The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [112]
MIDNIGHT HYMN.
Now all is hush’d; the solemn chime
No longer swells the nightly gale:
Thy awful presence, hour sublime,
With spotless heart once more I hail.
’Tis now the moment still and dread,
When sorcerers use their baleful power;
When graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour.
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.
Good angels! take my thanks, that still
The snares of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown?
Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away,
The witching spell, a foe to rest,
The nightly goblin, wanton fay,
The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest.
Let not the tempter in mine ear
Pour lessons of unhallowed joy;
Let not the night-mare, wandering near
My couch, the calm of sleep destroy.
Let not some horrid dream affright
With strange fantastic forms mine eyes;
But rather bid some vision bright
Display the bliss of yonder skies.
Shew me the crystal domes of heaven,
The worlds of light where angels lie;
Shew me the lot to mortals given,
Who guiltless live, who guiltless die.
Then shew me how a seat to gain
Amidst those blissful realms of air;
Teach me to shun each guilty stain,
And guide me to the good and fair.
So ev’ry morn and night my voice
To heaven the grateful strain shall raise;
In you as guardian powers rejoice,
Good angels! and exalt your praise.
So will I strive, with zealous fire,
Each vice to shun, each fault correct:
Will love the lessons you inspire,
And praise the virtues you protect.
Then when at length, by high command,
My body seeks the grave’s repose,
When death draws nigh with friendly hand,
My failing pilgrim eyes to close:
Pleas’d that my soul has ’scap’d the wreck,
Sighless will I my life resign,
And yield to God my spirit back,
As pure as when it first was mine.
Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours she enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a monarch with pleasure would exchange his crown.
CHAP. VII.
——Ah! how dark
These long-extended realms and rueful wastes;
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night,
Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams
Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly taper,
By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults
Furred round with mouldy damps and ropy slime,
Lets fall a supernumerary horror,
And only serves to make thy night more irksome!
BLAIR.
Returned undiscovered to the abbey, Ambrosio’s mind was filled with the most pleasing images. He was wilfully blind to the danger of exposing himself to Antonia’s charms: he only remembered the pleasure which her society had afforded him, and rejoiced in the prospect of that pleasure being repeated. He failed not to profit by Elvira’s indisposition to obtain a sight of her daughter every day. At first he bounded his wishes to inspire Antonia with friendship: but no sooner was he convinced that she felt that sentiment in its fullest extent, than his aim became more decided, and his attentions assumed a warmer colour. The innocent familiarity with which she treated him, encouraged his desires. Grown used to her modesty, it no longer commanded the same respect and awe: he still admired it, but it only made him more anxious to deprive her of that quality which formed her principal charm. Warmth of passion,