In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly, To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling, Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order, Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister. Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly, And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation. More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters, For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in Messages, parcels, _et cetera_, from those who came to the wicket. Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master; Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to), "Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them, Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless? No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent: Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch me." So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic, And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments; Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace, Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them. "Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice, "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building." And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the canvas; Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her, Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness, Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled. II