XXXII.

Fixed was her look, and stern her air: Back from her shoulders streamed her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Her voice, despair’s wild energy Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate: With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspirèd form, And listened for the avenging storm; The judges felt the victim’s dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot’s doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:— “Sister, let thy sorrows cease; Sinful brother, part in peace!” From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb, Paced forth the judges three, Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery.