But ere his day's meridian came, his spirit Fell sick, grew palsied in his breast, and pined-- He fear'd Christ's kingdom he could ne'er inherit, The causes wherefore too well he divined. Where'er he turns, his sins are always near him, Conscience still holds her mirror to his eyes, Till those who long had envied came to fear him, To mock his clouded brow and wintry sighs. Alas! the sins of youth are as a chain Of iron, swiftly let down to the deep, How far we feel not--till when, we'd raise't again We pause amid the weary work and weep. Ah, it is sad a-down Life's stream to see. So many agèd toilers so distress'd, And near the source--a thousand forms of glee Fitting the shackle to Youth's glowing breast. He sought peace in the city where she dwells not, He wooed her amid woodlands all in vain, He searches through the valleys, but he tells not The secret of his quest to priest or swain, Until, despairing evermore of pleasure, He leaves his land, and sails to far Peru; There, stands uncharm'd in caverns of treasure, And weeps on mountains heavenly high and blue. Incessant in his ears rang this plain warning-- "Diego, as thy soul, thy sorrow lives"; He hears the untired voice, night, noon, and morning, Yet understanding not, unresting grieves. One eve, a purer vision seized him, then he Vow'd to Lough Derg, an humble pilgrimage-- The virtues of that shrine were known to many, And saving held even in that skeptic age. With one sole follower, an Esquire trustful, He pass'd the southern cape which sailors fear, And eastward held: meanwhile his vain and lustful Past works more loathsome to his soul appear. Through the night-watches, at all hours o' day, He still was wakeful as the pilot, and For grace, his vow to keep, doth always pray, And for his death to lie in the saints' land. But ere his eyes beheld the Irish shore, Diego died. Much gold he did ordain To God and Santiago--furthermore, His Esquire plighted, ere he went to Spain, To journey to the Refuge of the Lake; Before St. Patrick's solitary shrine, A nine days' vigil for his rest to make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine. [1] [Footnote 1: The brackish water of the lake, boiled, is called wine by the pilgrims.] The vassal vow'd; but, ah! how seldom pledges Given to the dying, to the dead, are held! The Esquire reach'd the shore, where sand and sedge is O'er melancholy hills, by paths of eld; Treeless and houseless was the prospect round, Rock-strewn and boisterous the lake before; A Charon-shape in a skiff a-ground-- The pilgrim turned, and left the sacred shore.