Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;

Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Blacked with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be healed, and live :
And they say then that I worked miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, oh God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.

Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin!

Then, that I might be more alone with thee,

Three years I lived upon a pillar high

Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouched on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew

Twice ten long weary, weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this-
Or else I dream — and for so long a time,
If I
may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns
So much

even so.

And yet I know not well,

For that the evil ones come here, and say,

"Fall down, oh Simeon: thou hast suffered long

For ages and for ages!" Then they prate
Of penances I cannot have gone through,
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies,
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked.

But yet

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,

Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light,

Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,

I wake the chill stars sparkle; I

am wet

With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undressed goatskin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die :
O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin!

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin :
'T is their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,

That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,

And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers;
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are registered and calendared for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?

I am a sinner viler than you all.

It may be I have wrought some miracles,

And cured some halt and maimed; but what of that?

It may be, no one, even among the saints,

May match his pains with mine; but what of that?

Yet do not rise for you may look on me,

And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maimed?
I think you know I have some power with Heaven
From my long penance : let him speak his wish.

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are healed. Ah, hark! they shout "St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so,

God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul,
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,

Can I work miracles and not be saved?

This is not told of any. They were saints.

It cannot be but that I shall be saved;

Yea, crowned a saint. They shout, "Behold a saint!"

And lower voices saint me from above.

Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis

Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death

Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all

My mortal archives.

O my sons, my sons,

I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname
Stylites, among men; I, Simeon,

The watcher on the column till the end;
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now
From my high nest of penance here proclaim
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side

Showed like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath

Made me boil over.

Devils plucked my sleeve;

Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.

I smote them with the cross; they swarmed again.
In bed like monstrous apes they crushed my chest.

They flapped my light out as I read: I saw
Their faces grow between me and rny book:

With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left,
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify

Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps —
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain -
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:

God only through his bounty hath thought fit,

Among the powers and princes of this world,

To make me an example to mankind,

Which few can reach to.

But that a time may come

Yet I do not say

yea, even now,

Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs
Of life-I say, that time is at the doors
When you may worship me without reproach;
For I will leave my relics in your land,

And you may carve a shrine about my dust,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gathered to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ran shrivelling through me, and a cloudlike change, In passing, with a grosser film made thick

These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!

Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a shade,