XXXI.

And e'en while now the lovers spoke
They felt the fog between them rise;
Round each it spread a dull grey cloak,
And masked them each in vague disguise.

XXXII.

At parting Henry said—“Farewell;
On Sunday morn we meet again;
When first rings out the old church-bell,
With merry chant, expect me then.”

XXXIII.

At last, though slow, that Sunday came,
And Jane put on her best array,
And still her color fled and came
As if it were her wedding-day.

XXXIV.

Her father went to ring the bell,
And she to watch the doorway sprang,
And on the latch her finger fell,
And paused, and paused—the church-bell rang.

XXXV.

No step was there: it seemed a knell
Whose notes her father's hand was ringing;
She oped the door for breath, the bell
So heavily went swinging.

XXXVI.

She knew that Henry was not there,
And yet she looked below the tree;
There stood nor shape of misty air,
Nor sunbright face in sunshine free.

XXXVII.

She looked the winding road along,
Now hid no more with leafy green,
But mid its loitering speckled throng
For her no living shape was seen.

XXXVIII.

She turned, and passed the dim church-door,
Beneath an ancient arch's frown,
And in the aisle upon the floor
She knelt not, but her knees fell down.

XXXIX.

Upon the seat she stooped her face,
But still she heard that doleful bell,
And though she prayed for Heaven's dear grace,
'Twas still the same pursuing knell.

XL.

And when the people stood to sing,
Though now the weary bell was o'er,
She heard it through her bosom ring,
As if 'twould ring for evermore.