They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;

Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook
his hide,

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one and one, the bolts full easy slide:-
The chains lie silent on the footworn
stones;-

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370 These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a

woe,

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and

form

Of witch, and demon, and large coffinworm,

Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform;5

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.

(1820)

THE RED FISHERMAN
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

[The date represented by this symbolic poem is evidently 1485, that of the Battle of Bosworth Field (see line 130), in which Gloucester (Richard III) met his death. The hero may be supposed to be the Abbot of Bury St. Edmunds (see line 159), a powerful monastery whose head was entitled to a seat in the House of Lords. Mistress Shore (line 199) was a favorite of the late king, Edward IV, who is doubtless referred to in line 196. The mitre, with which the devil's hook was baited for the Abbot himself, is symbol of the office of bishop.]

The Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth alone, to look
Upon the summer moon.

A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

5 deform. Distorted.

aves. Prayers to Mary.

30

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate 1 of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;

40

When suddenly rose a dismal tone,Was it a song, or was it a moan? "O ho! O ho!

Above-below

Lightly and brightly they glide and go! The hungry and keen on the top are leap

ing;

70

The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;

Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!” In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, He looked to the left and he looked to

the right,

And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one! 81

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shriveled that tawny skin,
Till it hardly covered the bones within.

The line the Abbot saw him throw

90

Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago,

And the hands that worked his foreign

vest

Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

100

2 Congreve rockets. Military rockets, carrying balls like a modern shell.

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, 151 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 160 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.

171

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;

180

190

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.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal_Chitty ;* Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly,In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the County Ball: There when the sounds of flute and fiddle

Gave signal sweet in that old hall

ΙΟ