Where the noble hart had stood at bay, Sounded then the noisy glee Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat; When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, For his brother was lying before him dead, The mayor of St. Edmond'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, That the abbot fell on his face, and fainted, Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, "Smile, lady, smile!-I will not set Till thou wilt gather roses white 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, ah!" 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, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine; On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, As the swaling 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, There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, "Oh, ho! Oh, 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; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, 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 His words had made battalions quake, Had roused the zeal of martyrs; He kept the court an hour awake, But ever, from that hour, 'tis said, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head 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 HAUNTED TREE. "DEEP is the bliss of the belted knight, When he kisses at dawn the silken glove, "Lightly he couches the beaming spear; His mistress sits with her maidens by, Watching the speed of his swift career, With a whispered prayer and a murmured sigh. "Far from me is the gazing throng, The blazoned shield, and the nodding plume; Nothing is mine but a worthless song, A joyless life, and a nameless tomb." "Nay, dearest Wilfrid, lay like this Our mirth beneath the new May moon |