THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE;

A TALE.

Introduction.

HENRY De S—, Baron of D—, was betrothed to Eulalia De L—e, a Daughter of the Marquis De L—e. An offer more suitable to the ambitious views of the Marquis, being made to him, for his Daughter; he compelled her to write a refusal to her first Lover, which was accompanied by a peremptory one from himself. The young Lord, unable to bear the thoughts of seeing the amiable woman he doated on given in marriage to another, secretly quitted his house; leaving a letter behind him, written in a style which indicated a mind bordering on despair and madness, declaring that all search after him would be in vain; desiring, in a formal manner, that his Kinsman might, as his Heir, take possession of his Titles and Estate, giving to Eulalia De L—e, all the fortune of which he had a right to dispose. Let her be told, adds the unhappy De S—, "that this must be looked on as a Brother's, not a Lover's gift: that Duty and Virtue forbid the Wife of the Duke of — to shed one tear of Love, to the Memory of the Baron De S—; let one wretched Victim to affection suffice[Page 382] — let him be forgotten. — May Heaven bless her. — Give her, great God! the happiness which might have fallen to my share! — add my date of days to hers!! —!"

When this young Nobleman disappeared, it was imagined from the whole tenor of his incoherent Letter, addressed to several friends, in different parts, but directed to no one; from his taking nothing of value with him, and leaving even his purse in his inkstand, that he left his house with an intention of putting an end to his Life. And, though after the most careful search, his body was not found, yet it was still believed that he had completed his shocking purpose.

Disguised in the Habit of a Pilgrim, Henry De S— went to the Abbey of La Trappe, in the Province of Perche, in the diocese of Séez. He gained admission. And the Father Abbot immediately received him into the fraternity. The Rules of this order are more austere than those of any other of the Romish Church. Perpetual silence is enjoined to the Monks. They are allowed neither to receive nor write letters. None of their friends may see them, so that they are totally ignorant of what passes in the World. Their only food is Bread and Pulse; their drink Water. Meat, Fish, Eggs, Milk, Butter, Wine and Oil, are forbidden to them. — They are not allowed to study. The Bible, and a very few books of severe morality and self-denial, compose the whole Library of a Monk of La Trappe. They live a very[Page 383] laborious Life, cultivating the earth, or following some manual employment, such as they are found most fitted for. The Father Abbot only is allowed to speak. When they are in the last agonies of Life, they are placed on a Bier covered with Straw and Ashes; and carried into the Church. They lie on this Bier till they expire: and if they retain the power of speech, in this last strife of Nature, their Vow of Silence is dispensed with; in order that they may exhort their Brethren: this permission has sometimes given rise to very affecting scenes and discoveries.

The uncommon severities which the young Baron De S— was obliged, by the Rules, to practise in the Monastery of La Trappe, injured his health. He had sound retirement, but not peace. The continual agitations of his mind, which converse with the friendly part of the World might have relieved, disturbed his reason, after he had been in this gloomy solitude two years. The Monks of La Trappe dig a part of their Grave at certain stated hours: Whilst employed in this occupation, Henry's now weakened mind pictured the form of his once-loved mistress sinking into it: This impression once made upon his imagination, constantly returned, at the same place, and time. His reason was not enough extinguished to make him suppose Eulalia really present; but the picture once formed by his disordered imagination was so strong, that he thought it a Vision: Impressed from this Idea, the coinage of his weakened reason, he determined, difficult and dangerous as the execution of such a[Page 384] design was, to escape from La Trappe: as he thought that Eulalia's appearance to him indicated a want of some assistance, which it might be in his power to give to her. Forbidden by the Rules of his order to speak but in prayer; and all the Brethren avoiding one another, except at Church, as much as possible; the state of Henry's mind, balancing between reason and madness, of which he himself at times was sensible, escaped observation. He got away amongst a number of Pilgrims who came to La Trappe to perform some acts of devotion; disguised in the very dress which he had on two years before, when he entered the Monastery. — How or where he parted from the other Pilgrims is not known.

After the second day's travelling, in the depth of a severe Winter, he was benighted, on a heath: he wandered there for some hours, till his strength and vital heat, spite of the hardships to which he was accustomed, were nearly exhausted, when his undirected steps brought him to the Convent of Meudon. Father Hubert found him kneeling in the Portico of the Church, as he came out, from celebrating Midnight Mass. The Benevolent Priest seeing a way-worn Pilgrim, at that time of the night, in such an unprotected situation, invited him to his Cell. After he had been refreshed there; confidence in the fame-known character of Father Hubert, despair, and the workings of a disordered imagination, joined to make him discover his wildly conceived design. Father Hubert attempted to win him from his purpose of[Page 385] pursuing his journey; he could not find which way he was bending his course, and he feared to ask him too many questions. Finding common persuafion, and what force he could oppose to him ineffectual, to deter him from continuing his journey; he feigned to suspect the real motive of it: but as the test of the purity of his intentions, Father Hubert offered himself to be his conductor, if he would stay till the Noon of the coming day; as in the Morning he was obliged by his office, being Almoner, and Priest to the Convent, to attend and officiate in an extraordinary solemnity, which was to be performed. Henry accepted of his offer, and, somewhat calmed, spent the remaining part of the night in prayer.

