“But O for the monk that I miss, instead
Of this listless rhymer!” the Prior said.
Bartholomew dying, as mortals must,
Not unbelov’d of the cowlèd throng,
Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust
Of shelves and of corners, many a song
That cried loud, loud to the farthest day,
How a bard had arisen,—and passed away.
Wonderful verses! fair and fine,