Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day,
With the Convent of St. Ursula ?

But the Abbess has made the chiefest din,

And cried the loudest cry;

She has pinned her cap with a crooked pin, . And talked of Satan and talked of sin, And set her coif awry;

And she can never quiet be;

But ever since the Matins,

In gallery and scullery,
And kitchen and refectory,

She tramps it in her pattens;

Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day
With the Abbess of St. Ursula?

Thrice in the silence of eventime
A desperate foot has dared to climb
Over the Convent gate;

Thrice a venturous voice and lute

Have dared to wake their amorous suit,
Among the Convent flowers and fruit,
Abominably late:

And thrice, the beldames know it well,
From out the lattice of her cell,

To listen to that murmured measure

Of life, and love, and hope, and pleasure,

With throbbing heart and eyelid wet,

Hath leaned the novice Violette;

And oh! you may tell from her mournful gaze,

Her vision hath been of those dear days,

When happily o'er the quiet lawn,

Bright with the dew's most heavenly sprinkles, She scared the pheasant, and chased the fawn, Till a smile came o'er her father's wrinkles, Or stood beside that water fair,

Where moonlight slept with a ray so tender, That every star which glistened there,

Glistened, she thought, with a double splendor; And oh! she loved the ripples' play,

As to her feet the truant rovers
Wandered and went with a laugh away,
Kissing but once, like wayward lovers.
And oh! she loved the night-wind's moan,
And the dreary watch-dog's lonely yelling,
And the sentinel's unchanging tone,

And the chapel chime so sadly knelling,
And the echoes from the Castle hall,
Of circling song and noisy gladness,

And, in some silent interval,

The nightingale's deep voice of sadness. Alas! there comes a winter bleak

On the lightest joy, and the loveliest flower:

And the smiles have faded on Violette's cheek, And the roses have withered in Violette's bower, But now by the beautiful turf and tide

Poor Violette's heart in silence lingers;

And the thrilling tears of memory glide

Thro' the trembling veil and the quivering fingers. Yet not for these, for these alone,

That innocent heart beats high to-day;

And not for these the stifled moan

Is breathed in such thick passionate tone,
That not the lips appear to pray.

But you may deem those murmurs start
Forth from the life-strings of the heart,
So wild and strange is that long sigh,
So full of bliss and agony !

She thinks of him, the lovely boy,
Sweet Vidal, with his face of joy--
The careless mate of all the glee
That shone upon her infancy-
The baby-lover, who had been

The sceptred King, where she was Queen,
On Childhood's dream-encircled strand,
The undisputed Fairy-land!

She thinks of him, she thinks of him,
The lord of every wicked whim,
Who dared Sir Prinsamour to battle,
And drove away De Clifford's cattle,
And sang an Ave at the feast,
And made wry faces at the Priest,
And ducked the Duchess in the sea,
And tore Sir Roland's pedigree.

She thinks of him--the forehead fair,
The ruddy lip, and glossy hair-
The mountains, where they roved together,
In life's most bright and witching weather—
The wreck they watched upon the coast-
The ruin where they saw the ghost--

The fairy tale he loved to tell-
The serenade he sang so well;
And then she turns and sees again

The naked wall, and grated pane,

And frequent winks and frequent frowns,
And 'broidered books, and 'broidered gowns,
And plaster saints and plaster patrons,
And three impracticable matrons.

She was a very pretty Nun:
Sad, delicate, and five feet one;
Her face was oval, and her eye
Looked like the Heaven in Italy,
Serenely blue, and softly bright,
Made up of languish and of light!

And her neck, except where the locks of brown,
Like a sweet summer mist, fell droopingly down,
Was as chill and as white as the snow, ere the earth
Has sullied the hue of its heavenly birth;

And through the blue veins you might see

The pure blood wander silently,

Like noiseless eddies, that far below

In the glistening depths of a calm lake flow:
Her cold hands on her bosom lay;

And her ivory crucifix, cold as they,
Was clasped in a fearful and fond caress,
As if she shrank from its holiness,
And felt that hers was the only guilt
For which no healing blood was spilt:
And tears were bursting all the while;
Yet now and then a vacant smile

Over her lips would come and go—
A very mockery of wo-

A brief, wan smile-a piteous token

Of a warm love crush'd, and a young heart broken!

"Marry come up!" said Celandine,

Whose nose was ruby red,

"From venomous cates and wicked wine

A deadly sin is bred.

Darkness and anti-phlogistic diet,
These will keep the pulses qui *;
Silence and solitude, bread and wa er-
So must we cure our erring daughter.
I have dined at an Alderman's board,
I have drunk with a German lord,
But richer was Celandine's own paté
Than Sir William's soup on Christmas day,
And sweeter the flavor of Celandine's flask
Than the loveliest cup from a Rhenish cask!

"Saints keep us!" said old Winifrede, "Saints keep and cure us all!

And let us hie to our book and bead,

Or sure the skies will fall!

Is she a Heathen or is she a Hindoo,

To talk with a silly boy out of the window?

Was ever such profaneness seen?

Pert minx-and only just sixteen!"

I have talked with a fop who has fought twelve duels, Six for an heiress, and six for her jewels;