How Twelve Stags Plowed For Saint Leonor

Ere yet to brakeward stole the feeding fawn, While grave and lone about the greenwood lay All soft seclusions of the dimmest dawn, Forth from his hut, in heavenly airs to pray

Fared Father Leonor, wrapt with morn and God, New-perfected in look and limb with sleep, Fain of each friendly tree whereby he trod, At dew-drop salutations smiling deep.

He paced the hollow towards his pleasant goal Where burst from out a tall oak's roots a spring, As prayer from priviest fibres of the soul Leaps forth in loneliness. There stood a stalwart ring

Of twelve great oaks about that middle Oak, Which uttered forth the fount, as erstwhile stood The sweetest Twelve of time round Him who spoke The words that watered life's long drought of good.

Straight fell the father Leonor on his knees Down by the foot of that Christ-Oak, and cried, My master, while they sleep, I pray for these, My soul's dear sons, my sixty, that abide

About my cell since first my wandering feet In these Armoric wilds were stayed: O Lord, . . . . . .

Footnote 2:

"The Legend of St. Leonor" is given in full in Mr. Lanier's "Retrospects and Prospects."