Page:St. Nicholas (serial) (IA stnicholasserial321dodg).pdf/423

He groped, in his stupid madness,
 For the clasp-knife in his coat,
And while the dog whined for gladness,
 He plunged it in Barry’s threat!

But with pity and love unswerving,
 His noble task to fulfil,
In spite of his ill-deserving
 The brave dog licked him still,

And mastered his dulled resistance
 And led him steadily on,
Where, far through the frozen distance,
 The lights of the Hospice shone.

Still upward his footsteps urging,
 His slow, sad steps of pain,
Though the heights around were surging
 And his life-blood fell like rain,

Safe home to the lighted gateway,
 Where the monks in wonder cried,
He guided his slayer, and straightway
 Fell down at their feet and died!

“To search for the outcast stranger alone in the Tempest Wild.”

Right well had he won his guerdon
 Of love and eternal fame;
But who may describe the burden
 Of pity, remorse, and shame

That filled one heart on the morrow,
 Or his sufferings who may say—
For in pangs of a life-long sorrow
 It could not be purged away!

And still, as the nights grow colder,
 And the storm-wind’s icy breath
Blows keen o’er the mountain’s shoulder,
 A blast from the hills of death,

The dogs go forth through the blindness
 And whirl of the driving snow,
And carry their help and kindness
 To travelers lost below;

And still in the Hospice’ story
 Of courage and love sublime,
One name hath a crown of glory
 That never shall fade with time;