Page:Joan of Arc - Southey (1796).djvu/28

 And solaced his departing soul with strains Of sweetest piety, and bade it rise On Faith's strong wings to Heaven. Thus, once again Bereav'd of friends, the sport of adverse fate, On his turf'd grave I pour'd the orphan tear.

"Rude was Bizardo's cell; the beetling rock Frown'd o'er its ivied entrance; the hewn stone Form'd his rough seat, and on a bed of leaves The aged hermit took his nightly rest. A pure stream welling from the mossy rock Crept murmuring thro' the wood, and many a flow'r Drank on its side the genial sap of life. The rich soil wasted not in worthless weeds Its nurture; for Bizardo's patient hand Cultur'd each healing and salubrious herb; And every fruit that courts the summer sun Bloom'd for the holy hermit's blameless food. Oft would the sage exclaim "ah why should Man Stern tyrant of the field, with blood pollute "His