Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, Ha! ha! That here come those that worship me? And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this? I am a sinner viler than you all. It may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that? It may be, no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine; but what of that? Yet do not rise: for you may look on me, Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! they shout "St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved? This is not told of any. They were saints. It cannot be but that I shall be saved; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, "Behold a saint!" And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here proclaim Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve; I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again. With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine They burst my prayer. And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; To make me an example to mankind, Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come-yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs that time is at the doors Of life-I say, When you may worship me without reproach ; While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain A flash of light. What's here? a shape, a shade, Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What! deny it now? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ! 'Tis gone 'tis here again; the crown! the crown! So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, |