Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night
(A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height,
The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering,
As if some secret strange abroad to fling.
"I brave, thee tempest, and will do alone
What by my grand-dame in her youth was done,
When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride),
The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide.
"Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprears
A force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears: