University of Virginia Library

Our Master spurned
Not Pagan books alone; he left, he fled
The lands they boast. ‘Hail, holy Waste,’ he writes,
‘Bare, yet enamelled with the flowers of Christ!
Hail, Solitude immeasurable! to thee
We fly, not shunning aught but seeking all:
Thy Face we seek, Thou conqueror who o'ercam'st
The Tempter in the desert! Worldly toys
Here rise not 'twixt our spirits, Lord, and Thee:
We see Thee tread Thy loved Judean fields
Helping the sick, the blind; and hear Thy voice,
These words, “Her sins, though many, are forgiven,”
Or those of kindred tone, “Lazarus, arise!”
Far off we ken the City of Thy Saints
And gates of sunset gold.’ Yet through that waste
Portents there roamed which shook our Master's spirit, soul,
Temptations we can guess not, spared, no doubt,
To ill-resisting weakness. Burning sands
Drank up those flaming suns and sent their glow
On through his body and soul. Whole days, whole nights
He beat his breast at some cold cavern's mouth,
Fled thence to deserts lonelier. Lion and pard,
Or demon-foes imaged in dreadful shapes,
I trembled here too much to understand,
Passed him fire-eyed. Benigner visions soon
Healed his tired being with assuaging light,
Memories, it may be, of yon Alban hills
Or choirs dance-woven of Rome's young, fair maids;
And when that storm had left him angels sang,
‘We follow where thou goest.’