And see, the portals opening wide, From the Abbey flows the living tide;— Forth from the doors The torrent pours, Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores, This with the chasuble, that with his rosary, This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry, Holy Father, and Holy Mother, Holy Sister, and Holy Brother, Holy Son, and Holy Daughter, Holy Wafer, and Holy Water; Every one drest Like a guest in his best, In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, Or weave into gloves at three shillings a pair, And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,—a Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.
Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone, With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown, Slowly the throng Come passing along, With many a chaunt and solemn song, Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,— Dies iræ, and De profundis, Miserere, and Domine dirige nos,— Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all, Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral, To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That he'd better be minding his P's and his Q's, And not come too near,—since they can, if they choose, Make him shake in his hoofs—as he does not wear shoes.
Still on they go, A goodly show, With footsteps sure, though certainly slow, Two by two, in a very long row; With feathers, and Mutes In mourning suits, Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,— Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold, Borne by a lad about eighteen years old; Next, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre, Borne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter. Eight Franciscans, sturdy and strong, Bear, in the midst, the good Bishop along; Eight Franciscans, stout and tall, Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall; Eight more hold a canopy high over all, With eight Trumpeters tooting the Dead March in Saul.— Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his Monks coming after him, all with posies, And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses, Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his— And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see How Lords and Ladies, of high degree, Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee, While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights, In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.
Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold, As the company march Through the rounded arch Of that Cathedral old!— Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em, All of them ranging in due decorum, Around the inside of the Sanctum Sanctorum, While, brilliant and bright, An unwonted light (I forgot to premise this was all done at night) The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead, That rest below, mostly buried in lead, And above, recumbent in grim repose, With their mailed hose, And their dogs at their toes, And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows, Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes, With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives, As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives, To Praie for the Sowles of themselves and their wives.— —The effect of the music, too, really was fine, When they let the good prelate down into his shrine, And by old and young The "Requiem" was sung; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is—Latin—I don't think they meddled with Greek— In short, the whole thing produced—so to speak— What in Blois they would call a Coup d'œil magnifique!
Yet, surely, when the level ray Of some mild eve's descending sun Lights on the village pastor, grey In years ere ours had well begun—
As there—in simplest vestment clad, He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree, In solemn tones,—but yet not sad,— Of what Man is—what Man shall be!
And clustering round the grave, half hid By that same quiet churchyard yew, The rustic mourners bend, to bid The dust they loved a last adieu—
—That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen Upon each briar-bound hillock green, So calm, so tranquil, so serene, Gives to the eye a fairer scene,— Speaks to the heart with holier breath Than all this pageantry of Death.—
But Chacun à son gout—this is talking at random— We all know "De gustibus non disputandum!" So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story, The Cathedral of Blois— Where the Sainted Aloys Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory," "In the dead of the night," though with labour opprest, Some "mortals" disdain "the calm blessings of rest;" Your cracksman, for instance, thinks night-time the best To break open a door, or the lid of a chest; And the gipsy who close round your premises prowls, To ransack your hen-roost, and steal all your fowls, Always sneaks out at night with the bats and the owls, —So do Witches and Warlocks, Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls, To say nothing at all of these troublesome "Swells" Who come from the playhouses, "flash-kens," and "hells," To pull off people's knockers, and ring people's bells.
Well—'tis now the hour Ill things have power! And all who, in Blois, entertain honest views, Have long been in bed, and enjoying a snooze,— Nought is waking Save Mischief, and "Faking,"[54] And a few who are sitting up brewing or baking, When an ill-looking Infidel, sallow of hue, Who stands in his slippers some six feet two (A rather remarkable height for a Jew), Creeps cautiously out of the churchwarden's pew, Into which, during service, he'd managed to slide himself— While all were intent on the anthem, and hide himself.