[Page 386]

THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE:

A TALE.

How much is Man to pride a slave! 
To compass an ambitious end,
Though he have godlike power to bless,
He acts the persecuting Fiend;

For sounding titles, pompous names,
That never gave one real joy,
His life is past in constant cares,
Which all his happiness annoy:

Not only to himself severe,
When fierce ambition cruel reigns,
He heeds no touch from Nature's ties,
Nor dove-like pity's melting strains. 

He harms the Friend whom he esteems;
He seeks the Wretch his soul disproves;
He does the deed his heart arraigns,
E'en immolates the Child he loves. 

And shall no warning Voice prevail? 
Will Man but by experience learn? 
Experience, dear-bought by himself,
His real interest to discern? 

[Page 387]

No! — from himself alone he learns —
The Ills which from ambition flow,
That all, but Virtue's heavenly charms,
Is Folly, Vanity, and Woe. 

Till he has tried the tortuous path,
Which blindfold he is doom'd to tread,
He thinks unhurt th' Ordeal to pass,
And tempts the danger he should dread. 

When Passion blows the treacherous gale,
Reason and Prudence quit their post;
The Mind obeys the boisterous storm,
Unshipp'd its helm, its compass lost. 

In vain the Muse, — e'en Heaven in vain, —
Point out the course it ought to steer;
Their warnings are unheeded all,
Till Fate allows no time to veer. 

Yet once again the Muse essays,
(Oh! may her warning voice prevail!) 
To show Ambition's fatal Ills,
Her moral pointing, from a tale. 

The Sun appear'd to set in blood;
Dark gathering clouds deform'd the East;
O'er the lone wild a Pilgrim rov'd,
Nor saw, nor hop'd a place of rest. 

[Page 388]

'Twas bleak December's dreary night,
Frore snow and beating hail descend;
Wand'ring he roam'd, nor knew which course
His weary way-worn steps to bend. 

Long had be trod the stiffen'd plain,
Fatigued, benumb'd with piercing cold;
Just as his hopeless spirits droop'd,
A not far distant bell was toll'd. 

Calm'd for a moment e'en his woes;
Hush'd were his sorrows and his fears;
And to the side whence the sound came,
His quicken'd, onward course he steers. 

The Bell now ceas'd — A striking Clock,
Proclaim'd the solemn hour of night:
And now he hears sweet Music's sound;
And sees a spreading, glaring light. 

Scarcely his weak'ned eye-balls bear
To meet its dazzling, welcome rays;
It shows a building's large extent,
A cloister'd convent's dome, displays. 

Its lofty portico he gain'd,
To shroud his tempest-beaten head:
And pious, kneel'd beneath its roof,
Whilst midnight Mass within was said. 

[Page 389]

The deep, full Organ's swelling sound,
Cheers his just fainting, woe-struck heart;
Soft mournful voices raise the tears,
Which from his half-clos'd eyelids start:

The Service ceas'd. — Hubert appear'd:
On the smooth brow of this lov'd sage
Autumnal grace, which linger'd long,
Yields to the majesty of Age. 

Say, cries the kind benignant Sire,
Why at this hour thou kneelest here? 
Can I assistance lend to check,
That heart-heav'd sigh, that falling tear? 

Thy Pilgrim's weeds, thy sandal'd feet,
Thy rugged poverty declare:
Perhaps thou'rt houseless and forlorn;
Then haste my happy Cell to share. 

He said, and lighted to his cell,
The hapless way-spent Pilgrim sigh'd;
What Thanks, my Father! can I give? 
No Thanks, the priestly Saint reply'd. 

God is the parent of us all;
The child of want, and woe, his care;
Whilst with me thou partak'st his gifts,
Thou hast a Brother's rightful share. 

[Page 390]

Then sit and eat, and cheerful eat,
What I with heartfelt pleasure give;
Hadst thou the plenteous store I have,
The helpless would from thee receive. 

Alas! the tears which 'scape thy eye,
Some deep-felt hopeless grief disclose;
They seem to say, "thou tend'st my wants,
But can'st not heal my mental woes." 

