Oh, Hermit, lift him to your breast, There best his heart may bleed; Since none but heaven can give him rest, Heaven's priest must meet his need: Dry that white beard, now wet and weird As pale sea-weed. Uprising slowly from the ground, With short and frequent breath. In aimless circles, round and round, The Baron tottereth With trailing feet, a mourner meet For house of death. {42} Till, pausing by the shrine of Moan, He said, the while he wept, "Here, Hermit, here mine only one, When all the castle slept, As maiden knight, o'er armor bright, His first watch kept. "This is the casque that first he wore, And this his virgin shield. This lance to his first tilt he bore, With this first took the field-- How light, how lâche to that huge ash He now doth wield! "This blade hath levelled at a blow The she-wolf in her den. With this red falchion he laid low The slippery Saracen. God! will that hand, so near his brand, Ne'er strike again? "Frown not on him, ye men of old. Whose glorious race is run; Frown not on him, my fathers bold. Though many the field ye won: His name and los may mate with yours Though but begun! "Receive him, ye departed brave, Unlock the gates of light. And range yourselves about his grave To hail a brother knight. Who never erred in deed or word Against the right! "But is he dead and is he sped Withouten scathe or scar? Why, Hermit, he hath often bled From sword and scimetar-- I've seen him ride, wounds gaping wide, From war to war. "And hath a silent, viewless thing Laid danger's darling low, When youth and hope were on the wing And life in morning glow? Not yonder worm in winter's storm Perisheth so! {43} "Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween, Of trances long and deep, But, Hermit, hast thou ever seen That grim and stony sleep. And canst thou tell how long a spell Such slumbers keep? "Oh, be there naught to break the charm, To thaw this icy chain; Has Mother Church no word to warm These freezing lips again; Be holy prayer and balsams rare Alike in vain? . . . . "A curse on thy ill-omened head; Man, bid me not despair; Churl, say not that a Knight is dead When he can couch his spear; When he can ride--Monk, thou hast lied. He lives, I swear! "Up from that bier! Boy, to thy feet! Know'st not thy father's voice? Thou ne'er hast disobeyed . . . is't meet A sire should summon thrice? By these grey hairs, by these salt tears, Awake, arise! "Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee, Dig deep the crimson spur; Sleep not 'twixt this lean monk and me When thou shouldst kneel to her! Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win And thou not stir!