"Is there no hope on earth?" the pilgrim sighed. "None through thy penance," said the saintly man. "Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,-- The Cardinal Filippo,--he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,--through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness." How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,-- "ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE." Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content.