Count De Montalembert.
In that drear twilight, herald of the day
On which new faith, new hope, new love were born,
And while my heart still pressed against the thorn
Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay
Of forest warbler in his own loved May,
Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn,
Elizabeth's young voice, which sang death's scorn
In carols with celestial transports gay.
Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade
Creeps o'er my life, as clear and jubilant
As that wild mocking-bird's, is heard the chant
Of mighty abbots, whose processions fade
Into the dark of ages, made by thee
New themes for thought and holy minstrelsy.