Something like this, then, my guide had to tell, Perched on a saint cracked across when he fell; But since I might chance give his meaning a wrench, He talking his _patois_ and I English-French, I’ll put what he told me, preserving the tone, In a rhymed prose that makes it half his, half my own. An abbey-church stood here, once on a time, Built as a death-bed atonement for crime: ’Twas for somebody’s sins, I know not whose; But sinners are plenty, and you can choose. Though a cloister now of the dusk-winged bat, ’Twas rich enough once, and the brothers grew fat, Looser in girdle and purpler in jowl, Singing good rest to the founder’s lost soul. But one day came Northmen, and lithe tongues of fire Lapped up the chapter-house, licked off the spire, And left all a rubbish-heap, black and dreary, Where only the wind sings _miserere_. No priest has kneeled since at the altar’s foot, Whose crannies are searched by the nightshade’s root, Nor sound of service is ever heard, Except from throat of the unclean bird, Hooting to unassoiled shapes as they pass In midnights unholy his witches' mass, Or shouting “Ho! ho!” from the belfry high As the Devil’s sabbath-train whirls by. But once a year, on the eve of All-Souls, Through these arches dishallowed the organ rolls, Fingers long fleshless the bell-ropes work, The chimes peal muffled with sea-mists mirk, The skeleton windows are traced anew On the baleful flicker of corpse-lights blue, And the ghosts must come, so the legend saith, To a preaching of Reverend Doctor Death. Abbots, monks, barons, and ladies fair Hear the dull summons and gather there: No rustle of silk now, no clink of mail, Nor ever a one greets his church-mate pale; No knight whispers love in the _châtelaine’s_ ear His next-door neighbor this five hundred year; No monk has a sleek _benedicite_ For the great lord shadowy now as he; Nor needeth any to hold his breath, Lest he lose the least word of Doctor Death. He chooses his text in the Book Divine, Tenth verse of the Preacher in chapter nine:-- “'Whatsoever thy hand shall find thee to do, That do with thy whole might, or thou shalt rue; For no man is wealthy, or wise, or brave, In that quencher of might-be’s and would-be’s, the grave.' Bid by the Bridegroom, 'To-morrow,' ye said, And To-morrow was digging a trench for your bed; Ye said, 'God can wait; let us finish our wine;' Ye had wearied Him, fools, and that last knock was mine!” But I can’t pretend to give you the sermon, Or say if the tongue were French, Latin, or German; Whatever he preached in, I give you my word The meaning was easy to all that heard; Famous preachers there have been and be, But never was one so convincing as he; So blunt was never a begging friar, No Jesuit’s tongue so barbed with fire, Cameronian never, nor Methodist, Wrung gall out of Scripture with such a twist.