The Monk

“But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”

“You are in spirits, Matilda!”

“Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through my whole life.”

“What was that pleasure?”

“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”

“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda…”

“Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?”

“How? I knew not that you understood Music.”

“Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.”

She soon returned with it.

“Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of Roncevalles?”

“What you please, Matilda.”

“Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!”

She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive:

Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at once simple and melodious.

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA

Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight;
On those fatal plains of glory
Perished many a gallant Knight.

There fell Durandarte; Never
Verse a nobler Chieftain named:
He, before his lips for ever
Closed in silence thus exclaimed.

“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one!
For my pain and pleasure born!
Seven long years I served thee, fair-one,
Seven long years my fee was scorn:

“And when now thy heart replying
To my wishes, burns like mine,
Cruel Fate my bliss denying
Bids me every hope resign.

“Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,
Death would never claim a sigh;
’Tis to lose thee, ’tis to leave thee,
Makes me think it hard to die!

“Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,
By that friendship firm and dear
Which from Youth has lived between us,
Now my last petition hear!

“When my Soul these limbs forsaking
Eager seeks a purer air,
From my breast the cold heart taking,
Give it to Belerma’s care.

Say, I of my lands Possessor
Named her with my dying breath:
Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,
Ere they closed for aye in death:

“Twice a week too how sincerely
I adored her, Cousin, say;
Twice a week for one who dearly
Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.

“Montesinos, now the hour
Marked by fate is near at hand:
Lo! my arm has lost its power!
Lo! I drop my trusty brand!

“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,
Homewards ne’er shall see me hie!
Cousin, stop those tears o’er-flowing,
Let me on thy bosom die!

“Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,
Yet one favour I implore:
Pray Thou for my Soul’s reposing,
When my heart shall throb no more;

“So shall Jesus, still attending
Gracious to a Christian’s vow,
Pleased accept my Ghost ascending,
And a seat in heaven allow.”

Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;
Soon his brave heart broke in twain.