Iv

A heap of withered boughs was piled, Of juniper and rowan wild, Mingled with shivers from the oak, Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, Barefooted, in his frock and hood. His grizzled beard and matted hair Obscured a visage of despair; His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er, The scars of frantic penance bore. That monk, of savage form and face, The impending danger of his race Had drawn from deepest solitude, Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. Not his the mien of Christian priest, But Druid's, from the grave released, Whose hardened heart and eye might brook On human sacrifice to look; And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. The hallowed creed gave only worse And deadlier emphasis of curse; No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, His cave the pilgrim shunned with care, The eager huntsman knew his bound, And in mid chase called off his hound; Or if, in lonely glen or strath, The desert-dweller met his path, He prayed, and signed the cross between, While terror took devotion's mien.