Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/356

310 And sees that friar, who calmly now Is laid, with sleep no more to strive, With age so feehly doomed to bow, Tomorrow will survive. But hark! what noise the silence breaks This hour unseasonably by? Some one a gay guitar awakes And mirthful songs reply; And shouts are raised, and sounds are heard Of bottles rattling, and perchance Others, remember'd well, concurred Of lovers in the dance. And then he hears funereal roll, Between each pause in accents high, "Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul Of him condemned to die." And so combined the drunkard's shout, The toast, the strifes, and fancies wild Of all that Bacchanalian rout, With wanton's songs defiled, And bursts of idle laughter, reach Distinct into the gloomy cell, And seem far off ejected each The very sounds of hell.