She thought of him, the forest-lord, And of the forest-grange; Of the delicious life she led, With liberty to range. And as she thought, even as a child’s, The ceaseless tears did flow, For torturing pain and misery Had brought her spirit low. When one from out the felon-band Came softly to her side, And “do not weep, thou little child!” With pitying voice, he cried. “At sight of thee, I know not why, My softened heart doth burn, And the gone tenderness of youth Doth to my soul return. “I think upon my early days, Like unto days of heaven; And I, that have not wept for years, Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears, And pray to be forgiven!” “Blessed be God!” said Marien, And rose up from the floor; “I was not hither brought in vain! His mercy I adore, Who out of darkness brought forth light!” And thus she wept no more. But ever of the Saviour taught; How he came down to win, With love, and suffering manifold, The sinner from his sin. How, not to kings and mighty men He came, nor to the wise, But to the thief and murderer, And those whom men despise. And how, throughout the host of heaven Goes yet a louder praise O’er one poor sinner who doth turn From his unrighteous ways, Than o’er a hundred godly men, Who sin not all their days. Thus with the felons she abode, And that barred prison rude Was as if angels dwelt therein, And not fierce men of blood; For God had her captivity Turned into means of good. Now all this while sweet Marien’s friends, Who in the town remained, Of her took painful thought, resolved Her freedom should be gained. And at the last they compassed it, With labour long and great; And through the night they hurried her Unto the city-gate. There many a mother stood, and child, Weeping with friendly woe, Thus, thus to meet, as ’twere from death, And then to bid her go. To bid her go, whom so they loved, Nor once more see her face; To bid her go; to speed her forth To some more friendly place. Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears About the break of day, She left the city, praising God For her release; and swiftly trod Upon her unknown way. PART VIII. A bow-shot from the city-gate Turned Marien from the plain, Intent by unfrequented ways The mountain-land to gain. With bounding step she onward went, Over the moorland fells; O’er fragrant tracks of purple thyme, And crimson heather-bells. Joyful in her release she went, Still onward yet, and higher; Up many a mossy, stony steep, Through many a flock of mountain sheep, By the hill-tarns so dark and deep, As if she could not tire.