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Rh A distant gale, Mark said ; but as he spoke It neared, and crashed against the window-frames, Like some poor mendicant, as Agnes said, Who fails, with famished voice, to make men hear Until, Death-driven, he leaps boldly up And batters at the door until it opes. Suddenly from the wall a picture sprang, And fell at Agnes' feet ; she smiled, " Poor nun, I think we will not hang her any more." Then told me the tradition, how 'twas said That this had been a weak and foolish Prynne, Who took the veil, repented it, and died. " The storm has passed," Mark said ; " 'twas strangely short. Listen, how still it is, for you to sing The plaint I heard at dusk, dear, yester-eve, Your last new song." " My last song, yes," And Agnes smiled her danger smile, that thrilled One's soul, as when a rift in stormy clouds Shows the blue ether in unearthly calm : —