“Thou liest, vile caitiff, ’tis false, by the rood,
For know that the contract is seal’d with my blood,
’Tis written, I never shall sleep in the tomb
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom!
“But say what art thou, strange, unsearchable thing,
That dares to speak treason, and waylay a king?”—
“Know, monarch, I dwell in the beautiful bowers
Of Eden, and poison I shed o’er the flowers.
“In darkness and storm o’er the ocean I sail,
I ride on the breath of the night-rolling gale—
I dwell in Vesuvius, ’mid torrents of flame,
Unriddle my riddle, and tell me my name!”
O pale grew the monarch, and smote on his breast,
For who was the prophet he wittingly guess’d:
“O, Jesu-Maria!” he tremblingly said,
“Bona Virgo!”—he gazed—but the vision had fled.
’Tis winter—the trees of the forest are bare,
How keenly is blowing the chilly night air!
The moonbeams shine brightly on hard-frozen flood,
And William is riding thro’ Cadenham’s wood.
Why looks he with dread on the blasted oak tree?
Saint Swithin! what is it the monarch can see?
Prophetical sight! ’mid the desolate scene,
The oak is array’d in the freshest of green!
He thought of the contract, “Thou’rt safe from the tomb,
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom;”
He thought of the druid—“The mighty shall fall,
Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall.”
As he stood near the tree, lo! a swift flying dart
Hath struck the proud monarch, and pierc’d thro’ his heart;
’Twas the deed of a friend, not the deed of a foe,
For the arrow was aim’d at the breast of a roe.
In Malwood is silent the light-hearted glee,
The dance and the wassail, and wild revelrie;
Its chambers are dreary, deserted, and lone,
And the day of its greatness for ever hath flown.
A weeping is heard in Saint Swithin’s huge pile—
“Dies Iræ” resounds thro’ the sable-dight aisle—
’Tis a dirge for the mighty, the mass for the dead—
The funeral anthem for William the Red!