A weeping babe upon the wild
And weeping woman pale reclined;
And in the outward air again
I fill'd with woes the passing wind.
THE GREY MONK.
"I DIE, I die!" the Mother said,
"My children die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless tyrant said?"
The Monk sat down on the stony bed.
The blood red ran from the grey monk's side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.[1]
His eye was dry: no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:
"When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on earth I love.
"My brother starved between two walls,
His children's cry my soul appals;
I mock'd at the rack and grinding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.
- ↑ Vide postea, p. 154.
