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Flowed more and more.—But she was beautiful!'
Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
And innocent as beautiful!' exclaimed
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke;
And I accosted her to hear her story.
“The stab,' she cried, was given in jealousy;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,
As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
When on her way from vespers

- None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell —
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain -- that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's —
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she passed, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven!'- But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appeared !
Thronging, they came — as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! 'Oh say,' I cried,
'Do not the living here bury the dead ?
Do Spirits come and fetch them? What are these,
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day;
Each with a burning taper in his hand ?'-
It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.

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