“Alas! ’tis not my lowly couch, Nor Misery’s unkindest touch, No, nor the world so long forgot, Although in grief remembered now, Nor yet my lone and humble lot, That made me what ye see me now. She was perchance an erring light, A beauteous wandering meteor flame, That on my waking vision came, To cross my pathway like a blight; Or else a Heavenly spirit sent From a diviner element, Who left some star-lit world that lies Far off in azure’s seas than this, To teach my spirit what sweet bliss, Were in her home beyond the skies. But yet she passed,—she drooped away, Like a fair rose untimely blighted, Like an Hymeneal altar lighted On a fond bridegroom’s dying day. There was a flush upon her cheek, That in my soul a sadness wrought, A warning voice that used to speak, The lesson of her life’s decay; There was a lustre in her eyes, Like a celestial glory caught, From some bright meteor of the skies. There was a music in her tone, Like the low wind of Autumn makes, Through the lone woods in sadness sighing, When the bright leaves and flowers are dying, As if it sighed for their sweet sakes. Although I know and feel she died, Her form and voice are with me now, These are the hands that from her brow Were wont so often to divide The tresses of her golden hair, When the night winds had wanton’d there. But when we wandered through the glade, And heard the night bird on the bough, Or side by side together prayed, Is but a fading vision now.” * * * * * * Broomholme’s Abbey is old and grey, And monks are kneeling the live-long day, From matin time till eve; Many and sweet are the Aves they say, And many the souls they shrieve. At midnight, censors were brightly swinging, And slowly and sad was the requiem singing, And masses are singing still, For him they laid in the willow’s shade, By the stream on the woodland hill. CAISTER.