At the high altar, where its radiance pale
A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found
To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.
And then it dashed itself upon the ground,
Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept;
The vaulted roof reëchoed with the sound.
Long was the vigil that dim figure kept
That seemed by tears so strangely comforted;
None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.
At last the night's mysterious hours were sped
And day returned; but all was silent now,
And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.
The faithful came before their God to bow,
The canons to the altar reverently.
There had been placed above it, none knew how,
A crucifix whose like none e'er did see;
Thus, only thus had God His strength put by,
Thus had He looked upon the blood-stained tree.
To Him whose suffering brought salvation nigh
Came sinners for release, a contrite band—
And "Christ have mercy!" was the general cry.
It seems not like the work of mortal hand hand—
Who can have set the godlike image there?
Who in the dead of night such offering planned?
It is the master's, who with anxious care
Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn,
To show the utmost that his art can dare.
What shall we bring him for his ease foregone
And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed—
His head a crown of laurel shall put on!—