"List! now the thunder's rattling, dinning sound Moves slowly on, and then augmented clangs, Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drowned, Still on the startled ear of terror hangs. The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings! Again the levin, and the thunder pours, And the full clouds at once are burst in stony showers. "Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain, The Abbot of St. Godwin's convent came; His chapournette[19] was drenchéd with the rain, His painted girdle met with mickle shame; He backward told his bead-roll at the same; The storm grew stronger, and he drew aside With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. "His cloak was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, A golden button fastened near his chin; His _autremete_[20] was edged with golden twine, And his peaked shoes a noble's might have been; Full well it showed that he thought cost no sin; The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight, For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.[21] "'An alms, Sir Priest!' the dropping pilgrim said; 'O! let me wait within your convent door, Till the sun shineth high above our head, And the loud tempest of the air is o'er; Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor; No house, nor friend, nor money in my pouch; All that I call my own is this my silver _crouche_.'[22] "'Varlet!' replied the abbot, 'cease your din; This is no season alms and prayers to give; My porter never lets a stroller in; None touch my ring who not in honor live.' And now the sun with the black clouds did strive, And shedding on the ground his glaring ray, The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away. "Again the sky was black, the thunder rolled; Fast hieing o'er the plain a priest was seen; Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold; His cloak and cape were gray, and eke were clean; A limitor he was of order seen;[23] And from the pathway side then turnéd he, Where the poor almer lay beneath the holmen tree. "'An alms, Sir Priest,' the dropping pilgrim said, 'For sweet St. Mary and your order's sake.' The limitor then loosed his pouch's thread, And did thereout a groat of silver take; The wretched pilgrim did for gladness shake. 'Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care; We are God's stewards all; naught of our own we bear.'