THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE.
155
Restrained the groan, o'ercame the anguish, still;
And if perchance that sleep his lips unsealed,
Their words of peace his sharpest pangs concealed.
And if perchance that sleep his lips unsealed,
Their words of peace his sharpest pangs concealed.
But when the oozing blood for him complained,
And half-betrayed his woe the raiment stained,
The quick-eyed abbot bade the surgeon speed
Whose skilful hand might serve his piteous need.
Compassionate the sufferer they bound,
While wept the mute attendants standing round
As the bared back disclosed the blackening wound.
"Thus bind him fast!" the surgeon whispered low;
"Not else might he endure the mortal woe!"
While they through tears beheld the fearful sight
The poor monk raised a face of saintly light;
"Not of myself," he said, "but God is here
To hold me that I neither shrink nor fear."
Then even as Death's own shadow in the cell
On him, on all, the wonted silence fell;
Only a dripping on the floor of brick
As the sharp knife swift pierced to the quick:
No shudder felt, no moan repressed, betrayed
The spirit fainting or the flesh afraid.
"O holy father, he must speak or die!
Command these lips to utter forth their cry!"
Implored the surgeon, with a whitening cheek.
"Speak, O my brother, speak! I bid thee speak!"
With streaming eyes the pitying abbot said,
As it were his own quivering flesh that bled
And half-betrayed his woe the raiment stained,
The quick-eyed abbot bade the surgeon speed
Whose skilful hand might serve his piteous need.
Compassionate the sufferer they bound,
While wept the mute attendants standing round
As the bared back disclosed the blackening wound.
"Thus bind him fast!" the surgeon whispered low;
"Not else might he endure the mortal woe!"
While they through tears beheld the fearful sight
The poor monk raised a face of saintly light;
"Not of myself," he said, "but God is here
To hold me that I neither shrink nor fear."
Then even as Death's own shadow in the cell
On him, on all, the wonted silence fell;
Only a dripping on the floor of brick
As the sharp knife swift pierced to the quick:
No shudder felt, no moan repressed, betrayed
The spirit fainting or the flesh afraid.
"O holy father, he must speak or die!
Command these lips to utter forth their cry!"
Implored the surgeon, with a whitening cheek.
"Speak, O my brother, speak! I bid thee speak!"
With streaming eyes the pitying abbot said,
As it were his own quivering flesh that bled
