XXXIV. O'DONOGHUE came to the hermit's cell; He climbed the ladder, he pulled the bell; "I have ridden," said he, "with the Saint to dine On his richest meat, and his reddest wine." The Hermit hasted my First to fill With water from the limpid rill; And "Drink," quoth he, "of the juice, brave Knight, Which breeds no fever, and prompts no fight." The Hermit hasted my Second to spread Hasty and hungry, the Chief explored My Whole with the point of his ready sword, XXXV. THE night was dark, the night was damp: Wine he brought him, such as yet Weary and faint was the holy man, But he crossed with a cross the Tempter's can, Jewels he showed him-many a gem Dazzled, I trow, was the anchorite: But he told his beads with all his might; A Lady at last he handed in, With a bright black eye and a fair white skin: The stern ascetic flung, 'tis said, A ponderous missal at her head: She vanished away; and what a smell Of my Whole she left in the hermit's cell! XXXVI. UPON my First's blue stream The moon's cold light is sleeping; And Marion in her mournful dream Is wandering there and weeping. Where is my Whole?-this hour His boat should cleave the water; He is a Knight of pride and power, But he loves the Huntsman's daughter. The shroud her marriage vest--- (August, 1829.) XXXVII. He hath seen the tempest lower: He hath welcomed Death on tide and tower; My First was set, and in his place You might see the dark man stand, With a fearful vizor on his face, Short shrift, and hurried prayer: And let my Second be bound and bare The dark man grinned in bitter scorn; "Rise! thou art pardoned !"—vain! Lift up the lifeless clay; On the skin no scratch, on the steel no stain,But the soul hath passed away. The dark man laid his bright axe by As he heard the tower clock chime; And he thought that none but my Whole would die A minute before the time. (JULY, 1829.) XXXVIII. THERE hangs a picture in an ancient hall: And she is running from her task or toy There is another picture;-that wild youth Is grown to manhood; by the great salt lake He clasps his new sword on; and gentle Ruth Smiles, smiles and sobs as if her heart would break, And talks right well of constancy and truth, And yet another picture; from far lands The truant is returned; but ah, his bride, Sickness hath marred her beauty! mute he stands, Mute in the darkened chamber by her side; |