The Haunted Chapel.
157
Her cobwebs on the window sill, The wary spider weaves,Embroidering the altar lace, Sewing the missal leaves.
'Tis said in that haunted chapel, At sound of the Vesper bell,A spectral friar comes to pray— His Avé beads to tell.
Oft at even-tide I've lingered, When twilight shadows stoleRound the hills, and the spangled mist Rolled upward like a scroll.
On the evening breeze came voices, Cadenzas on the ear,But not from within the grating Heard I the Monk at pray'r.
'Twas only the river whispering Dreamily where I stood,Dispelling the old tradition Of that chapel in the wood.
Lucca.
