THERE is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell In Xeres, whither few indeed resort; Green are the walls within, green is the floor And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst. Still in its dark recess fanatic sin Abases to the ground his tangled hair, And servile scourges and reluctant groans Roll o'er the vault uninterruptedly, Till, such the natural stillness of the place, The very tear upon the damps below Drops audible, and the heart's throb replies. There is the idol maid of Christian creed, And taller images, whose history I know not, nor inquired -- a scene of blood, Of resignation amid mortal pangs, And other things, exceeding all belief. Hither the aged Opas of Seville Walked slowly, and behind him was a man Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless, In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head Dropt as he smote his breast; he gathered up, Replaced them all, gron'd deeply, looked to heaven, And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VOICE OF SPRING by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TO MADAME DE SEVIGNE by MATHIEU DE MONTREUIL THE GLORIOUS TOUCHDOWN by GEORGE ADE URANIA; THE WOMAN IN THE MOON: THE THIRD CANTO, OR FULL MOON by WILLIAM BASSE DAPHNE; FOR GRAHAM ROBERTSON by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |