III

Northward he turneth through a little door,

      And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue

      Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;

      But no—already had his death-bell rung;

      The joys of all his life were said and sung:

      His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:

      Another way he went, and soon among

      Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.