mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands,
The child will sob his heart out for his friend;
For, Sir, his nature is right full of love,
And generous affections, never slack
To let his soul have space and mastery--
A wicked stroke!

MONK.

Ah! would his voice could sound
Ever again among your silent halls;
But the sweet treble never more shall ring
Across the chambers to your wistful ear;
Then hear it now come floating down from heav'n,
Calling your lone and bleeding heart to God.

LLEWELLYN.

His voice was very sweet, a silvery stream
Of music, rippling softly through my life--
And ne'er to hear his little prattling tongue,
Stumbling upon the threshold steps of speech,
Catching quaint sounds and fragments of discourse,
And setting them to childish uses straight--
I've sat and heard him by the hour--you'd wonder
To hear his little saws and sentences,
And now to think I'll hear him never more--
Alack! alack!--but no, it is not true--
The child is sleeping--Ay! it must be so.
What know you, Father, of an infant's sleep?
You, in your stony cell 'mid shaven friars,
All crowding down the nether side of life,
Hearing no sweeter voice than matin-bells,
No speech, but grace in cold refectories;
Ay! thence it is--Oh fool! that I should doubt!
'Tis so--'tis so--I knew that I should pluck
The cowl from your delusion--Is't not so?

MONK.

Oh son, your woful faith moves all my heart.
'Tis pitiful! but see you not the blood
That hotly streaks your sleeping lily there?
See how it laces all his garments o'er,
And signs the grievous sentence of your joy.

LLEWELLYN.

Blood?--blood?--nay, how is this?--I--very like
The sun shines redly on him--I have seen
The sky look ruddy, as with all the blood
Of battle-fields, where no man cried for grace.
Blood? look, Sir; look again--I--something clouds
Mine eyes to-day--I see more thick than wont.

MONK.

Nay! lean on me--Come! look upon your child,
And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart,
And send the balm of tears about your soul.

III.--_In the heart of the Child._

There is a little dove that sits
Between the arches all alone,
Cut and carved in old grey stone,
And a spider o'er it flits:

Round and round his web is spun,
With the still bird looking through,
From among the beads of dew,
Set in glories of the sun.

So the bird looks out at