With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone,

"O, Father, hear me ! if this splendid pile Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone,

Bless it, Q Father, with thy fostering smile!

Still

may it stand, and never evil know,

Long as beside its walls the eternal stream shall flow.

"But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men

Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast

lent,

To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then!

Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent!

Let yonder brook, that flows so calm beside, Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride!"

He said,.. and lo, the brook no longer flows!

The waters pause, and now they swell on high; High and more high the mass of water grows;

The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly,

And on their Saints and on their God they call, For now the mountain bulk o'ertops the convent wall.

It falls, the mountain bulk, with thundering sound!
Full on Moscera's pile the vengeance falls !
Its lofty tower now rushes to the ground,

Prone lie its columns now, its high arch'd walls, Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide, That from its base swept down the unholy house* of pride.

* Era amigo be pobreza, en tanto grado, que sentia mucho, que los Monasterios se edificassen sumptuosamente; y assi visitando el de Moscera y viendo un edificio grande, y elegante, bueltoà Rodulpho, que era alli Abad, con el rostro ayrado le dixo: Con lo que has gastado, siguiendo tu parecer, en este magnifico edificio, has quitado el sustento a muchos pobres. Puso los ojos en un pequeno arroyo, que corria alli cerca, y dixo, Dios Omnipotente, que sueles hacer grandes cosas de pequenas criaturas, yo te ruego, que vea por medio de esta pequeno arroyo venganza de este gran edificio. Dixo esto, y fuese de alli como abominando el lugar; y siendo oido, el arroyuelo comenzo a crecer, y fue de suerte, que recogiendo un monte de agua, y tomando de atràs la corriente, vino con tan grande impetu, que llevando piedras y arboles consigo, derribo el edificio.

Flos Sanctorum, por El Maestro Alonso de Villegas.

Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth,

Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound? This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth,

He only play'd his pranks in foreign ground; For had he turn'd the stream on England too, The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view.

Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my sight,
Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile;

I had not traversed then with such delight
The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle,

Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike road.

Wells would have fallen, dear George, our country's pride;

And Canning's stately church been rear'd in vain, Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried,

Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain, Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way, Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay.

And we should never then have heard, I think,

At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell. The fountain streams that now in Christ-church stink, Had niagara'd o'er the quadrangle ;

But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood,

I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might have stood.

Then had not Westminster, the house of God,
Served for a concert-room, or signal-post;

Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod,

Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast; And, eager to destroy the unholy walls, Fleet-ditch had roll'd up hill to overwhelm St. Paul's.

George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds
Of Romish saints a useless medley store

Of lies, that he flings time away who reads?

And would'st thou rather bid me puzzle o'er Matter and Mind and all the eternal round,

Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound?

Now do I bless the man who undertook These monks and martyrs to biographize; And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book, The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies, Where Angels now, now Beelzebubs appear, And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere.

All is not very truth, and yet 'twere hard

The fabling Priests for fabling to abuse; What if a monk, from better theme debarr'd,

Some pious subject for a tale should chuse,

How some good man the flesh and fiend o'ercame, His taste methinks, and not his conscience, were to blame.

In after years, what he, good Christian, wrote, As we write novels to instruct our youth,

Went travelling on, its origin forgot,

Till at the length it past for gospel-truth.

A fair account! and should'st thou like the plea, Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, who