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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| Many a prayer and pater-noster, | |
| From the missal on his knee; | |
| |
| And, amid the tempest pealing, | |
| Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, | |
| Bells, that from the neighboring kloster | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| |
| 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 chanted | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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!” | 40 |
| |
| In that hour of deep contrition | |
| He beheld, with clearer vision, | |
| Through all outward show and fashion, | |
| Justice, the Avenger, rise. | |
| |
| All the pomp of earth had vanished, | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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: | 60 |
| |
| But the good deed, through the ages | |
| Living in historic pages, | |
| Brighter grows and gleams immortal, | |
| Unconsumed by moth or rust. | |
| |
