Go,' shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus; ' him!'

I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen, 'Him!'

Again with hands of wild rejection, 'Go! — Girl, get you in!' She went and in one month

They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds,
To lands in Kent and messuages in York,
And slight Sir Robert with his watery
smile

And educated whisker. But for me,
They set an ancient creditor to work;
It seems I broke a close with force and

arms:

130

There came a mystic token from the king
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy !
I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd;
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below;
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the
storm;

So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear.

Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago

I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed, 149 It may be, for her own dear sake, but this,

She seems a part of those fresh days to me; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake, While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then

While the gold-lily blows, and overhead The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag.

SAINT SIMEON STYLITES

First printed in 1842. In line 201 'brother' was originally 'mother.'

ALTHO' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,

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, 50 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 60
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

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

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;

110

Or in the night, after a little sleep,
I wake; the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crack-
ling 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! 118
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;

Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again.

170

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 coltlike 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 exceed

To make me an example to mankind,
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say
But that a time may come -
- 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:

ther, come!

201

I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What! deny it now? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!

'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.

210

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

'An experiment meant to test the degree in which it is within the power of poetry to humanize external nature' (Tennyson to Aubrey de Vere).

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,

I found him garrulously given,
A babbler in the land.

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 maid 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 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 modish 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;

For those and theirs, by Nature's law,
Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

Your own Olivia blow,

'From when she gamboll'd on the greens
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 earsThat, 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.'

60

70

80

90

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

And from thy topmost branch discern
The roofs of Summer-place!