Gloomy without a star.
On Palos town the night comes down;
The day departs with a stormy frown;
The sad sea moans afar.
“A convent-gate is near; ’tis late;
Ting-ling! the bell they ring.
They ring the bell, they ask for bread—
‘Just for my child,’ the father said.
Kind hands the bread will bring.
“White was his hair, his mien was fair,