Thy uncouth garb, thy Pilgrim's staff,
Might cheat an undiscerning eye; —
Hast thou not bask'd in fortune's smile? 
The blushing Guest made no reply. 

Think not I mean t' ensnare thy youth;
For young, my Son! I see thou art,
Aught of thy secrets to disclose:
Yet would I ease thy troubled heart. 

Th' ingenuous blush of modest worth,
Glows nobly on thy downcast face;
Each tender Virtue's there express'd,
With simple, native, manly, grace. 

The awful front of Misery,
Must my respect and pity move;
When shrin'd in such a form as thine,
It claims a Father's care, and love. 

[Page 391]

Then can I, stranger! (frankly speak)
Do aught for thee beyond this hour? 
Thy griefs, thy prospects, all unknown,
Tell! freely tax my utmost power. 

Though bounded I must own that power;
Not circumscrib'd is Hubert's heart;
What that permits, this willing does:
Thy wants, within its reach, impart. 

And is this Meudon? (said the youth)
Art thou that Sainted Hubert, say! 
Whose pious Life has constant serv'd,
To give his holy doctrines sway? 

Art thou that Hubert, who refus'd
A Mitre's gorgeous envy'd load? 
Who shunn'd for Peace the path of Fame,
And honour's courted, thorn-strow'd road? 

This Dome, my Son! is Meudon call'd. —
Enough, — the heart-sad Pilgrim cried, —
Forgive me that I knew thee not,
Friend of the wretch! the wand'rer's guide:

Kneeling, the trembling Pilgrim said,
Father! let me thy blessing share;
Though I am crimson'd o'er with sins,
God will look down, and hear thy prayer. 

[Page 392]

O, ask a blessing for a wretch! 
May Heaven, the pious Hubert said,
Forgive and bless thee, hapless Son! 
And shower its bounties on thy head. 

I ask but peace, the youth reply'd;
And sure Heaven pointed out the way,
When here it led my wand'ring steps;
Far from my destin'd course astray. 

With thee I no concealment need;
My inmost thoughts, I dare disclose;
The present Errour of my mind,
And all my bitter unearn'd woes. 

Thy piercing eye pervades disguise:
These weeds are not my birth-right's dress. 
For Fortune gave me Titles, Wealth;
But dash'd, untouch'd, my cup of bliss. 

E'en hope is gone — my soul is dark —
Some dire, some unknown stroke I dread. 
The hand of wrath is rais'd on high,
The hand of Heaven against this head. 

Oh! why at me is aim'd the bolt? 
The shaken, bruised, broken reed. 
To show what God can do, man bear,
Must I, Eternal Justice! bleed? 

[Page 393]

On me, on me, thy bolt descends,
My harrass'd heart foreboding shows —
'T was thus I wept, 't was thus I fear'd,
Before my fatal last of woes. 

'T was then these death-like damps I felt,
This causeless, sick'ning horrour knew;
Before the lov'd Eulalia sent
Her fatal, tender, last Adieu. 

Still fresh I feel the dire request —
"Henry renounce, forgive, resign —
" My hand, my broken vows, my heart;
"For I must never, now, be thine,

"Duty compels my Hand from thee:
" But not from thee, my heart is torn. 
"Adieu! forgive the cruel act,
" Thy wretched friend, shall ever mourn. " 

Yes, I forgive thy broken vows! 
'T was strong compulsion urg'd the deed, —
But thou, old man! — My Father's friend! 
Why didst thou doom my heart to bleed? 

What hast thou done? — What thy reward? 
Forc'd us to curse our hapless fate. 
Say, is thy fell ambition gorg'd,
Thy Daughter made a Wretch in state? —

[Page 394]

Mine is the pang beyond distress —
Thou art her Sire — I curse thee not —
Father! I wander from my tale;
And mourn with useless grief my lot. —

I lov'd a gentle, smiling maid,
Whose mind surpass'd her far-fam'd charms. 
Her Father promis'd me her hand;
Yet tore her from these faithful arms. 

Then joyless night enwrapt my soul;
The sun ne'er rose to gild my Day;
Unblest he started from the East,
Or radiant shed his parting ray. 

Eulalia in another's arms! 
Was what I could not bear to see. 
He who could bear such prize to lose,
Has never lov'd, nor felt, like me. 

I shunn'd the sight of Nuptial joys;
Nor stay'd till they had seal'd my doom:
Determin'd I the World forsook;
And sought La Trappe's impervious gloom. 

Where rigid Piety resigns
A faithless World, not worth its care;
Here I the Habit took, and Vows:
Not from Religion, but despair. 

[Page 395]

Father! thou tremblest at my Guilt! —
Perjur'd I am, e'en at Heaven's Shrine,
Perpetual silence there I vow'd,
And ne'er again the world to join. 

