Were smear’d with gore; and on his daring breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his ill-fated Victim!—Anchoret!
Thy Vestal Saint, by his unhallow’d hands
Torn from Religion’s Altar, had been made
The sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant Soul
Had sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cell
The Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,
And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,
Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—and DIED!