Yet even the youngest Novice took her share. 
To Angela, who had but ready will
And tender pity, yet no special skill,
Was given the charge of a young foreign knight,
Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger slight. 
Day after day she watched beside his bed,
And first in hushed repose the hours fled: 
His feverish moans alone the silence stirred,
Or her soft voice, uttering some pious word. 
At last the fever left him; day by day
The hours, no longer silent, passed away. 
What could she speak of?  First, to still his plaints,
She told him legends of the martyred Saints;
Described the pangs, which, through God’s plenteous grace,
Had gained their souls so high and bright a place. 
This pious artifice soon found success—­
Or so she fancied—­for he murmured less. 
So she described the glorious pomp sublime,
In which the chapel shone at Easter time,
The Banners, Vestments, gold, and colours bright,
Counted how many tapers gave their light;
Then, in minute detail went on to say,
How the High Altar looked on Christmas-day: 
The kings and shepherds, all in green and red,
And a bright star of jewels overhead. 
Then told the sign by which they all had seen,
How even nature loved to greet her Queen,
For, when Our Lady’s last procession went
Down the long garden, every head was bent,
And, rosary in hand, each Sister prayed;
As the long floating banners were displayed,
They struck the hawthorn boughs, and showers and showers
Of buds and blossoms strewed her way with flowers. 
The Knight unwearied listened; till at last,
He too described the glories of his past;
Tourney, and joust, and pageant bright and fair,
And all the lovely ladies who were there. 
But half incredulous she heard.  Could this—­
This be the world? this place of love and bliss! 
Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm,
That never failed to bring the gazer harm? 
She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened still,
And still the knight described with all his skill
The glorious world of joy, all joys above,
Transfigured in the golden mist of love. 
Spread, spread your wings, ye angel guardians bright,
And shield these dazzling phantoms from her sight! 
But no; days passed, matins and vespers rang,
And still the quiet Nuns toiled, prayed, and sang,
And never guessed the fatal, coiling net
Which every day drew near, and nearer yet,
Around their darling; for she went and came
About her duties, outwardly the same. 
The same? ah, no! even when she knelt to pray,
Some charmed dream kept all her heart away. 
So days went on, until the convent gate
Opened one night.  Who durst go forth so late? 
Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread,
Two silent, shrouded figures passed and fled. 
And all was silent, save the moaning seas,
That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze
That sighed among the perfumed hawthorn trees.