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    Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn,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!—­

  So soon a great procession was decreed
    Of priests and laymen; marching in the van
  Went one who bore the recompense agreed.

  They came where dwelt the venerated man—­
    And found an open door, an empty house;
  They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.

  The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse
    And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears
  To see the grateful people pay their vows.

  He is not there, the grave assemblage hears;
    A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost
  Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.

  From room to room they went—­their pains were lost;
    In all the desolate chambers there was none
  That answered them, or came to play the host.

  They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun
    Through opened windows—­in their anxious round
  Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,

  Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!

  III

  They have brought a captive home, and raging told
    That he is stained with foulest blasphemy,
  Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.

  It is the pilgrim we were used to see
    For penance roaming ‘neath our palm-trees’ shade,
  Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.

  Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid
    A Christian’s courage show in face of wrong? 
  God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!

  Ah yes—­though life is sweet, his will is strong,
    His mind made up; he yields him to their hands,
  Content to shed his blood in torment long.

  Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands
    And merciless prepare a hideous deed—­
  Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!