Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.
Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,
A reverend abbot leans, and prays, and reads:
Yet oft with secret glance the pair surveys,
Marks how she looks, and listens what he says.
An idle task! The terms which speak their love
Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.
He finds each tender phrase so free from harm,
So pure each thought, each look so chaste though warm,
Still to his book and beads he turns again,