At twilight one ev’ning, a poor old man,
  Whose tattered cloak had once seen better days,
(That now were dwindled to the shortest span:)
  Whose rimless, crownless hat provoked the gaze
Of saucy urchins and of grown-up boys: 
  Whose hoary locks should e’er protect from scorn,
One who had ceased to court earth’s fading joys,—­
  Knock’d at a door, thus lonely and forlorn.

A pilgrim’s staff supported his frail form,
  Whilst tremblingly he waited at the door;
And feeble tho’ he seemed, he feared not harm,
  For ’neath his cloak a trusty sword he bore. 
A menial came, and thus he spoke:—­’Away! 
  Old man, away! seek not to enter here: 
We feed none such as you:  so hence!  I say:—­
  Perhaps across the street you’ll better fare.’

In broken accents now the pilgrim plead—­
  ’Friend, I have journeyed far; from lands abroad;
And bear a message from the absent dead,
  To one who dwells in this august abode. 
Thy mistress,—­fair Beatrice,—­dwells she here? 
  If so, quick, bring me to her instantly;
For I have speech that fits her private ear
  Forthwith:  none else my words shall hear but she.’

Now, ushered thro’ the spacious hall, he passed
  Into a gorgeous room, where sat alone,
Beatrice fair; who, on the pilgrim cast
  Inquiring looks, and scarce suppressed a groan. 
‘Be seated, aged father;’ thus she said: 
  ’And tell me whence you are, and why you seek
A private conf’rence with a lonely maid
  Whose sorrows chase the color from her cheek.

’If true it is, from distant lands you come,
  Mayhap from Palestine you wend your way;
If so, be silent, be forever dumb,
  Or else, in joyful accents, quickly say,
That all is well with one most dear to me,
  Who, two long years ago, forsook his home,
And now forgets his vows of constancy,
  For bloody wars in distant lands to roam.’

As if to dash a tear, he bends his head,
  And sighing, thus the weary pilgrim speaks: 
’Alas! my words are few,—­thy friend is dead!’—­
  As monumental marble pale, she shrieks,
And falls into the aged pilgrim’s arms;
  Who, justly filled with terror and dismay,
In speechless wonder, gazed upon her charms,
  As, inwardly he seemed to curse the day.

But, slowly she revives—­when, quick as light,
  His cloak and wig are instantly thrown by—­
And what is that that greets her ’wildered sight? 
  Ah! whose fond gaze now meets her longing eye?—­
Her own dear Alfred, from the wars returned,
  Had chosen thus to steal upon his love:—­
And whilst his kisses on her cheek now burned,
  He vow’d to her, he never more would rove.

THOUGHTS,

ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDCHILD FANNY.

    And all wept and bewailed her:  but He said, weep not; she is not
    dead, but sleepeth.