And now beside the maiden kneels A messenger of fond relief, One who with sweet religion heals The wounded spirit’s cankering grief; And raises from the chilly sand The form that cold and lifeless lay, Sustains it with a trembling hand, And wraps it in his mantle grey. And from that frontlet wipes away The wanton water’s brackish spray. And now her wild and anxious gaze Is fixed upon his swarthy cheek, And faint and feebly she essays Her wonder and despair to speak; And he who looked so calm before, Is moved to tears of sorrow now, That as he bends the maiden o’er, Those drops of pity damp her brow. He turns as though ashamed to own His heart has soft and yielding grown. And now is many an offer made Of home and hospitable aid, By those who throng around the maid, To them the monk his charge commends, With promises of bounteous pay, And with a heart of trouble wends His steps to Broomholme Abbey “grey.” * * * * * * What charm is there in Nature’s smile, When Hope be dead the weary while, Or what in all the world can please, When aching hearts are ill at ease. And, oh! what rapture could _he_ feel, Who left the fair and beaten track Of sweet Religion’s holy zeal, And to the cold world wandered back; Whose only oriflamme should be The sanguine cross of Calvary. Yes, he whose life had aye been spent In self denial’s lowly creed, In turning sinners to repent, And share the Abbey’s thrifty meed. Yes, he who taught that heavenly love Should all absorb the anxious mind, That hearts should look to hopes above, And leave the thoughtless world behind: Yes, he whose years though few had been, In much of deep devotion past, Who joy’d the smiling summer scene, And braved the winter’s bitter blast; Yes, he who told how dear and sweet Was holy influence to the mind, Who walked the world with weary feet, To succour helpless human kind; Yes, he forgot for beauty’s smile, His oath to Heaven, his hopes above, He gave his heart to pleasures wile, And lost his soul for woman’s love. Yes, he forgot the lowly mien, The holy mass, the rosary, And all that he had ever been, For hopeless love and misery.