But fix'd despair, and frantic grief,
Have tempted me to break those Vows. 
Will Heaven forgive the crime I've dar'd,
And pardon what it disallows? —

Two years I've dragg'd the heavy chain,
Of Life's incumbent, hated load;
Far from the cheerful walks of man;
With nought conversing, but my God:

And all my order's rigid Rules,
With gloomy pleasure I've observ'd:
Labour, and fasting, midnight prayers,
From silence, ne'er till now I've swerv'd. 

Oh! had I ere this fatal hour,
Which brings my guilty footsteps here,
In sackcloth and in ashes cloth'd,
Expiring press'd the welcome bier! 

Then had this prison of my Soul,
Beentomyslow-made** The Monks of La Trappe dig every day three Spadefuls of earth from their destined graves.
graveconsign'd;
Borne by my Brethren's pious love,
As in my requiem they had join'd. 

[Page 396]

Thou Grave! — (Now, Love, thy only balm!) 
My hope — my wish — my peace — my gain! —
Would I might plunge to thee uncall'd! 
Quick snatch me to thy dark domain. —

With terrour now the Pilgrim starts;
Aghast he fix'd his eager eyes,
As if some hideous form he saw:
And, frantic thus to Hubert cries. 

Father! the fatal Vision's here! —
Mark what her trembling lips shall say! —
She sinks — a horrid mass deform,
See! see! she slowly melts away. 

She's here again; — in beauty beams; —
Oh! keep that charming, lovely form! 
She sinks — to fell corruption's dross,
To feed the loathsome, bloated worm. 

Com'st thou again? O, speak, my Love! 
As erst beside my slow-dug grave. 
Say now thy Spirit waits for mine! 
Or what thy dreadful Visits crave! 

Was not my love for thee, as pure
As thy own spotless, heavenly mind? 
No other love, but that of God,
Glow'd in this breast, where thou art shrin'd. 

[Page 397]

For thee, I break my heaven-seal'd Vows;
To search, why thou disturb'st my rest. 
Say! dost thou want to rouse the friend
Within thy Henry's faithful breast? 

Say! if Misfortune's ruthless hand,
Make me thy only chosen aid? 
I'll dare as much as man may dare,
Protect thee if thou art betray'd. 

Dear, lovely, dreadful, Vision speak! 
Say why thou nightly thus art seen? 
Tell me thy Spirit waits for mine! 
Or what thy fearful Visits mean! —

Sink not to Earth! — Distract me not! 
Rise in thy beauty to my sight. 
Let loveliness still round thee fling,
Her radiant robe of living light. 

God of my Soul! avert thy wrath! 
O shield me from this horrid sight! 
Let madness, seize on memory's power! 
And shroud each sense in dunnest night. 

Why sink'st thou thus a shapeless mass? 
Thy form thus mould'ring to decay? 
O, take me to the shades of death! 
Terrific vision! lead the way! —

[Page 398]

Prostrate the raving Pilgrim fell. 
The pious Hubert rais'd his head;
Keeling beside his ghastly form;
Whilst o'er his woes, his bosom bled. 

I'll share thy griefs; be calm, my Son! 
Blest is that man who patient bears,
His heaven-appointed lot below;
Affliction, in this vale of tears. 

Take comfort then, my hapless Son! —
Say, cries the youth, hast thou a charm
Can cure despair; and heal my mind;
My memory of its sting disarm? 

If not, what comfort canst thou give? 
All other aid but that were vain. 
Would'st, with a breath control the waves;
Or strive the raging winds, to chain? 

Think'st thou, unbuffeted, this storm
Has lawless rul'd, without control? 
Or unresisting I obey'd,
This blackest tempest, of the Soul? 

O'er the sick mind, what balm has power,
Within art's ample, healing bound? 
I seek a cure, may haply prove,
A scorpion's venom to my wound. 

[Page 399]

Thou know'st our Order's rigid rules:
No converse with the world's allow'd;
But I must know, the fate of her,
To whom my early faith was vow'd. 

Her seen, That known, my mind will calm,
Nor more with visions be oppress'd. 
I'll expiate then my perjur'd Vows;
And patient wait eternal rest. 

Father, adieu! betray me not;
Full many a league I've yet to stray;
These pilgrim's weeds disguis'd me once,
As to La Trappe I steer'd my way. 

Beneath this humble, friendly garb,
I'll view, unseen, the form I love:
Return and expiate my offence;
And from my soul this load remove. 

Forbear to tempt this wintry gloom;
O, dread the dangers of the way! 
(The Father said) know thou'rt proscrib'd,
Thy wildness will thy crime betray. 

