Then rose the abbot’s ire—ee Oh, guilty care!”
Frowning, he cried, and shook his hoary hair:
“Fair is the imp? and shall he therefore breathe
To win new subjects for the realms beneath?
The fiends most dangerous are those spirits bright,
Who toil for hell, and show like sons of light;
And still when Satan spreads his subtlest snares,
The baits are azure eyes, the lines are golden hairs.
Name thou the brat no more! To Cintra’s walls
Fly, where thy footsteps mild repentance calls.