“O Lord my God, That rul’st on high, Ope thou the flood-gates Of the sky; Down upon earth Thy torrents pour, Till brook and river Rise and roar, Till raging floods My wife shall stay, Shall turn her back The homeward way!” Lo! in pity God has hearkened— That which he has asked is done; Clouds the heaven’s face have darkened, They have blotted out the sun; Down the rains in torrents pour, Brook and river rage and roar. But nor storm nor flood can stay Manoll’s wife upon her way; Pressing onward, halting never, Plunging through the foaming river, Knowing naught of doubt or fear, Near she hasteth, and more near. The poem goes on to say how Manoll a second time implores the Creator to send a hurricane which shall ravage the face of nature and impede her progress. Once more his prayer is granted, and a mighty wind, which, Sighing loud and moaning, Thundering and droning, Down the plane-trees bending, And the pines uprending, rages over the land. But no earthly force Checks her steady course, And all vainly passed By the furious blast, In the storm she quavers, But yet never wavers, And, oh, hapless lot! Soon has reached the spot. The fourth canto relates how the nine master masons are filled with joy at sight of this heaven-sent victim. Manoll alone is sad, as, kissing his wife, he takes her in his arms and carries her up the scaffolding. There he places her in a niche, explaining that they are going to pretend to build her in merely as a joke; while the poor young wife, scenting no danger, claps her hands in childish pleasure at the idea. But her spouse, with gloomy face, Speaks no word, and works apace; Of his dream he thinks alone, As they pile up stone on stone. And the church walls upward shoot, Cover soon her dainty foot, Reaching then above the knee; Where is vanished all her glee? As, becoming deadly pale, Thus the wife begins to wail: “Manolli, dear Manolli! Master, master Manolli! Prithee, now this joking cease, And thy wife from here release; See, the wall is closing fast, In its grip am I compassed. Manolli, dear Manolli! Master, master Manolli!” But Manoll makes no reply, Works with restless energy. Higher and yet higher Grows the wall entire, Grows with lightning haste, Reaches soon her waist, Reaches soon her breast; She no more can jest, Hardly can she speak, With voice faint and weak: “Manolli, dear Manolli! Master, master Manolli! Stop this joke and set me free— Soon a mother shall I be; See, the wall is crushing me, These hard stones my babe will kill; With salt tears my bosom fill.”