Never dungeon underground,
Moor or mountain keep controlled them.

Thou whose glance alone makes pure,
Searcher of all hearts and Saviour,
With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure
My stray thoughts' unblessed behaviour.

God of earth, air, fire and flood,
Rule me, rule me in such measure,
That to my eternal good
I may live to love Thy pleasure.

Christ's own flock thus may I reach,
At the flash of Death's sharp sickle,
Just in deed, of steadfast speech,
Not, as now, infirm and fickle.





THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT

(After an eighth- or early ninth-century Irish poem. Text and
translation in _Thesaurus Palæohibernicus_.)


Pangar, my white cat, and I
Silent ply our special crafts;