Renounce, my Son! thy dang'rous plan —
Ne'er but with life, the Youth reply'd;
Let me but live to see her once! 
Then, Parent Earth! my sorrows hide! 

[Page 400]

Constrain me not, forego thy grasp —
What can avail thy feeble age
'Gainst Youth, in all its prime of strength,
Nerv'd by athletic, frantic rage? 

Oh! stay me not — unloose thy hold —
O venerable Sire! forbear —
Oh! force me not to break thy grasp —
Dread to contend with fix'd despair —

What canst thou 'gainst my youthful arm? —
I venerate thy hoary hairs,
Yet not their sacred prevalence,
Nor e'en thy trembling, starting tears,

Can win my Soul to change its course. 
No Lion's force; not temper'd steel
Should bind me here — Yet bless me, Sire! 
Forgive the guilt thou ne'er canst feel! 

Alas! my Son! an instant stay. 
No longer shall my arm contend:
I'll not detain by force, or fraud: —
But hear the counsel of a friend. 

Just Heaven! direct my troubled thoughts! 
Instruct me what I ought to do;
How soothe this hapless, wretched youth;
Yet keep my Duty still in view! 

[Page 401]

My Soul disdains the traitor's part;
Thy secret trusted to my breast,
There lock'd, my Son! shall still repose,
Whilst thought and memory shall rest. 

Stay till to-morrow's noon be past. 
Be rul'd, and in thy friend confide;
Then will I share th' adventurous toil,
Thy wandering mind, thy footsteps guide. 

Soon as the Sun shall gild the East,
An awful Rite demands my care. 
As Priest, help thou to sing the Mass;
Claim, in that Sacrifice, thy share. 

If all thy purpose be to see
The form thou ought'st not now to love,
To calm thy mind and ease thy fears,
My offer'd aid thou wilt approve. 

Perhaps beyond stern Duty's rules
Prescrib'd, protecting thee, I go;
But man should err on mercy's side;
And stem, not aid, the storm of woe. 

A mind like thine indulgence wants. 
Yet better, Son! thy plan delay. 
May I not urge thee to return? 
And to La Trappe retrace thy way? 

[Page 402]

No more! — (with warmth, the Pilgrim cried)
A Prophet's eloquence would fail,
When yawning gulphs beneath my feet,
Nor Heaven's fear'd wrath could aught avail. 

Think'st thou thy voice can more than these —? 
Bid the fix'd stars in orbits roll;
Bid ocean's waves obey thy laws,
And hurl them foaming to the Pole. 

Do this: — then hope the Mind to rule,
The stricken Mind of freeborn Man,
Which, like the Comets' lawless blaze,
Though all unequal, has its plan. 

Distract me not — the woe-stung mind,
Too near approaches to that height,
Whence Reason roaming bursts all bounds;
And joins with madness in her flight. 

Urge me no more! — In mercy, cease! —
Father! I never will return;
Till I have seen the form I love,
Or clasp'd these arms around her Urn. 

Force or mean fraud thou wilt not use. 
I dare in Hubert's promise trust:
Thy hoary hairs, thy sacred fame,
Vouch, that thou canst not be unjust. 

[Page 403]

Glad I accept thee as my Guide. 
Thy welcome presence shall supply
The real presence of my God. 
As His, I'll fear thy piercing Eye. 

Heaven knows my heart, its frailties knows; —
It errs from woe, not wilful Sin:
Scan thou its movements, thou art just,
And aid the monitor within. 

I thank thee, Father! for thy care;
Be the companion of my way:
I'll wait the morn. — My Duty calls
To prayer. Let me its voice obey. 

Trembling he kneel'd, — "Great God, he cried,
" Omniscient, all-pervading mind! 
"Upon a prostrate, sinful worm,
" Look from that Heaven, where thou art shrin'd. 

"Not in avenging terrours rob'd,
" Thy Sword of Justice rais'd on high;
"But, clad in Mercy's mildest beam,
" Thee, let my trembling soul, descry. 

"Else, dare I not, my prayer prefer,
" Wert thou but terrible and just;
"Who seest my unknown secret Sins:
" But thou art Mercy, — I am dust. 

[Page 404]

"Pity a stricken, wounded mind;
" Forlorn of thee for ends divine. 
"O! heal the Soul, thy wrath has pierc'd:
" And be the praise, and Glory, thine. —

"Yet, awful Power! thy will be done! 
" Meek let me bow before thy rod,
"If I must bear this worst of ills,
" Nor dare to murmur at my God! 

"O! if my voice can reach the height,
" Where Mercy's beams surround thy Throne. 
"Another prayer I would prefer,
" For a Soul dearer than my own. 

"Lend still a moment to my Mind,
" The strength to guide my voice aright;
"Avert the horrour of my soul; —
" O! take this Phantom from my sight. 

