Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense, And with many a stumbling stride Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher To the cot and the sick man’s side. When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung To his arm in the steep ascent, He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone Of the Blessed Sacrament. Then in dolorous dread he beat his head: “No earthly prize or pelf Is the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed, But the Body of Christ Himself!” He thought of the Visage his dream revealed, And turned towards whence he came, Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field, And head in a heat of shame. Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill, He noted a clear straight ray Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by, Which shone with the light of day. And gathered around the illumined ground Were common beasts and rare, All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound Attent on an object there. ’Twas the Pyx, unharmed ’mid the circling rows Of Blackmore’s hairy throng, Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does, And hares from the brakes among; And badgers grey, and conies keen, And squirrels of the tree, And many a member seldom seen Of Nature’s family. The ireful winds that scoured and swept Through coppice, clump, and dell, Within that holy circle slept Calm as in hermit’s cell. Then the priest bent likewise to the sod And thanked the Lord of Love, And Blessed Mary, Mother of God, And all the saints above. And turning straight with his priceless freight, He reached the dying one, Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite Without which bliss hath none. And when by grace the priest won place, And served the Abbey well, He reared this stone to mark where shone That midnight miracle. TESS’S LAMENT I I WOULD that folk forgot me quite, Forgot me quite! I would that I could shrink from sight, And no more see the sun. Would it were time to say farewell, To claim my nook, to need my knell, Time for them all to stand and tell Of my day’s work as done. II Ah! dairy where I lived so long, I lived so long; Where I would rise up stanch and strong, And lie down hopefully. ’Twas there within the chimney-seat He watched me to the clock’s slow beat— Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet, And whispered words to me. III And now he’s gone; and now he’s gone; . . . And now he’s gone! The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown To rot upon the farm. And where we had our supper-fire May now grow nettle, dock, and briar, And all the place be mould and mire So cozy once and warm.