Go' (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus); 'him!' I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen- 'Him!' Again with hands of wild rejection 'Go !— To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile They set an ancient creditor to work : It seems I broke a close with force and arms: There came a mystic token from the king I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm; Nor cared to hear? perhaps : yet long ago 68 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed, The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. ALTHO' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; And I had hoped that ere this period closed The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh; While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, 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? |