In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud without the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook,
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
By his bed a monk was seated
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster
From the missal on his knee:
And amid the tempest pealing
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bell that from the neighbouring kloster
Rang for the Nativity.
In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held that night their Christmas wassail⚫
Many a carol old and saintly
Sang the minstrels and the waits.
And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen
That the storm was heard but faintly
Knocking at the castle-gates.
Till at length the lays they chaunted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted
Where the monk with accents holy
Whispered at the baron's ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile and listened,
And the dying baron slowly
Turned his weary head to hear.
"Wassail for the kingly stranger,
Born and cradled in a manger!
King like David, priest like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"
And the lightning showed the sainted.
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
Miserere, Domine!"
In that hour of deep contrition
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion, And the truth wore no disguise.
Every vassal of his banner,
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again.
And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied, “ Amen!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,
Mingling with the common dust:
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter glows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.
ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John's Eve at vespers proudly sat,
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again,
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exaltavit humiles;
And slowly lifting up his kingly head,
He to a learned clerk beside him said:
"What mean these words ?" The clerk made answer
"He has put down the mighty from their seat
And has exalted them of low degree."
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully:
“'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests, and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known
There is no power can push me from my throne!"
And leaning back he yawned, and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light
Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking: "Who is there ?"
Half-choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said :
Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide.
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire
Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace-gate;
Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room
Blazing with light and breathing with perfume.
There on the daïs sat another king,
Wearing his crown, his robes, his signet-ring,
King Robert's self in features, form, and height
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognise.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed
Who met his looks of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
Then said: "Who art thou? and why com'st thou
here ?"
To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,
"I am the King, and come to claim my own
From an impostor, who usurps my throne!"
And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords.
The Angel answered with unruffled brow,
"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester; thou
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scolloped cape,
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"
Deaf to King Robert's threats, and cries, and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs.
A group of tittering pages ran before,
And as they opened wide the folding-door
His heart failed, for he heard with strange alarms
The boisterous laughter of his men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring,
With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!"
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam
He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discoloured walls,
Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape.
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