during this time of persecution. The Rosary, as a form of Marian devotion, was both Christ-centered and scriptural in its inception.

19. Objects of religious significance.

20. Orphans were sometimes offered to monastaries. Likewise, parents who had numerous children might offer one or more of them to a monastery or convent. These parents feared the economic weakening that would result from splitting the property too much.

21. The loss of the soul; eternal damnation.