| |
| SILENCE 1 o’er sea and earth | |
| With the veil of evening fell, | |
| Till the convent tower sent deeply forth | |
| The chime of its vesper bell. | |
| One moment—and that solemn sound | 5 |
| Fell heavy on the ear; | |
| But a sterner echo pass’d around; | |
| And the boldest shook to hear. | |
| |
| The startled monks throng’d up, | |
| In the torch-light cold and dim; | 10 |
| And the priest let fall his incense-cup, | |
| And the virgin hush’d her hymn; | |
| For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp, | |
| And a summoning voice were heard, | |
| And fretted wall, and tombstone damp, | 15 |
| To the fearful echo stirr’d. | |
| |
| The peasant heard the sound, | |
| As he sat beside his hearth; | |
| And the song and the dance were hush’d around, | |
| With the fireside tale of mirth. | 20 |
| The chieftain shook in his banner’d hall, | |
| As the sound of fear drew nigh; | |
| And the warder shrank from the castle wall, | |
| As the gleam of spears went by. | |
| |
| Wo—wo—to the stranger then; | 25 |
| At the feast and flow of wine, | |
| In the red array of mailed men, | |
| Or bow’d at the holy shrine; | |
| For the waken’d pride of an injured land | |
| Had burst its iron thrall; | 30 |
| From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band; | |
| Wo!—wo!—to the sons of Gaul! | |
| |
| Proud beings fell that hour, | |
| With the young and passing fair, | |
| And the flame went up from dome and tower; | 35 |
| The avenger’s arm was there! | |
| The stranger priest at the altar stood, | |
| And clasped his beads in prayer, | |
| But the holy shrine grew dim with blood; | |
| The avenger found him there! | 40 |
| |
| Wo!—wo! to the sons of Gaul; | |
| To the serf and mailed lord; | |
| They were gather’d darkly, one and all, | |
| To the harvest of the sword; | |
| And the morning sun, with a quiet smile, | 45 |
| Shone out o’er hill and glen, | |
| On ruin’d temple and mouldering pile, | |
| And the ghastly forms of men. | |
| |
| Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled, | |
| As its early glance came forth; | 50 |
| It had no sympathy with the wild | |
| And terrible things of earth; | |
| And the man of blood that day might read, | |
| In a language freely given, | |
| How ill his dark and midnight deed | 55 |
| Became the calm of heaven. | |
