Page:Curious myths of the Middle Ages (1876).djvu/123

Not the turmoil, nor the passions,
  Of the busy world o’erhead,
Sounds of war, or peace rejoicings,
  Could disturb the placid dead.

Once a youthful miner, whistling,
  Hew’d the chamber, now his tomb,
Crash! the rocky fragments tumbled,
  Closed him in abysmal gloom.

Sixty years pass’d by, ere miners
  Toiling, hundred fathoms deep,
Broke upon the shaft where rested
  That poor miner in his sleep.

As the gold-grains lie untarnish’d
  In the dingy soil and sand,
Till they gleam and flicker, stainless,
  In the digger’s sifting hand;

As the gem in virgin brilliance
  Rests, till ushered into day;—
So uninjured, uncorrupted,
  Fresh and fair the body lay.

And the miners bore it upward,
  Laid it in the yellow sun;
Up, from out the neighb’ring houses,
  Fast the curious peasants run.

“Who is he?” with eyes they question:
  “Who is he?” they ask aloud:
Hush! a wizen’d hag comes hobbling,
  Panting, through the wond’ring crowd.