But the Abbot’s blood ran colder, When he saw a gasping Knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder. And the loyal churchman strove in vain To mutter a Pater Noster; For he who writhed in mortal pain Was camped that night on Bosworth plain— The cruel Duke of Gloster!
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a haunch of princely size, Filling with fragrance earth and skies. The corpulent Abbot knew full well The swelling form, and the steaming smell: Never a monk that wore a hood Could better have guessed the very wood Where the noble hart had stood at bay, Weary and wounded, at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee Of a revelling company,— Sprightly story, wicked jest, Rated servant, greeted guest, Flow of wine and flight of cork, Stroke of knife and thrust of fork: But, where’er the board was spread, Grace, I ween, was never said!— Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat; And the Priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. ‘A capital stew,’ the Fisherman said, ‘With cinnamon and sherry!’ And the Abbot turned away his head, For his brother was lying before him dead The Mayor of St. Edmund’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, And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled, That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted. And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.
Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, Stifled whispers, smothered sighs, And the breath of vernal gales, And the voice of nightingales: But the nightingales were mute, Envious, when an unseen lute Shaped the music of its chords Into passion’s thrilling words: ‘Smile, Lady, smile! I will not set Upon my brow the coronet.
Till thou wilt gather roses white To wear around its gems of light. Smile, Lady, smile!—I will not see Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, Till those bewitching lips of thine Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. Smile, Lady, smile! for who would win A loveless throne through guilt and sin? Or who would reign o’er vale and hill, If woman’s heart were rebel still?’
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, ha!’ 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, The eyes of Mistress Shore!
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside; A minstrel’s harp, and a miser’s chest, A hermit’s cowl, and a baron’s crest, Jewels of lustre, robes of price, Tomes of heresy, loaded dice, And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre, As he came at last to a bishop’s mitre!