IV.
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heap of withered boughs was piled,Of juniper and rowan wild,Mingled with shivers from the oak,Rent by the lightning's recent stroke.Brian the Hermit by it stood,Barefooted, in his frock and hood.His grizzled beard and matted hairObscured a visage of despair;His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er,The scars of frantic penance bore.That monk, of savage form and faceThe impending danger of his raceHad drawn from deepest solitudeFar in Benharrow's bosom rude.Not his the mien of Christian priest,But Druid's, from the grave releasedWhose hardened heart and eye might brookOn human sacrifice to look;And much, 't was said, of heathen loreMixed in the charms he muttered o'er.The hallowed creed gave only worseAnd deadlier emphasis of curse.No peasant sought that Hermit's prayerHis cave the pilgrim shunned with care,The eager huntsman knew his boundAnd in mid chase called off his hound;'Or if, in lonely glen or strath,The desert-dweller met his pathHe prayed, and signed the cross between,While terror took devotion's mien.
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