XXXIV. Long did they wait; at length the tidings came 66 Go," cried the father, "meet him in the wood!" And young Gualberto went, and laid in wait for blood. XXXV. When now the youth was at the forest shade And he, already wearied with his way, XXXVI. Slow sunk the glorious sun, a roseate light Soften'd in shade, he could not choose but gaze; And now a placid greyness clad the heaven, Save where the west retain'd the last green light of even. XXXVII. Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, XXXVIII. Is there who has not felt the deep delight, And young Gualberto was not hard of heart— vesper bell.' XXXIX. The Catholic who hears that vesper bell, Howe'er employed, must put a prayer to heaven. In foreign lands I liked the custom well, For with the calm and sober thoughts of even It well accords; and shouldst thou journey there, It will not hurt thee, George, to join that vesper-prayer. XL. Gualberto had been duly taught to hold Each pious rite with most religious care, And-for the young man's feelings were not coldHe never yet had miss'd his vesper-prayer. But strange misgivings now his heart invade, And when the vesper bell had ceased, he had not pray'd. XLI. And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd? The words of Him who died to save mankind; XLII. Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope That yet some chance his victim might delay. So as he mused, adown the neighbouring slope He saw a lonely traveller on his way; And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd,— His holier thoughts are gone; he bares the murderous sword. XLIII. "The house of Valdespesa gives the blow! And prostrate at the young man's knees he fell, XLIV. At that most blessed name, as at a spell, Conscience, the God within him, smote his heart, His hand for murder raised unharming fell, He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead start, A moment mute in holy horror stood, Then cried, "Joy, joy, my God! I have not shed his blood!" XLV. He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live, XLVI. He ran with breathless speed, he reach'd the door, For grace vouchsafed; before the cross he fell, XLVII. A blest illusion! From that very night |