. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. cathedral spire,(I might not sleep beside my babe, alas !)Where neath a fretted canopy I lay,In the great church forgotten and alone. Stranger, three hundred years are past, and more ;My Lord, and all his line of heirs, long sinceAre gathered to the dust : yon keep aloneTells of their greatness. Yet, within this in my life I suffered, loved, and sinned,Where for long years my footsteps daily turned,And joy lay compassed in three feet of , round this spot, one night in every yearTis given my soul to wander, and to tellThe old,
. Songs without music, rhymes and recitations. cathedral spire,(I might not sleep beside my babe, alas !)Where neath a fretted canopy I lay,In the great church forgotten and alone. Stranger, three hundred years are past, and more ;My Lord, and all his line of heirs, long sinceAre gathered to the dust : yon keep aloneTells of their greatness. Yet, within this in my life I suffered, loved, and sinned,Where for long years my footsteps daily turned,And joy lay compassed in three feet of , round this spot, one night in every yearTis given my soul to wander, and to tellThe old, old story of my griefs to whomI find here. All who, sinning as I with repentant tears, and turn to Christ, THE LADYS PUNISHMENT. 137 Shall learn one day how crosses borne in lifeIn death are reared to bring us nearer said ; and fading from me as she spake,I turned, astonished. ... To my feet I sprang,From the soft turf whereon I lay, and saw,Between the interlacing leaves, the mornLifting her head already oer the 138 KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 750. /^^ OD give me patience, miserable king ^^ That am, beneath the cowl ! on whom the sunShines but one hour a day, when slanting throughThese cloister-arches : where my sandalled feetBreak the grey moss-grown silence of the flags—I, that was wont to meet the sun at take my pleasure, as became a king,In sports, all day, across the plain. Woes me !How changed am I !—seems all, that yets un-changed !The same wind that, through purple curtains, scarceLifted the rushes from my palace floor,In the old time, around a bare damp cellNow freezes all my bones. Ah ! hunger, thirst,Vigil, and painful penance,- come to noneOf these poor monks so hardly as to one hath left his vineyard by the Rhine,To whom, as he was delving on a day. KING CHILDERIC IN THE CLOISTER. 139 The blessed Mary showed herself: and one, A poor aureficer in Aix, whose house The plague left desolate. From mountain-hut,
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