And scents, like perfumes, all the air befills,
Where lilies whiter than the snow itself,
And violets blue as the celestial vault,
And roses red, like to Aurora's blush,
Embellish the grand theatre of nature;
Where, from the ground, through interwoven roots,
The crystal liquid, which the earth o'erflows,
Up-springs, and forms a silver gushing pool,
Round which the cattle gather to allay
Their restless heat; and on the shelving banks,
The nymphs of the wood lie slumbering in the sun;
Here, in the midst of this delightful spot,
There stood an ancient monastery built
In the great Gothic style, whose mouldering walls
Retained an old solemnity of state,
Which struck religious awe into the soul,
Even ere its threshold crossed; this was a place
Well-suited for the purposes of guilt.
Within a little chamber of this cell,
Whose window on the churchyard opened, lay,
In solitude and silent woe, the man,
Whose passions and whose follies had reduced
Him from a princely fortune, to a wretch,
Despised by both his country and his friends.
A prey to bitter anguish and remorse,
He felt at intervals, the inward wounds
Of guilt, and all his former faults appeared
Like grim spectres, in the dark abyss
Of his unsettled mind, while the dull bell,
That summoned to their daily work the monks,
Filled his sad soul with terror, and increased
The pangs he felt, beyond what man could bear.