Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,

That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,
And he met his shepherd agoing to fold:
"How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;
What news do you bring us from good King John?

"Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,
That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crown of gold so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The second, to tell him without any doubt,
How soon he may ride this whole world about;
And at the third question I must not shrink,
But tell him there truly what he does think."

"Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet
That a fool he may teach a wise man wit?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

"Nay, frown not if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be;

And if you will but lend me your gown

There is none shall know us in fair London town."

"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet and cope,
Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope."

"Now welcome, sir Abbot," the King he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep the day: For if thou can'st answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of gold so fair on my head,
Among all my liege men so noble of birth,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth."

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews as I have been told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,

For I think thou art one penny worser than he."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so little !

Now secondly tell me without any doubt

How soon I may ride this whole world about."

"You may rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth again;
And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
"I did not think it could be gone so soon.
Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."

"Yea, that I shall do and make your grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury;

But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The King he laughed, and swore by the mass,

"I'll make thee lord Abbot this day in his place!” Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed,

66

For alack, I can neither write nor read."

"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,

For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me;
And tell the old Abbot, when thou comest home,

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

Old Ballad.

*175*

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR.

Out and in the river is winding
The links of its long, red chain
Through belts of dusky pine-land
And gusty leagues of plain.

Only, at times, a smoke wreath

With the drifting cloud-rack joins,—
The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins.

Drearily blows the north wind

From the land of ice and snow;

The eyes that look are weary,

And heavy the hands that row.

And with one foot on the water,
And one upon the shore,

The Angel of shadow gives warning

That day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese?

Is it the Indian's yell,

That lends to the voice of the north wind

The tones of a far off bell?

The

voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface.

The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain,
To the boatman on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!

Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow,
And thus upon life's Red River
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.

And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore,
And our eyes grow dim with watching,
And our hearts faint at the oar,

Happy is he who heareth

The signal of his release

In the bells of the Holy City,

The chimes of eternal peace!

* 176*

John G. Whittier.

Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ;

All her maidens, watching, said,

“She must weep or she will die.”

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face:
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee-

Like summer tempest came her tears-
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

. 177

Alfred Tennyson.

THE BEGGAR.

A beggar through the world am I,—
From place to place I wander by;
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For Christ's sweet sake and charity!

A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,

Old oak, give me,

That the world's blasts may round me blow,

And I yield gently to and fro,

While my stout-hearted trunk below

And firm-set roots unmovéd be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might
Enduring still through day and night

Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,—

That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance

And the strong tide of circumstance,—
Give me, old granite gray.