Blood?--blood?--nay, how is this?--I--very like
The sun shines redly on him--I have seen
The sky look ruddy, as with all the blood
Of battle-fields, where no man cried for grace.
Blood? look, Sir; look again--I--something clouds
Mine eyes to-day--I see more thick than wont.

MONK.

Nay! lean on me--Come! look upon your child,
And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart,
And send the balm of tears about your soul.


III.--_In the heart of the Child._


There is a little dove that sits
Between the arches all alone,
Cut and carved in old grey stone,
And a spider o'er it flits:

Round and round his web is spun,
With the still bird looking through,
From among the beads of dew,
Set in glories of the sun.

So the bird looks out at morn
At the larks that mount the sky,