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The warrior turn'd from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been, And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest-paths alone he sought. He reach'd a convent's Fane, that stood Deep bosom'd in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair, it seem'd a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams, of Heaven alone, To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e'en then were the sounds that rose, On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o'er the warrior's breast, Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away, Before the full, majestic lay. He enter'd the secluded Fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gaz'd—the hallow'd pile's array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strew'd around; The rose exhal'd its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die;