'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 register'd and calendar'd 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 you all.

It may be I have wrought some miracles,

And cured some halt and maim'd; 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,

And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd?
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 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 proclaim
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side

Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,

A vessel full of sin all hell beneath

Made me boil over.

:

Devils pluck'd my sleeve;

Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.

I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again.
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest.
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw
Their faces grow between me and my 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 me, with scourges and with thorns;
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps-
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 threshold stairs
Of life-I say, that time is at the doors

When you may worship me without reproach;
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,
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.
I know thy glittering face. I waited long;

My brows are ready. What! deny it now?

Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ! 'Tis gone 'tis here again; the crown! the crown! 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 mine 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.