"But if some secret, unknown sin,
" Against my soul thy wrath doth move;
"Still let me suffer in myself;
" And not in her I maddening love. 

"Though wounded to my inmost Soul,
" I feel the torture phrenzy knows,
"Pierc'd by this worst of human ills,
" Yet add to mine, her sum of woes! 

[Page 405]

"If, God of Justice! to her share,
" Fall aught of ill, oh! be it mine! 
"Watch o'er her with a parent's care;
" Still let thy Grace around her shine. 

"Mild as her virtues be her fate. 
" Let peace, and glory, crown her head. 
"Let Grief ne'er find her heart its home,
" And but for me, one tear be shed. 

"Let that be Pity's gentle tear,
" Which sadly-pleasing moves the heart;
"Not that which, harrowing the foul,
" Is seen from Passion's eye to start. 

"Refine her mind from earthly love:
" Late may she learn my hapless doom. 
"Let not my purpose teem with woe. 
" Grant us! — vain wish, — one common tomb! 

"God of my Soul! dread Being, hear! 
" Awful, Omnipotent, yet Just.
"Bruise not the shaken, broken reed:
" Nor the worm, humbled to the dust. 

"If aught that's impious I have ask'd,
" Not to my errours be it join'd:
"Pardon the wanderings of my heart;
" And the frail weakness of my Mind. 

[Page 406]

"Yet save thy first of works below, —
" A virtuous mind in beauty's form, —
"Keep Her, dread God! from ev'ry ill;
" And on my head direct the storm. 

"Thanks for this gleam of reason's light. 
" Yet fearful is the scene it shows:
"I view the horrours I have felt:
" O! add not madness to my woes. 

"Avert that Tempest from my mind:
" The wreck of Man's pre-eminence:
"Chain this wild demon of my Soul. 
" God! show thy blest Omnipotence. " 

With frantic and disorder'd haste,
The Pilgrim said his wonted prayers,
The midnight office of La Trappe,
With agonizing sighs and tears. 

The pious Hubert watch'd his Guest;
And view'd the workings of his soul,
Wish'd to relieve his anguish'd mind;
Yet fear'd the storm, he would control. 

In meditation and in prayer,
The young Monk spent night's live-long hours. 
His ruffled, harrass'd mind seem'd sooth'd;
And show'd Religion's healing powers. 

[Page 407]

The Morning breaks; dark, gloomy, sad. 
And in the East, no Sun appears. 
Hail, rain, and snow, deform the Sky;
Each leafless tree is dropping tears. 

A tolling bell to early Mass,
Now call'd the pious, hallow'd Priest;
Prostrate he kiss'd the Altar's base,
Attended by his sorrowing Guest. 

Each said his Mass, and then retir'd
Fasting; to meditate, and pray. 
Compos'd the stranger Guest appear'd;
Yet could not prayer his gloom allay. 

As in the Sacristy they kneel'd,
Hubert,sadAnselm** In the Roman Church, when either a Man or Woman enters into a Monastic Order, they are called by the name of some Saint, not by their Christian or Family Name.
,thusaddress'd,
"Canst thou assist in the next Mass? 
" Or is thy soul too much distress'd? 

"Cuthbertha then those vows will make
" Which nought on earth can e'er erase;
"Wilt thou her written Vows receive,
" And place them on the Altar's base,

"Whilst I the Benediction give,
" And join the sainted, virgin choir,
"To celebrate the sacrifice
" Which zeal and piety inspire? " 

[Page 408]

The Stranger willing bow'd assent. 
The deep-ton'd bell proclaim'd the hour:
In Priestly vestments, at the Shrine,
Again their orisons they pour. 

The Curtain drawn before the Grate,
Conceal'd the Sainted Vestal band. 
Now drawn aside, the Virgin Choir,
In order round the Novice stand. 

Cover'd with cloth of blackest hue,
An Altar in the midst was rear'd,
Th' intended victim kneeling there
In sable, flowing robes appear'd. 

A Veil of lawn, of purest white,
Which swept with graceful folds the ground,
Around her face and shoulders spread;
A Crown of Thorns her temples bound. 

Emblem of all that's fair and good,
Shone Modesty upon her brow;
And with a blush her cheek suffus'd,
More deep than beauty's transient glow. 

Yet hers was beauty's choicest form,
Approaching almost to divine;
That, but for some slow-falling tears,
She seem'd an Angel at the Shrine. 

[Page 409]

Trembling with tears, her soft, blue eyes
Shone like the moon before the storm;
Now bright, now darken'd by the mist,
As gathering clouds the sky deform. 

The Organ's solemn descant flow'd:
With eager gaze she seeks the skies:
Then kiss'd, with pious awe, the cross,
Whilst heavenly rapture fill'd her eyes. 

