I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound

Of pious hymus and psalms, and some

Now am I feeble grown; my draws nigh;

I hope my end draws nigh: half de am,

So that I scarce can hear the pec hum

About the column's base, and alm blind,

And scarce can recognize the field know;

And both my thighs are rotted w

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

Till all my limbs drop piecemeal frc the stone,

Have mercy, mercy: take away n sin.

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save m soul,

Who may be saved? who is it may է saved?

Who may be made a saint, if I fa here?

Show me the man hath suffer'd mor than I.

For did not all thy martyrs die on death?

For either they were stoned, or cruci fied,

Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, o

lay

Dethink 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,

And you may carve a shrine about dust,

And burn a fragrant lamp before bones,

When I am gather'd to the glori saints.

While I spake then, a sting shrewdest pain

Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a clo like change,

In passing, with a grosser film ma thick

These heavy, horny eyes. The en the end!

Surely the end! What's here? a shap

A flash of light. Is that the ang there

That holds a crown? Come, blesse brother, come.

I know thy glittering face. I waite long;

My brows are ready. What! deny i now?

Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So clutch it. Christ!

"Tis gone: 'tis here again; the crown the crown!

So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it mel: the dews of Paradise Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm and frankincense.

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

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 render oak within the field