Volume 8 — Count De Montalembert.

In that drear twilight, herald of the day On which new faith, new hope, new love were born, And while my heart still pressed against the thorn Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay Of forest warbler in his own loved May, Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn, Elizabeth's young voice, which sang death's scorn In carols with celestial transports gay. Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade Creeps o'er my life, as clear and jubilant As that wild mocking-bird's, is heard the chant Of mighty abbots, whose processions fade Into the dark of ages, made by thee New themes for thought and holy minstrelsy.