Flow of wine and flight of cork, Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork: But, where'er the board was spread, Grace, I ween, was never said! Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat; And the Priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. "A capital stew," the Fisherman said, "With cinnamon and sherry!" And the Abbot turned away his head, For his brother was lying before him dead- The Mayor of St. Edmund's Bury!
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a bundle of beautiful things
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled, That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted, And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.
Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, Stifled whispers, smothered sighs, And the breath of vernal gales, And the voice of nightingales: But the nightingales were mute, Envious, when an unseen lute Shaped the music of its chords Into passion's thrilling words:
"Smile, Lady, smile! I will not set Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white To wear around its gems of light. Smile, Lady, smile!-I will not see Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, Till those bewitching lips of thine Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. Smile, Lady, smile !-for who would win A loveless throne through guilt and sin? Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, If woman's heart were rebel still?"
One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay, And torn was her raven hair.
Ah, ha!" said the Fisher, in merry guise, "Her gallant was hooked before;
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes, The eyes of Mistress Shore !
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest, Jewels of lustre, robes of price, Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the Abbot shook, As the Fisherman armed his golden hook, And awfully were his features wrought By some dark dream or wakened thought. Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry With the thirst which only in death shall die: Mark the mariner's frenzied frown
As the swirling wherry settles down, When peril has numbed the sense and will, Though the hand and the foot may struggle still : Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer; But he signed-he knew not why or how- The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he stalked away with his iron box.
"Oho! O ho!
The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line; [south, Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!"
The Abbot had preached for many years With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers Against Emancipation;
His words had made battalions quake, Had roused the zeal of martyrs,
Had kept the Court an hour awake, And the King himself three-quarters: But ever since that hour, 'tis said, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, He stuttered, drunk or dry;
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!
THE LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.
"DEATH be her doom! we must not spare, Though the voice be sweet, though the face be fair, When the looks deride and the lips blaspheme The Serpent-God of our hallowed stream.
"Death be her doom! that the fearful King May joy in the gift his votaries bring;
And smile on the valley, and smile on the rock, To freshen the vine, and fatten the flock.
"Death be her doom! ere the pitiless one Leaps from his rest at set of sun; Seek from his crag his wonted prey, And punish in wrath our long delay!"
It was a grey-haired Chief that said The words of fate, the words of fear; A battered casque was on his head, And in his grasp a broken spear: It was a captive maid that met, Sedate, serene, the stern command;
Around her neck her beads were set, An ivory cross was in her hand. "Lead me away! I am weak and young, Captive the fierce and proud among; But I will pray a humble prayer,
That the feeble to strike may be firm to ban.
"Lead me away! the voice may fail
And the lips grow white, and the cheeks turn pale ; Yet will ye know that nought but sin Chafes or changes the soul within.
"Lead me away! oh, dear to mine eyes Are the flowery fields and the sunny skies But I cannot turn from the Cross divine, To bend my knee at an idol's shrine."
They clothe her in such rich array As a bride prepares for her bridal day; Around her forehead, that shines so bright, They wreathe a wreath of roses white, And set on her neck a golden chain, Spoil of her sire in combat slain, Over her head her doom is said;
And with folded arms and measured tread, In long procession, dark and slow, Up the terrible hill they go,
Hymning their hymn, and crying their cry, To him, their Demon Diety-
Mary, Mother, sain and save!
The maiden kneels at the Dragon's cave!
Alas! 'tis frightful to behold
That thing of Nature's softest mould, In whose slight shape and delicate hue Life's loveliness beams, fresh and new,
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