And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,

Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,

Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still

Less burden, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,

Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd

My spirit flat before thee.

O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt

Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,

Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,

Have mercy, mercy take away my sin.

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?

Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I.

For did not all thy martyrs die one death? For either they were stoned, or crucified, Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of

death.

Bear witness, if I could have found a way

(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment, Not this alone I bore: but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there,

For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well,

Twisted as tight as I could knot the

noose;

And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this

I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,

I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice

Black'd 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 heal'd, and live: And they say then that I work'd miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,

Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,

Knowest alone whether this was or no. Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with

And yet I know not well,

For that the evil ones come here, and

say,

"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long

For ages and for ages!" then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 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 undress'd 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 register'd and calendar'd 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 maim'd; 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 maim'd?

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 heal'd. 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, crown'd a saint. They shout, "Be

Devils pluck'd my

Made me boil over. sleeve; Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. Ismote them with the cross; they swarm'd again.

In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest:

They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw Their faces grow between me and my 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;
If it may

Smite, shrink not, spare not.
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 thro' 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. Yet I do not say

But that a time may come

now,

yea, even 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 gather'd to the glorious saints. While I spake then, asting of shrewdest pain

Ran shrivelling thro' 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,

A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come.

it.

"T is gone: 't is here again; the crown! the crown!

So now 't is fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.

Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I trust

That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of
God,

Among you there, and let him presently
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,
And climbing up into my airy home,
Deliver me the blessed sacrament;
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,
I prophesy that I shall die to-night,
A quarter before twelve.

But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people; let them take Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.

THE TALKING OAK.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke;
And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak.

For when my passion first began,

Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd;

To yonder oak within the field
I spoke without restraint,
And with a larger faith appeal'd
Than Papist unto Saint.

For oft I talk'd with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarized a heart,

And answer'd with a voice.

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven None else could understand;

But since I heard him make reply
Is many a weary hour;

"T were well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,
Whose topmost branches can discern
The roofs of Sumner-place!

Say thou, whereon I carved her name,
If ever ma.d or spouse,
As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs.

"O Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace :

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat.
And, issuing shorn and sleek,
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
The girls upon the cheek,

"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence,
And number'd bead, and shrift,
Bluff Harry broke into the spence,
And turn'd the cowls adrift:

"And I have seen some score of those
Fresh faces, that would thrive
When his man-minded offset rose
To chase the deer at five;

"And all that from the town would stroll,
Till that wild wind made work
In which the gloomy brewer's soul
Went by me, like a stork:

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood,
And others, passing praise,
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud
For puritanic stays:

"And I have shadow'd many a group
Of beauties, that were born
In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn;

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, About me leap'd and laugh'd

The modest Cupid of the day,
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.

"I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all;

And down the way you used to come, She look'd with discontent.

"She left the novel half-uncut Upon the rosewood shelf;

Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

Your own Olivia blow,

She could not please herself.

"Then ran she, gamesome as the colt,

And livelier than a lark

A baby-germ, to when

The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten.

"I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain,

(And hear me with thine ears,)

That, tho' I circle in the grain

Five hundred rings of years —

"Yet, since I first could cast a shade,
Did never creature pass
So slightly, musically made,
So light upon the grass :

"For as to fairies, that will flit
To make the greensward fresh,
I hold them exquisitely knit,
But far too spare of flesh.'

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern,
And overlook the chace;

And from thy topmost branch discern
The roofs of Sumner-place.

But thou, whereon I carved her name,
That oft hast heard my vows,
Declare when last Olivia came
To sport beneath thy boughs.

"O yesterday, you know, the fair
Was holden at the town;
Her father left his good arm-chair,
And rode his hunter down.

"And with him Albert came on his.

I look'd at him with joy :

As cowslip unto oxlip is,
So seems she to the boy.

"An hour had pastand, sitting straight

Within the low-wheel'd chaise, Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays.

"But, as for her, she stay'd at home And on the roof she went,

Before her, and the park.

"A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild,

As close as might be would he cling
About the darling child :

"But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir,

The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, And turn'd to look at her.

"And here she came, and round me play'd, And sang to me the whole

Of those three stanzas that you made
About my 'giant bole';

"And in a fit of frolic mirth

She strove to span my waist : Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced.

"I wish'd myself the fair young beech
That here beside me stands,
That round me, clasping each in each,
She might have lock'd her hands.

"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet
As woodbine's fragile hold,
Or when I feel about my feet
The berried briony fold.”

O muffle round thy knees with fern,
And shadow Sumner-chace!
Long may thy topmost branch discern
The roofs of Sumner-place!

But tell me, did she read the name
I carved with many vows
When last with throbbing heart I came
To rest beneath thy boughs?

"O yes, she wander'd round and round
These knotted knees of mine,
And found, and kiss'd the name she found,
And sweetly murmur'd thine.