XXI

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his side

A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book,

Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook,

The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — to hide

His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide

In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell

In soft repose he comes. Within his cell,

Round the decaying trunk of human pride,

At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour,

Do penitential cogitations cling;

Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine

In grisly folds and strictures serpentine;

Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring,

For recompense — their own perennial bower.