The lady bow'd her head, and o'er her swept
A wave of anguish, and she knew despair.
"Could I but see him once again!" she moan'd,
"See him, and beg forgiveness, and then die!"
Did the Archangel Michael, standing there
Upon her left, in shining silver, hear?
Who knows? Her prayer was answer'd like a flash;
For at that moment, clear and sweet o'er all
The mingled music of the chanting choir,
There rose a voice that thrill'd her inmost soul:
It breathed a blessing; utter'd soft a prayer.
No need to look: and yet she look'd, and saw
A hooded monk before the altar kneel,
A graceful presence, tho' in sordid dress.
And as she gazed the cowl slipp'd back and show'd
(But dimly thro' the incense-perfumed cloud)
A pure pale face, a golden tonsured head,
And blue eyes raised to heaven. Then the truth
Was there reveal'd to her that he had left
The world to watch and pray for such as she.
Out of the castled-gate she hurried forth:
What matter'd where she went, to east or west?
What matter'd peasant's warning that the sand
Was shifting ever, and the rushing tide
Gave them no quarter whom it overtook?
'Twas death she courted, and with heedless step
Onward to meet it swift the lady fled.
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