Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90 May never other tears o'ercloud your eye, Than those which gentle Pity can supply! Did you not mark a towering convent hang, Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang? Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95 Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim! For thither oft would my poor child repair, To ease her soul by penitence and prayer. I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100 And check'd her not; and often there she found A timely pallet when the evening frown'd. And there I trusted that my child would light On shelter and on food, one dreadful night, When there was uproar in the element, 105 And she was absent. To my rest I went: I thought her safe, yet often did I wake And felt my very heart within me ache. No daughter near me, at this very door, Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110 Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd, And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd. Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn, Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne. The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115 Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow. At times to the proud gust's ascending swell, A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell: For after nights of storm, that dismal train The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120 To find some out-stretch'd man--perchance to save, Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave! But now a gathering crowd did I survey, That slowly up the pasture bent their way; Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125 Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd. And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore That they would bring the body to my door; But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before, 'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130 Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!' The old man paused--May he who, sternly just, Lays at his will his creatures in the dust; Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown, And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135 May he the parent to his child restore In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore! _March_ 8, 1798. NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS. FOOTNOTES: