(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 thee,

Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ;

And twice three years I crouch'd 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

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 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.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I

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

sleeve;

Devils pluck'd my

Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote 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;

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 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—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 gather'd to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting 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.

Christ!

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 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 past — and, 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.