And summer is come in rosy pride, 'Tis the eve of the blessed Saint John, And the holy nuns after vespertide, All forth from the chapel are gone; While to taste the cool of the evening hour The abbess hath sought the topmost tower. "Gramercy, sweet ladye! and can it be, The long lost sisters fair On the threshold lie calm, and silently, As in holiest slumber there! Yet sleep they not, but entranced they lie, With lifted hands and heavenward eye. "O long lost maidens, arise! arise! Say when did ye hither stray." They have turn'd to the abbess with their meek blue eyes, "Not an hour hath passed away But glorious visions our eyes have seen; Oh sure in the kingdom of heaven we've been!" There is joy in the convent of Beverley, Now these saintly maidens are found, And to hear their story right wonderingly, The nuns have gathered around-- The long lost maidens, to whom was given, To live so long the life of heaven. And again the chapel bell is rung, And all to the altar repair, And sweetly the midnight lauds are sung, By the sainted sisters there; While their heaven-taught voices softly rise Like an incense cloud to the silent skies. The maidens have risen, with noiseless tread They glide o'er the marble floor; They seek the abbess with bended head,-- "Thy blessing we would implore, Dear mother! for ere the coming day Shall burst into light, we must hence away." The abbess hath lifted her gentle hands, And the words of peace hath said, _O vade in pacem_, aghast she stands, Have their innocent spirits fled? Yes, side by side lie these maidens fair, Like two wreaths of snow in the moonlight there. List! List! the sweet peal of the convent bells, They are rung by no earthly hand, And hark how the far off melody swells Of the joyful angel band, Who hover around surpassingly bright, And the chapel is bathed in rosy light. 'Tis o'er! side by side in the chapel fair, Are the sainted maidens laid; With their snowy brow, and their glossy hair, They look not like the dead; Fifty summers have come and passed away, But their loveliness knoweth no decay! And many a chaplet of flowers is hung, And many a bead told there, And many a hymn of praise is sung, And many a low breathed pray'r; And many a pilgrim bends the knee, At the shrine of the sisters of Beverley. FOOTNOTE: