THE ROBBER SAINT.
A CORNISH LEGEND.
In the far West, where the Lizard
Breaks the long Atlantic swell,
Low among the Cornish heather,
Good St. Keverne built his cell.
Hospitable was St. Keverne:
In his home the trav’ller stay’d—
Brother saint, or weary stranger,
Never vainly sought his aid.
Once, St. Just, from further westward,
Passing by St. Madron’s fount,
Came across through Marazion,
Near St. Michael’s holy mount.
Many days they pass’d together,
Talking much of holy deed,
How the Celt should fight the Saxon,
Till his Pagan hosts recede.
Then St. Just, with gentle sadness,
Bade unwillingly farewell,
Brightly did the tear-drops glisten
As he left that holy cell.
Good St. Keverne, on the morrow,
Long before the sun was up,
Going to take a draught of water,
Could not find his silver cup.
“Ah,” said he, that wily brother
Carried off my only wealth:
Who would think St. Just, the pious,
Could take anything by stealth?”
Up he got in haste, and nimbly
Started off to catch the thief;
Over Browzas, down he hurried,
Fierce with anger—stung with grief.
