Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound

Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw

An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;

I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am, So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognise the fields I know;

And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;

Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,

Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,

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, 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 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

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

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,
'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 now

Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives.

O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;

I, whose bald brows in silent hours become

Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here pro

claim

That Pontius and Iscariot by my side

Their faces grow between me and my book;

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.

whine

They burst my prayer. was left,

long;

now?

Christ!

So I

'tis here again; the crown! the crown!

clutch it. 'Tis gone

If it may

hardly, with

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 thresh

old stairs

Of life-I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without re

proach;

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,

So now 'tis 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.

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.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.