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Nor did she fear in the still moonshine
To look upon Saint Mary’s shrine;
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.
For that she came; there oft and long.
She sate in meditation strong:
And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
Was happy that she lived to greet
Her mute Companion as it lay
In love and pity at her feet;
How happy in her turn to meet
That recognition ! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance ;—
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior Creature !
A mortal Song we frame, by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
