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For many weeks about my loins I wore
rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chained into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Blacked 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 healed, and live: And they say then that I worked miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, oh God, Knowest alone whether this was or no. Have
mercy, mercy; cover all my sin !
I think that I have borne as much as this-
may measure time by yon slow light,
And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones come here, and say, "Fall down, oh Simeon: thou hast suffered long For
ages and for ages !” Then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone through,
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
' with crackling frost.
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin; 'Tis 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 registered and calendered 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
may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maimed; 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,
halt or naimed ? 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 healed. 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, crowned a saint. They shout, “Behold a
saint !” And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all
O my sons, my sons,
may be, fast
Their faces grow between me and
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 with scourges and with thorns ; Smite, shrink not, spare not.
If it Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow stepsWith 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 through 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
that time is at the doors
While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain
Ah! let me not be fooled, sweet saints : I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
But thou, oh Lord,
THE SE A-FAIRIES.
Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw,
Whither away, whither away, whither away? Ay
Whither away from the high green field, and the
happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea: Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea : O hither, come hither, and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me! Hither, come hither, and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day: