The morrow is come, and at break of day, 'Fore the altar, the abbot, in holy array, Is joining the Palmer's and Gertrude's hands,-- But, in sudden amazement the holy man stands! For, before the castle, a trumpet's blast Rings so loud that the Palmer starts aghast; And, at Gertrude's side, he sinks dismayed,-- Is't with dread of the living, or fear of the dead? The doors of the chapel were open thrown, And the beams through the pictured windows shone On the face of De Clifford, with fury flushed,-- And forth on the Palmer he wildly rushed!-- "False Hubert!" he cried; and his knightly sword Was sheathed in the heart of the fiend-sold lord!-- With a scream of terror, Gertrude fell-- For she knew the pride of Sir Raymond well! He flew to raise her--but 'twas in vain: Her spirit its flight in fear had ta'en!-- And Sir Raymond kneels that his soul be shriven, And the stain of this deed be by grace forgiven:-- But ere the Abbot his grace can dole, De Clifford's truthful heart is breaking,-- And his soul, also, its flight is taking!-- Christ, speed it to a heavenly goal!-- Oh, pray for the peace of Sir Raymond's soul! THE BARON'S YULE FEAST. A Christmas Rhyme. CANTO IV. What power can stay the burst of song When throats with ale are mellow? What wight with nieve so stout and strong Dares lift it, jolly freres among, And cry, "Knaves, cease to bellow?" "'Twas doleful drear,"--the gossips vowed,-- To hear the minstrel's piteous tale! But, when the swineherd tuned his crowd,[14] And the gosherd began to grumble loud, The gossips smiled, and sipped their ale! "A boon, bold Thorold!" boldly cried The gosherd from Croyland fen; "I crave to sing of the fen so wide, And of geese and goosish men!" Loud loffe they all; and the baron, with glee, Cried "begin, good Swithin! for men may see Thou look'st so like a knowing fowl, Of geese thou art skilled right well to troll!" Stout Swithin sware the baron spake well,-- And his halting ditty began to tell: The rhyme was lame, and dull the joke,-- But it tickled the ears of clownish folk. The Gosherd's Song. 'Tis a tale of merry Lincolnshire I've heard my grannam tell; And I'll tell it to you, my masters, here, An' it likes you all, full well. A Gosherd on Croyland fen, one day, Awoke, in haste, from slumber; And on counting his geese, to his sad dismay, He found there lacked one of the number. O the Gosherd looked west, and he looked east, And he looked before and behind him; And his eye from north to south he cast For the gander--but couldn't find him! So the Gosherd he drave his geese to the cote, And began, forthwith, to wander Over the marshy wild remote, In search of the old stray gander.