Blush’d radiance on the Eagle’s nest,
That radiant blush was doom’d to greet—
The lifeless form—of Marguerite!
The CONFESSOR,
A SANCTIFIED TALE.
When Superstition rul’d the land
And Priestcraft shackled Reason,
At Godstow dwelt a goodly band,
Grey monks they were, and but to say
They were not always giv’n to pray,
Would have been construed Treason.