Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/340

236 Who hides within its inmost fold Strange crimes to mortal ear untold? In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies, Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear, And there to shun thee tries: In vain untold his crime to mortal ear, Silence and whispered sounds but make thy voice more clear. Lo, where the cowled monk with frantic rage Lifts high the sounding scourge, his bleeding shoulders smites! Penance and fasts his anxious thoughts engage, Weary his days and joyless are his nights, His naked feet the flinty pavement tears, His knee at every shrine the marble wears; Why does he lift the cruel scourge? The restless pilgrimage why urge? 'Tis all to quell thy fiercer rage,