THE

ABBOT OF FLORENCE.

A Tale from Boccaccio.

CANTO I.

I.

It was a mossy Abbey, hid away

In the deep bosom of a leafy wood, Wherein the oily monks were wont to stray, Unchecked, in quiet contemplative mood,

And chiefly at the silent close of day;

For then the musing fancy seeks to brood On themes which lift our very souls above,

And mingle all our thoughts with heaven and love.

II.

Twilight so soft, so tender, and so sweet,
Subtle to win, to "startle and waylay,"
'Tis then that lovers' souls grow indiscreet,

And "winged words" fly on their burning way: Then sage and saint feel clad in thought complete, And some come forth to meditate and pray;

While others in much odour we could mention, Like them come forth, but not with like intention.

III.

And sometimes I have heard the spiteful hint,
That pious ladies love the twilight too,
But scandal gives to every thing its tint,
And colours all that saintly people do ;
Such tattlers have a kind of jaundiced squint,

As men who look through spectacles of blue,
Which make the very fairest of complexions

Open to what the critics call "objections."