The Irish republic. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1867-18??, 1868-02-01

= i1O1oAA AO14A - ILL
And Ger the vaued glooms where spectral means
Thrill on the ear of midnight passer-by,
From worms and dust, wilderness of bones
Until she came into the chancel where,
Mid blocks of stone and marble white, she saw
Alured Brito by the statue
Of crusader, tall and stern and grand,
Chisseling his shield of stone heart-shaped, stand
Alured turned, and leaning his right arm
Upon the statue, while throughout his frame
The blood rushed rapid as bright spring storm,
Bathing his dusky brow in color warm.
" You come like morning. maid" the sculptor said,
" To cheer my work in passing; when your tread
Came whispering softly through those wintry aisles
This heart beat faint, that now beneath your smiles
Throbs happier than since the statue there,
Which is my best was finished" "Mean you this
Good sculptor for love speechw Nmue
Asked, while little laugh thriPd crystally
From her rosed cheek declined. "Well inward bliss
Must show its hidden treasures to the air,
And if it fills the of her from whose
Beauty its words took form and light, like dews
Trembling upon yon leaf in the sunbeam,
It's charm is trebled. You have been the dream
That for year has haunted me allwhere
When lonelies, happiest with it and though
Never gave my love voice, thought
You knew loved you, Minute; and so
Even now I speak it, though it came to naught
And ask you but to let me love you still,
So sweet it is to cherish such delight.
Say, will you, will you? again ask" And bright
Her tender eyes, bent on him, said, "I will.'
But as she hurried to the porch, and meath
It's twnkling ivy turned to say FAREWELL
Alured, as though moved by some sweet SPELL
Seized her hand She felt his kiss and breath
A second, and then hurried light along
Toward the town, nor looked again
Until the grassy shoulder of little hill,
Upon whose summit whrr'd' merry mill,
Shut out the church, and then twas a side glance.
Meanwhile, the sculptor, in whose ears the song
Of her light voice still murmured, had resumed
His work on the crusader of old France,
And round him morning goldened into day,
Along the damp, stained, Wondering walls of gray,
While down the misty distance of the asles,
Bordered with scutcheon and dumb dust entombed,
Through pictured windows fell the colored ray
Upon the dusty banners and stone floor,
Dear since she paced its wrinkled level DER,
Through silent twilight, but more dear the place
Where he had touched her hand and seen her cheek
From pale reserve to coyest wonder
Stirred by his words in rising bushes break;
And he was happy and the statues face,
All stern and cold and blocklsh heretofore,
Under his chsel gained living grace,
And noble beauty grew about the brow,
That day. But, long since Nimue by the shore
And high sea banks, had reached her home, and sat
Pensive within her little chamber, while
The summer sun burned DER each sandy flat
Southwark on Calais town and azure port
And spacing channel; on her lips smile
lowered; she sang, and joyous was her mood
At times, and then sadness filled her blood
And with the evening she grew all amort,
Uncertain whether as her needle wrought
The roses on her frame, to give her thought
To what he spake in seriousness sport.
Months rolled along the church, the town and Brine
But as they closed towards winter, many things
Had happened unto Nimue, who,
The autumn sun Swallowed his golden WINGS
Had grown the golden heiress of knight,
Wealthy and old, the last of a branch line,
Who had bequeathed unto his half neice fair