"Who art thou, son?" the Prior cried,
His tones with wonder falter—
"Thou should'st not jest with reverend men,
Nor with their feelings palter."
"I jest not, Prior, for know in me
Sir Reginald Fitzwalter.
"I now throw off my humble garb,
As I what I am, contest;
The wealthiest I of wealthy men,
Since with this treasure blest."
And as he spoke, Fitzwalter clasp'd
His lady to his breast.
"In peasant guise my love I won,
Nor knew she whom she wedded;
In peasant cot our truth we tried,
And no disunion dreaded.
Twelve months' assurance proves our faith
On firmest base is steadied."
Joy reigned within those Convent walls
When the glad news was known;
Joy reigned within Fitzwalter's halls
When there his bride was shown.
No lady in the land such sweet
Simplicity could own;
A natural grace had she, that all
Art's graces far outshone:
Beauty and worth for want of birth
Abundantly atone.
L'ENVOY
What need of more? That Loving Pair
Lived long and truly so;
Nor ever disunited were;—
For one death laid them low!
And hence arose that Custom old—
The Custom of Dunmow.
Of this Fitzwalter we shall hear later on.