Then up he rose with one long cry: 
  “’Tis Satan’s self does this,” cried he,
  “Because I shut and barred my heart
  When Thou didst loudest call to me! 
  O Lord, Thou know’st the thoughts of men,
  Thou know’st that I did yearn to make
  Thy Word more lovely to the eyes
  Of sinful souls, for Christ his sake! 
  Nathless, I leave the task undone: 
  I give up all to follow Thee,—­
  Even like him who gave his nets
  To winds and waves by Galilee!”

    Which said, he closed the precious Book
  In silence with a reverent hand;
  And, drawing his cowl about his face,
  Went forth into the Stricken Land. 
  And there was joy in heaven that day,—­
  More joy o’er that forlorn old friar
  Than over fifty sinless men
  Who never struggled with desire!

    What deeds he did in that dark town,
  What hearts he soothed with anguish torn,
  What weary ways of woe he trod,
  Are written in the Book of God,
  And shall be read at Judgment-Morn. 
  The weeks crept on, when, one still day,
  God’s awful presence filled the sky,
  And that black vapor floated by,
  And, lo! the sickness passed away. 
  With silvery clang, by thorp and town,
  The bells made merry in their spires,
  Men kissed each other on the street,
  And music piped to dancing feet
  The livelong night, by roaring fires!

    Then Friar Jerome, a wasted shape,—. 
  For he had taken the Plague at last,—­
  Rose up, and through the happy town,
  And through the wintry woodlands passed
  Into the Convent.  What a gloom
  Sat brooding in each desolate room! 
  What silence in the corridor! 
  For of that long, innumerous train
  Which issued forth a month before,
  Scarce twenty had come back again!

    Counting his rosary step by step,
  With a forlorn and vacant air,
  Like some unshriven church-yard thing,
  The Friar crawled up the mouldy stair
  To his damp cell, that he might look
  Once more on his beloved Book.

    And there it lay upon the stand,
  Open!—­he had not left it so. 
  He grasped it, with a cry; for, lo! 
  He saw that some angelic hand,
  While he was gone, had finished it! 
  There’t was complete, as he had planned! 
  There, at the end, stood finis, writ
  And gilded as no man could do,—­
  Not even that pious anchoret,
  Bilfrid, the wonderful,—­nor yet
  The miniatore Ethelwold,—­
  Nor Durham’s Bishop, who of old
  (England still hoards the priceless leaves)
  Did the Four Gospels all in gold. 
  And Friar Jerome nor spoke nor stirred,
  But, with his eyes fixed on that word,
  He passed from sin and want and scorn;
  And suddenly the chapel-bells
  Rang in the holy Christmas-Morn!

    In those wild wars which racked the land,
  Since then, and kingdoms rent in twain. 
  The Friar’s Beautiful Book was lost,—­
  That miracle of hand and brain: 
  Yet, though its leaves were torn and tossed,
  The volume was not writ in vain!