XX And in a trice, ere Flora could retire, Huge blocks of stone were ranged on either side: In front, behind, they rose, each moment higher, Compact, with smooth cement solidified. 'Nay, I might think ye mean to wall me in,' She cried, and, smiling, stretched she forth her arm To poor Manol, who on his brow the sin Felt burning, yet who feared the demons' charm, And thousand hellish machinations dire. XXI 'To wall thee in?' he stammered; 'aye, to make XXII With frenzied eagerness the builders ten Then, clambering the topmost stone to place, When first he met her in her father's glen. XXIII And to his ear came up the feeble cry— At thought of which invading joy once rushed Manol-Manol ! My fainting voice will soon for e'er be hushed. I pray thee hear me ; if to save thy soul I die, then, sweetest love, content I die !' XXIV With bleeding hands the stone he fastened down : Descending from the wall, he knelt in prayer. The Prince, amazed and frightened, found him there And wept with him whom he had come to crown. AN IDYL AMONG THE ROCKS. I. UPON A SUN-SWEPT HILL. I AM a Greek of Thessaly. One day Until I shook him from it. Then he turned A meek, reproachful gaze upon my face— And pillaging the passing men of God !- Shone like a star. I could not see to strike; And so I set him on his weary legs, The tumbled olives packed within his hoard, He said, 'My son, thy limbs are strong, and brave Thy heart is, if the gleam within thine eyes Belies thee not. Submit to me, and come Where duty calls thee. I will find thee work Fit for thy sword, and for the soul of man.' I know not why, but I obeyed the monk, And followed, meekly as a hound in leash, Along the mighty hill, and down across The wooded, stony, brown Thessalian vales, And through a waste where not a blossom grew, And stood at last before the lofty crag Crowned by Saint Stephen's monastery walls. II. AT THE MONASTERY. I A HUNGRY brigand might wander years And their saints enshrined in filagree Watching and guarding the chapel door, For the monastery's solid floor Is hundreds of feet above the plain, By the brawny arms of the monks themselves. If they ask you there to dine or sup You must leave your arms behind, nor dare When once you have mounted through the air, And stand by the creaking windlass' side, To gaze about you too eager eyed. |