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,180
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.185
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 hand190
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 195

"His