II.

And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay Which the ghosts of the sky, As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay.

But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark monk’s brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast: And he strove to suppress them in vain.

Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear. Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear.

Then his eyes wildly roll’d, When the death-bell toll’d, And he raged in terrific woe. And he stamp’d on the ground, But when ceased the sound Tears again began to flow.

And the ice of despair Chill’d the wide throb of care, And he sat in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.

Then he knelt in his cell:-- And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agonized pain. And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must for ever remain.