I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this string of antique beads, By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds, This rosary brown which is thine own,--lost soul of buried nun! Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone,-- I vowed upon thy rosary brown,--and, till such vow should break, A pledge always of living days 't was hung around my neck-- I vowed to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so!), _I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe._ _Evil Spirit._ And canst thou prove ... _Onora (in sleep)._ O love, my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain! Was this no weal for me to feel? Is greater weal than this? Yet when he came, I wept his name--and the angels heard but _his_. _Evil Spirit._ Well done, well done! _Onora (in sleep)._ Ah me, the sun! the dreamlight 'gins to pine,-- Ah me, how dread can look the Dead! Aroint thee, father mine! She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright, And her breath comes in sobs, while she stares through the night; There is nought; the great willow, her lattice before, Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor: But her hands tremble fast as their pulses and, free From the death-clasp, close over--the BROWN ROSARY. THIRD PART. I. 'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle, And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride, And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside At the work shall be doing; II. While down through the wood rides that fair company, The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee, Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once All the maids sigh demurely and think for the nonce, "And so endeth a wooing!" III. And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way, With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say; Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath, And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath When she sigheth or speaketh. IV. And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair, Till in nearing the chapel and glancing before, She seeth her little son stand at the door: Is it play that he seeketh? V. Is it play, when his eyes wander innocent-wild And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child? He trembles not, weeps not; the passion is done, And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun On his head like a glory. VI.