The sounds that he now heard--for as yet the night had by no means assumed her attribute of quietness--were certainly not calculated to produce the painful sensations that he had just undergone. There was music on the air--soft and delicate music,--not gay, and yet not sad, but with a certain wild solemnity of tone, that well accorded with the hour, and seemed calculated to raise the thoughts to high and unearthly aspirations. At first, the music was solely instrumental; but, in a moment or two afterwards, two sweet voices were heard, singing, with a peculiarly thrilling softness of tone, that seemed to have something supernatural in its clear melody. St. Real listened; and, though the sounds must have proceeded from some distance, yet the words were pronounced so distinctly, that he lost not a syllable of the song they poured upon the night. SONG. _First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! art thou, Amongst the sons of men! For angels are wreathing for thy brow Flowers that fade not again! _Second Voice_. A crown, a crown of glory for the brave! _First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! are those That sleep the sleep of the good! Blessed is he whose bosom glows To shed the tyrant's blood! _Second Voice_. Glory to him whom the Church shall save! _First Voice_. Amongst the saints in Paradise, In glory he shall dwell! And angels shall greet him to the skies, When to earth he bids farewell! _Second Voice_. Joy, joy, joy to the champion of the Lord! _First Voice_. His arm is now endued with might, The foes of the Faith to destroy! To sweep the tyrant from God's sight, To crush the worm in his joy! _Second Voice_. Death, death, death to the tyrant abhorred! _Both Voices_. Blessed! blessed! blessed art thou Amongst the sons of men! For angels are wreathing for thy brow Flowers that fade not again!