Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1826.pdf/19

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was martial clamour heard In the Convent's sacred halls, And the noise of armed men Sounded strange from cloister'd walls.

It was the vesper hour, But no vesper then was sung; Instead of organ or of hymn, Iron boot and steel spur rung.

The Moon around the Chapel shone: What wont she to see there, But aged men bent meekly down In their still hour of prayer?

Now her beams are lost in light That torch and taper fling; And falls that light on a banquet board, And on a festal ring.

Cuirasses gleam'd, and waved White plumes in their war pride; While with their beads and dark gray cowls The Friars stood beside.

They are foemen—they are Gauls— Curses to Spain's fair land: How can the Convent's holy men Join with such lawless band?

Yet the Prior sat at the board-end, And courteously carved he; While his Monks mark'd not their hour of prayer, But join'd the revelry.

There were words of boasting joy, Of triumph o'er their foes; And many a song and jest Around the wine-cup rose.

But somewhat of shadow fell, As came on the hours of night: The haughty lip grew wan— The flashing eye less bright—