Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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III
The sound of their parting steps is gone,
His heart sinks like his knees on the stone,
The asperging drops still shine on his head,
The smoke of the censer scarce is shed;
For they brought him hither with chant and bell,
Relics and incense-pot as well.
His long thin hands together are prest,
Finger to finger before his breast
Through their closed lids you may see
His eyeballs moving restlessly,
As if he listened with shut eyes,
For thus the senses sympathise!
And now he sings, but far to find
Is every rhyme he would unwind:
His heart sinks like his knees on the stone,
The asperging drops still shine on his head,
The smoke of the censer scarce is shed;
For they brought him hither with chant and bell,
Relics and incense-pot as well.
His long thin hands together are prest,
Finger to finger before his breast
Through their closed lids you may see
His eyeballs moving restlessly,
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For thus the senses sympathise!
And now he sings, but far to find
Is every rhyme he would unwind:
Thou wood of the cross of the agony,
Ye nails that fixed Him to the tree,
Sponge that held the last bitter draught,
Lift, support, and strengthen me!
Ye nails that fixed Him to the tree,
Sponge that held the last bitter draught,
Lift, support, and strengthen me!
Drops of His sweating that eased His pain,
Drops of blood, the parched world's rain,
Tears that brought us man's second spring,
Cleanse, absolve, absolve, and sain!
Drops of blood, the parched world's rain,
Tears that brought us man's second spring,
Cleanse, absolve, absolve, and sain!
Mary's most holy eyes then lifted up,
Angels most holy hands holding the cup,
And Spirit most holy that then came down,
Make my soul with ye to sup!
Angels most holy hands holding the cup,
And Spirit most holy that then came down,
Make my soul with ye to sup!
He stops, forgetting the rest; the lamp
Through its misty nimbus crackles; a tramp
Is heard without, a laugh and a call;—
He answers not: against the wall
All round the bigging the knocking goes,
From west to east as a witch-dance flows:
Then up on the thatch it begins to scratch;
There's a long thin line seen crossing the shrine,
Mistier still in the thickening damp;
By its dainty thread right over his head,
A spider spins, for a moment it stops,
Then right upon his bald head drops.
Ah! he comes as he came before,—
Only since they sprinkled the latch,
And set that cross upon the door,
He must enter by the thatch!
Anthony fell like a murdered man,
And that long-legged imp-spiderling ran
Over his face: now raised on his hands
He stares about, the hour-glass stands
Right upon end with its drizzling sands,
And the friendly mort-head, round and round
Rolls about with a crazy sound,
A gasping creak, it tries to speak,
Eyeballs from its caves gleam out!
The horns—the horns begin to sprout!
Through its misty nimbus crackles; a tramp
Is heard without, a laugh and a call;—
He answers not: against the wall
All round the bigging the knocking goes,
From west to east as a witch-dance flows:
Then up on the thatch it begins to scratch;
There's a long thin line seen crossing the shrine,
Mistier still in the thickening damp;
55
A spider spins, for a moment it stops,
Then right upon his bald head drops.
Ah! he comes as he came before,—
Only since they sprinkled the latch,
And set that cross upon the door,
He must enter by the thatch!
Anthony fell like a murdered man,
And that long-legged imp-spiderling ran
Over his face: now raised on his hands
He stares about, the hour-glass stands
Right upon end with its drizzling sands,
And the friendly mort-head, round and round
Rolls about with a crazy sound,
A gasping creak, it tries to speak,
Eyeballs from its caves gleam out!
The horns—the horns begin to sprout!
Next morn betimes they came to see
How fared their young brother Anthony,
But he was gone, nor could they trace
His footsteps nor his resting-place.
How fared their young brother Anthony,
But he was gone, nor could they trace
His footsteps nor his resting-place.
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