Literary Gazette, 22nd April, 1826, Page 252
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE DEATH-FEAST.*
Irregular Lines.
There 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—
