Classic Poem

A CANTATA .

RECITATIVE .

O F Constance holy legends tell,
The softest sister of the cell;
None sent to Heav'n so sweet a cry,
Or roll'd at mass so bright an eye.
No wanton taint her bosom knew,
Her hours in heavenly vision flew,
Her knees were worn with midnight pray'rs,
And thus she breath'd divinest airs:

AIR .

" In hallow'd walks and awful cells,
Secluded from the light and vain,
The chaste-ey'd maid with Virtue dwells,
And solitude and silence reign.

The wanton's voice is heard not here;
To Heav'n the sacred pile belongs;
Each wall returns the whisper'd pray'r,
And echoes but to holy songs,

RECITATIVE .

Alas! that pamper'd monks should dare
Intrude where sainted Vestals are!
Ah, Francis, Francis! well I weet
Those holy looks are all deceit.
With shame the Muse prolongs her tale,
The Priest was young, the Nun was frail;
Devotion falter'd on her tongue,
Love tun'd her voice, and thus she sung:

AIR .

" Alas! how deluded was I
To fancy delights as I did,
With maidens at midnight to sigh,
And love, the sweet passion, forbid!

" O Father! my follies forgive,
And still to absolve me be nigh;
Your lessons have taught me to live,
Come teach me, O teach me! to die.

To her arms in a rapture he sprung,
Her bosom, half naked, met his;
Transported in silence she hung,
And melted away at each kiss.

" Ah Father! (expiring, she cried)
With rapture I yield up my breath!"
" Ah Daughter! (he fondly replied)
The righteous find comfort in death."