Blood?—blood?—nay, how is this?—I—very like
The sun shines redly on him—I have seen
The sky look ruddy, as with all the blood
Of battle-fields, where no man cried for grace.
Blood? look, Sir; look again—I—something clouds
Mine eyes to-day—I see more thick than wont.
MONK.
Nay! lean on me—Come! look upon your child,
And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart,
And send the balm of tears about your soul.
III.—In the heart of the Child.
There is a little dove that sits
Between the arches all alone,
Cut and carved in old grey stone,
And a spider o'er it flits:
Round and round his web is spun,
With the still bird looking through,
From among the beads of dew,
Set in glories of the sun.
So the bird looks out at morn
At the larks that mount the sky,
And it gazes, still and shy,
At the new moon's scanty horn.
And the owls, that fly by night,
Mock it from the ivied tower,
Hooting at the midnight hour
Down upon it from the height.
But the little dove sits on,
Calm between the arches there,
In the holy morning air,
When the owls with night are gone.
Then the bells for matins ring,
And the grey friars past it go,
Into church in double row,
And it hears the chaunts they sing.