Shaded lights were burning low--
Muffled bells swung to and fro--
Solemn monks were chanting slow--
Chanting of the Crucified;
When the good St. Bavon died.
Oft had he trod the jeering street,
With bare and bleeding feet;
Leaving crimson-flecked the snow
In memory of his Master's woe;
With grief closed lips, sat he apart,
The comrade of the dead man's heart;
At last the chanting throng were gone
And he was with th' dead alone;
When the bare uncurtained room
Grew still and ghastly like a tomb,
On the icy neck he fell
And begged the death-sealed lips to tell
If one deed were left undone,--
That in that radiance like the sun
Didst shade with grief the spirit flown,
Or dim the brightness of his crown!
Then heard his spirit's inmost ear
A voice that he alone could hear,
"A shadow walks with me akin to pain,
I seek to shun it, but in vain,
"For as I left the life of time,
And journeyed toward th' blessed clime,
I passed along that darkened shore.
Where wail the lost forevermore.
"As on that awful gulf I walked,
A black-robed demon with me talked:
'Behold yon spirit lost!' I heard him cry,
''Tis one we strove o'er, thou and I.
"'I, with the tempter's gilded snare,
Thou, with the pleading voice of prayer;
Hadst thou but prayed till set of sun,
My power had vanished; thou hadst won.'
"Above the harps and angel's songs I hear,
The demon's laugh, and taunting jeer;
Oh, comrade! brother! saint!
Pray for the tempted; oh, pray and do not faint!"