 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
III.
There he sat, still as stone, sadly thinking it o'er,
At his desolate door.
Then, alone in his cell, tried to pray, as before.
At his desolate door.
Then, alone in his cell, tried to pray, as before.
He reached out his arms to the cold, empty air,
Kneeling woefully there;
He prayed unto God; but none came to his prayer.
Kneeling woefully there;
He prayed unto God; but none came to his prayer.
He walked from his cell on the cold mountain's crown,
Wending silently down,
Till he stood as before, 'mid the folk in the town.
Wending silently down,
Till he stood as before, 'mid the folk in the town.
With raiment all ragged, worn shoon on his feet,
He stood in the street;
And his eyes were not happy, his voice was not sweet!
He stood in the street;
And his eyes were not happy, his voice was not sweet!
The gladness was gone that made golden his face;
Yea, there linger'd no trace
Of the smile and the sunshine, the peace and the grace.
Yea, there linger'd no trace
Of the smile and the sunshine, the peace and the grace.
And the folk whisper'd low, as they gathered to see—
‘Of all men that be,
The saddest and weariest surely is he!’
‘Of all men that be,
The saddest and weariest surely is he!’
He climb'd up the mountain, and sat there alone;
And his spirit made moan—
‘My God, they have slain Thee! My God, Thou art gone!
And his spirit made moan—
‘My God, they have slain Thee! My God, Thou art gone!
30
‘Their breath hath destroy'd Thee, my Father!’ he said—
‘Thou art lost! Thou art fled!’
And the sense of his doom was as dust on his head.
‘Thou art lost! Thou art fled!’
And the sense of his doom was as dust on his head.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |