The Tempter hath assail’d me; my own heart Is leagued with him; Despair hath laid the nets To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost, Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, While I was blest with thee, the hermitage Was my sure haven! Look upon me still, For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see The suppliant; look upon thy child in Christ. Is there no other way for penitence? I ask not martyrdom; for what am I That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed Of a long life of holy works like thine; Or how should I presumptuously aspire To wear the heavenly crown resign’d by thee, For my poor sinful sake? Oh point me thou Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, ... Some new austerity, unheard of yet In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, Tracking the way with blood; there day by day Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross, A nightly crucifixion!... any thing Of action, difficulty, bodily pain, Labour, and outward suffering, ... any thing But stillness and this dreadful solitude! Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice In dreams, O sainted Soul! or from the grave Speak to thy penitent; even from the grave Thine were a voice of comfort. Thus he cried, Easing the pressure of his burthen’d heart With passionate prayer; thus pour’d his spirit forth, Till with the long impetuous effort spent, His spirit fail’d, and laying on the grave His weary head as on a pillow, sleep Fell on him. He had pray’d to hear a voice Of consolation, and in dreams a voice Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, ... Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child, Jesus have mercy on thee!... Not if Heaven Had opened, and Romano, visible In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; ... Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart With such compunctious visitings, nor given So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep So patiently; which soothed his childish griefs, Counsell’d, with anguish and prophetic tears, His headstrong youth. And lo! his Mother stood Before him in the vision; in those weeds Which never from the hour when to the grave She follow’d her dear lord Theodofred Rusilla laid aside; but in her face A sorrow that bespake a heavier load At heart, and more unmitigated woe, ... Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when Witiza’s ruffians and the red-hot brass Had done their work, and in her arms she held Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat Which still his tortures forced from every pore Cool’d his scorch’d lids with medicinal herbs, And pray’d the while for patience for herself And him, and pray’d for vengeance too, and found Best comfort in her curses.