II

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;

      Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,

      And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,

      Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

      The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze,

      Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:

      Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,

      He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.