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...OUR CLUB by SYLVIA DILLAVOU BARCLAY AT CAMDEN by KATHARINE LEE BATES LOVE'S LIKENINGS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: MYSTERY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: TO THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |