THE HERMIT.
51
The bread and water on his table stood
Untasted; his thin, bloodless hands were clasped
Upon his breast; his blue, beseeching eye,
Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame,
Looked earnestly to Heaven; the corded veins,
That lay upon his brow and temples pale,
Throbbed visibly as if a living fire
Were burning in their currents; his thin lip,
Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple drops
Were on his naked shoulders, and his frame
Still writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lash
Of his fierce penance; and, as there he turned
Upward his suffering face to Heaven, his words
Of penitence and supplication seemed
To steal up from the caverns of his soul
Like moans of keenest agony.
Untasted; his thin, bloodless hands were clasped
Upon his breast; his blue, beseeching eye,
Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame,
Looked earnestly to Heaven; the corded veins,
That lay upon his brow and temples pale,
Throbbed visibly as if a living fire
Were burning in their currents; his thin lip,
Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple drops
Were on his naked shoulders, and his frame
Still writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lash
Of his fierce penance; and, as there he turned
Upward his suffering face to Heaven, his words
Of penitence and supplication seemed
To steal up from the caverns of his soul
Like moans of keenest agony.
That night
The hermit passed in meditation, prayer,
And fierce and bitter penance for the sins
Of early youth. But her dear image still,
The hermit passed in meditation, prayer,
And fierce and bitter penance for the sins
Of early youth. But her dear image still,
