80 THE :PABLES OF FLORA. 



I see him still — Dost thou not see 

 The haggard eye-ball's hollow glare? 



And gleams of wild ferocity 



Dart through the sable shade of hair? 



What meagre form behind him moves. 

 With eye that rues th' invading day; 



And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves 

 The mind to pale remorse a prey? 



What wretched — Hark — the voice replies, 

 "Boy, bear these idle honours hence! 



'* For, here a guilty hermit lies, 

 " Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense. 



** Though Nature lent him powers to aid 

 ** The moral cause, the mutual weal; 



** Those powers he sunk in this dim shade, 

 " The desperate suicide of zeal. 



