II.
And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky,
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.
And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa's form to its clay.
III.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
Of peace to the dark monk's brain.
Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush'd silent and fast;
And he strove to suppress them in vain.
IV.
Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor,
When the death-knell struck on his ear.
Delight is in store
For her evermore;
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.
V.
Then his eyes wildly roll'd,
When the death-bell toll'd,
And he rag'd in terrific woe.
And he stamp'd on the ground,—
But when ceas'd the sound
Tears again began to flow.
VI.
And the ice of despair
Chill'd the wild throb of care,
And he sate in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air,
And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill.
VII.
Then he knelt in his cell:—
And the horrors of hell
