a

In the deep bosom of a leafy wood,

Wherein the cloistered 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.

B

II.

Twilight! so calm, 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;
For tattlers have a kind of jaundiced squint,
Like men who look through spectacles of blue,
Which make the very fairest of complexions

Open to what the critics call " objections."

IV.

But to return:-the Abbot of this place
Was very holy, as such men should be,
Yet sometimes, when he saw a pretty face,
He felt as always feel the laity;
And though he vehemently prayed for grace
To curb such grievous impropriety,

He could not (praying in his ghostly fashion)
Quench altogether the disturbing passion.

V.

This gnawed our Abbot to the very bone,

Well knowing it would bring down heaps of

scandal

If his peculiarity were known,—

For it would give the godless ones a handle; And withered spinsters, too, would sigh and groan, Swearing the holy offices were manned ill :

He therefore, feeling for the Church's glory,
Was sly in all his dealings amatory.