THERE once stood such a queer
Little church in Turin, -
Long destroyed, as I fear.
Dim and quaint 't was within,
With its pictures, once bright,
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And the curious panes
In its windows. The light,
As it passed, took their stains,
And their purples and reds
Like a glory were cast
On the garments and heads
Of the monks as they passed
To and fro. In the heat
Of a warm July day
I had taken a seat,
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