Th' expecting crowd gaz'd on the maid;
A sigh was heav'd from every breast,
At sight of the sweet Victim's charms,
For whom the sacred shrine was dress'd. 

For beauty melts the fiercest heart;
Subdues the sternest, firmest mind:
But victim beauty claims the sigh
Of love, and tender sorrow join'd. 

She rose; her gentle bosom heav'd;
The Lilly oft usurp'd her cheek;
As to the curtain'd Grate she walk'd,
With downcast eyes, mild, modest, meek. 

Her folded hands, her downcast eyes,
The sigh by piety repress'd,
Spoke resignation to her Fate,
But Comfort alien to her breast. 

[Page 410]

Close to the Altar's foot she kneel'd. 
With trem'lous voice, her Vows she made:
Vows — which engag'd to quit the world, —
For ever, for the Cloister's shade. 

Anselm approach'd to take the Scroll,
And place it on the Altar's base. —
His gloomy, ground-fix'd eye now view'd,
For the first time, Cuthbertha's face. 

Forgetful of the place, the time,
Cuthbertha, Henry's name, exclaim'd. —
The Parchment scap'd his trembling hand —
Anselm, the lov'd Eulalia, nam'd. 

"O, faithful found! what joy in grief! —
" Lift up again thy dove-like eyes! 
"O God of wrath! eternal bars
" 'Gainst our, once guiltless, union rise. 

Th' affrighted Hubert seiz'd his arm. —
"O know, my Son! he whispering said,
" Thy words are doubly impious here;
"God's on the Shrine; his vengeance dread. 

"Go, seek my Cell, and hide thee there! —"
"No!" cried the awe-struck, wretched youth;
"The winged shaft of death is sped;
" Let my last look behold her Truth. 

[Page 411]

"Approach, and bless the trembling saint;
" Thy sacred office now pursue! —
"Grant this, my last request in life, —
" Let my dimm'd eyes love's victim view. " 

An awful silence now ensued. —
Pale terrour in each face appears;
It reign'd a moment — and was chac'd
By one, loud burst of groans and tears. —

Grief found a universal voice;
For woes, beyond the reach of cure:
All pity'd, lov'd, and mourn'd, the pair,
Call'd, such stern trial, to endure. 

Hubert drew near the beauteous Nun;
The holy Benediction gave. 
Her half-clos'd eyes to Heaven were rais'd,
She seem'd, some earnest wish, to crave. 

With trembling haste Cuthbertha rose. 
Her charming eyes had lost their fire. 
Dreadfully calm, she gaz'd around,
As slow she totter'd down the Choir. 

There, on her knees, her requiem sung. 
Then, prostrate, kiss'd the hallow'd ground. 
A Pall secluded her from view:
Whilst all the Sisters chaunted round. 

[Page 412]

Thrice, round the emblematic Pall,
The Abbess shook the holy Dew. 
And thrice, with graceful, well-taught hand,
The smoking incense, circling threw. 

The Vestal band the Office sung:
Whilst 'neath the Pall Cuthbertha lies. 
The Ritual done; the Pall romov'd:
"Sester," the Abbess said, "arise." 

Cuthbertha heeded not the voice. —
The trembling Nuns around her drew. 
They raise her languid, charming form;
And, Death, in every feature view. 

Each art which stackning life recalls,
With eager, well-meant haste, they try. 
She strives for speech; but 't is in vain;
Her quivering lips their aid deny. 

Again she strove, and rais'd her eyes,
Her outstretch'd hands together press'd;
Then, like a tempest-beaten flower,
Sunk, — ne'er to rise, — on Helen's breast. 

Despair and Horrour in his look,
Anselm on his Cuthbertha gaz'd;
Distracted saw, that Death's stern hand,
The beauteous edifice had raz'd. 

[Page 413]

And as they bore her corpse away,
His fix'd eye spoke, that poignant woe,
Which words, or tears, can ne'er express:
Souls, pierc'd like his, can only know. 

Falling at Hubert's feet, he said, —
"Let the Grave join — Our vows are past —"
This effort his affection made,
But it was dying Nature's last. —

The boon the hapless Henry ask'd,
To the sad pair the Sisters gave. 
In Death they had fulfill'd their Vows;
Which reach'd no further than the Grave. 

Ye Fair! ye Young! ye Gay! ye Vain! 
This tale, O not unsoften'd hear! 
These hapless Lovers claim one sigh;
Their woes, but not their Death, a Tear. 

One tear of Sorrow, e'en from hearts,
Adversity has never taught,
And soften'd in her rugged School;
And bade to taste her wholesome draught. —

Within that Heart, which views unmov'd
All other griefs except its own,
Friendship shall never find a place;
Nor Virtue e'er erect her throne. 

