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THE HERMIT.
115
ii.
Mine eyes are heavy with watching,
My tongue for speech doth thirst ;
If only the veriest dog of a man
Would break this void accurst !
The deer come grazing before me,
As though a stone were I ;
The hare with the scorn of a fear overthrown
Goes lightly glancing by.
The wood is busy with music,
The birds in chorus sing ;
The adders creep out, and the toads come about,
As round a vanquished king.
A vision haunts me, and haunts me,
A dream of tender eyes
I call her my saint, and I kneel at her shrine,
But earthly thoughts will rise.
'Tis not Madonna, the Jewess,
Who died so long ago ;
But Mary, the living, that smiles from my wall, —
The painter wrought it so.
