It is a lovely hour as yet

Before the summer sun shall set,

Which rose upon that heavy day,

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 410

And his evening beams are shed

Full on Hugo's fated head,

As his last confession pouring

To the monk, his doom deploring

In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless

With absolution such as may

Wipe our mortal stains away.

That high sun on his head did glisten

As he there did bow and listen, 420

And the rings of chestnut hair

Curled half down his neck so bare;

But brighter still the beam was thrown

Upon the axe which near him shone

With a clear and ghastly glitter——

Oh! that parting hour was bitter!

Even the stern stood chilled with awe:

Dark the crime, and just the law—

Yet they shuddered as they saw.