[Page 414]

What though no woes assail ye now,
No anguish, no corroding care,
Was not Eulalia happy once? 
The fairest too, where all were fair? 

Till Henry was deny'd her love;
And secret left his lordly seat;
She ne'er had tasted sorrow's pang;
But then her misery rose complete. 

Her gentle bosom knew no peace;
Nought now could ease its throbbing pain. 
The faithful, much-lov'd Henry lost:
Her Sire relented now in vain. 

A burning fever fir'd her blood:
Insatiate Death watch'd for his prey;
Though Youth repell'd his eager grasp,
'T was only for a short delay. 

Th' ambitious Sire his folly curs'd,
His Daughter fading in her bloom,
The duteous Victim to his pride,
Slow sinking to an early Tomb. —

Him moping melancholy seiz'd;
With mind distraught that knows no rest;
The thought, that he had kill'd his Child,
For ever haunts his cruel breast. 

[Page 415]

Hopeless a Cloister'd life she chose. 
Far from those scenes which Love had known,
Where hours now pass'd with leaden pace;
Which once, with swiftest wing, had flown. 

She fear'd that Henry's frantic mind,
Had rais'd his hand against his life;
And rashly plung'd in endless woe;
From passion's fell, conflicting strife. 

To weep, and pray, for him she lov'd,
To God she dedicates her hours;
Her sighs, her unseen tears, were his;
And his the Orisons, she pours. 

The Nuns of Meudon, at her Death,
First learn'd, the reason of her Grief. —
Unseen, the mourner lov'd to weep;
Nor would be thought to want relief. 

Think not, ye Fair! ye are secure
(Though happy now) from grief and care. 
The woes I sing ye ne'er may know:
But others fall to Mortals' share. 

If Virtue in your bosoms glow:
If Pity there her Altar rear:
The Sympathy these woes excite,
Shall teach to stem, some falling Tear. 

[Page 416]

To be the hand of Providence,
Its Angel, ministring below. 
Dispenser thou, the Donor God,
Who giving, gives thee to bestow. 

Then not unuseful has the Muse
From Meudon's annals sketch'd this Tale;
Of Henry's woes, Eulalia's love:
And snatch'd it from oblivion's vale. 

(1787.)

Text

TEI/XML [chunk] (XML - 1.9M / ZIP - 169K) / ECPA schema (RNC - 357K / ZIP - 73K)
Plain text [excluding paratexts] (TXT - 27K / ZIP - 12K)

Facsimile (Source Edition)

(Page images digitized from a copy in the Bodleian Library [Harding D 467].)

Images

Image #1 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #2 (JPEG - 2.5M)
Image #3 (JPEG - 2.5M)
Image #4 (JPEG - 2.5M)
Image #5 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #6 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #7 (JPEG - 2.4M)
Image #8 (JPEG - 2.4M)
Image #9 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #10 (JPEG - 2.5M)
Image #11 (JPEG - 2.5M)
Image #12 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #13 (JPEG - 2.0M)
Image #14 (JPEG - 2.4M)
Image #15 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #16 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #17 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #18 (JPEG - 2.4M)
Image #19 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #20 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #21 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #22 (JPEG - 2.4M)
Image #23 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #24 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #25 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #26 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #27 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #28 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #29 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #30 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #31 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #32 (JPEG - 2.1M)
Image #33 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #34 (JPEG - 2.2M)
Image #35 (JPEG - 2.3M)
Image #36 (JPEG - 2.4M)

PDF

All Images (PDF - [an error occurred while processing this directive])

About this text

Title (in Source Edition): THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE; A TALE.

Author: Hannah Brand

Themes:

Genres: narrative verse

Text view / Document view

Source edition

Brand, Hannah, 1754-1821. Plays and poems: by Miss Hannah Brand. Norwich: printed by Beatniffe and Payne; and sold by Messrs. F. and C. Rivington; and Messrs. Elmsley and Bremner, London, 1798, pp. 381-416. xv,[1],424p.; 8⁰. (ESTC T42452; OTA K041482.000) (Page images digitized from a copy in the Bodleian Library [Harding D 467].)

Editorial principles

The text has been typographically modernized, but without any silent modernization of spelling, capitalization, or punctuation. The source of the text is given and all editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. Based on the electronic text originally produced by the TCP project, this ECPA text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE;

A TALE.

Introduction.

THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE:

A TALE.

Text

Facsimile (Source Edition)

Images

PDF

About this text

Source edition

Editorial principles

Other works by Hannah Brand

Phonological layer

Morphological layer

Syntactic layer

Semantic layer

Pragmatic layer