THE NORMAN BARON.
IN his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud without the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
* * * *
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, "Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal.
Mingling with the common dust.
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.
LONGFELLOW.