Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/356

Then sought he, after journeyings hard,
The holy monks of St. Bernard.
But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,
A man not ruled by book and bell.
Godly, perhaps—but much inclined
Some newer road to heaven to find.
And was he dead? God rest his soul,
After this life of toil and dole!

And that was all! O Valdemar!
Fly to thy desolate home afar,
Where wasted, worn, Hermione,
With her pale children at her knee,
Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!

He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,
For night more tender is than day,
And softly wipes our tears away.
"Oh, wake, Hermione!" he cries,
As one whose spirit inly dies;
"Hear me confess that I have been
False to thee in my pride and sin!
God give me grace from this blest day
To do His work in common clay!"

Next morn, in humble, sweet content,
Into his studio he went,
Eager to test his willing hand,
And rule the clay with wise command.
But no fair wonder first he wrought,
No marvel of creative thought,
Not even a Virgin for a shrine,
Or soldier clad in armor fine—
Only such toys as Andrefels
To laughing, wondering children sells!