Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never erred,
Till he reached the river-headland called the Mountain of the Bird.
There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy flock,
Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the highest rock.
Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly;
But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky.
There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his bed;
There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, brought him
bread.
Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft,
Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave he left.
On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the band,
Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's hand.
Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely sealed,
While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix kneeled.
"Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be priced!
Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to find the Christ."
Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but no answering voice he heard;
Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Mountain of the Bird.
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