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Erred I in this?
My Mother said of me, ‘His hand is hard,
Not so his heart.’ The boy was hard; the man.
My chief of battles was with Origen,
That Greek whose airy fancies, unbaptized
Save in Castalian springs, if spared had changed
The solid lands and seas of Christian Faith
To mist of allegory. Rufinus next—
Ah, false, false friend! He walked with me in youth:
In age with parricidal hand he wrote
That book against God's Church. With him he drew
Salem's unholy bishop, Barnabas;
Later, by night that base Pelagian crew
Full fain had burned me in my monastery
Whose site, foreseeing, I had chosen for strength.
I shook this hand against them from its roofs,
Then 'scaped to yonder tower.