sate
Both thirst and hunger, pray refresh yourself.

_Raphael_. Dear mother, it is rest to hear thee speak.
'Tis not my hale young limbs that are forespent,
But an outwearied spirit, seeking peace,
Hath found it in thy voice. Speak on, speak on.
What of this holy saint? how chanced the tree
To save his life?

_Maria_. Ah, 'twas a miracle.
Through summer's withering heats and blighting droughts
His own hands gave the thirsty roots to drink.
In spring the first pale growth of tender green
Thrilled him with scarcely less delight than mine
At my babe's earliest glance of answering love.
Daily he fed the tame free birds that went
Singing among its boughs; he tended it,
He watched, he cherished, yea he talked to it,
As though it had a soul. God gave to him
Two daughters, he was wont to say--one mute,
And one who spake, the oak tree and myself.
A child, scarce older than my Bernard now,
I nestled to the quaint, kind hermit's heart,
And grew to girlhood with my hand in his.
I loved to prank his wretched cell with flowers.
Twisting bright weeds around his crucifix,
Or trailing ivy wreaths about his door.
One winter came when half my father's vines
Were killed with frost; the valley was as white
As yonder boldest mountain-top; the air
Cut like a knife; the brooks were still and stiff;
The high drifts choked the hollows of the hills.
When spring approached and swollen brooks ran free.
And in the ponds the blue ice cracked and brake,
The hard snows melted and the bladed green
Put forth again, then from the mountain-slopes,
The avalanches rolled; the streams o'erflowed;
The fields were flooded; flocks were swept away,
And folk fared o'er the pasture-ground in boats.
Two days and nights the sun and stars seemed drowned,
The air was thick with water, and the world
Lay ruined under rain and sliding snows.
Then day and night my thoughts were with the saint
Whose poor hut clung to yonder treacherous slope:
My dreams, my tears, my prayers were all for him.
Not till the flood subsided, and again
A watery sun shone forth, my prayers prevailed
Upon my father, and he went with me
To seek the holy man. "Just God!" he cried,
And I, with both hands pressed against mine eyes,
Burst into sobs. No hermitage was there:
Naught save one broken, tottering wall remained
Beneath the unshaken, firmly-rooted oak.
Then from the branches