LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, The war-worn Chieftain quits the world -- to hide His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell In soft repose he comes: within his cell, Round the decaying trunk of human pride, At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, Do penitential cogitations cling; Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, For recompence -- their own perennial bower. |