Now deep in the forest the friar had sought A snug shady spot, where no mortal he thought Would ere chance to disturb his repose; For with talking and fright He is tired out quite, And would fain on the world his eyes close. Above his head A tall oak spread Its leafy shade; And 'midst the trees The sportive breeze With young boughs played. From ev'ry bird A song was heard As forth they strayed Some grub to seize, While busy bees A buzzing made. Reclining on a grassy mound, His head a velvet cushion found, And bushes weave a curtain round; Here ponders he the morning's scene, Till things that are with things that seem Together blend and form a dream. Again he feels red-hot with fright, Once more his tale he must recite, Must conjure up a thousand lies To blind Suspicion's wakeful eyes-- Must rise with hope and sink with fear, And all the while must feel most queer. His tale when told--instead of going, The Abbot looks most wondrous knowing; And says "'Tis a falsehood,--a fable, Which he to deny is not able," As with throbbings of conscience he shook; For he could not then think of the frailest excuse, Though he rummaged his brains--it was all of no use, For his cunning and skill him forsook. "You are guilty, you sinner!" the stern Abbot cried; "Your confusion betrays you! Now don't try to hide Your wickedness more, for I shall not believe A word that you say, as you've tried to deceive." Then the poor friar thought That for pardon he sought, But the Abbot appeared not to hear, When he swooned right away, And insensible lay, Overcome with remorse or with fear. As he came to himself, thinks he, "I'm in bed;" But very soon after thinks he, "No, I'm dead: Oh, I feel so uncommonly queer! I can move neither leg nor an arm, And my tongue's unaccountably calm,-- There is something wrong, certainly, here. Where's the Abbot?--He's gone--'tis most like for assistance. They will bury me, p'rhaps, and I can't make resistance: Oh, my doom is now sealed I see clear!"