"Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note Go sounding to the skies, The lists are set, the banners float. Yon loud-mouthed herald cries, 'Ride, gallant knights, Christine invites. Herself the prize!' "Ho, craven, shun'st thou the melée, When she expects thy brand To prove to-day in fair tourney A title to her hand? Up, dullard base, or by the mass I'll make thee stand!" . . . . {44} Thrice strove he then to wrench apart Those fingers from the spear. Thrice strove to sever from the heart The hand that rested there. Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain That shook the bier. Thrice with the dead the living strove, Their armor rang a peal, The sleeping knight he would not move Although the sire did reel: That stately corse defied all force, Stubborn as steel. "Ay, dead, dead, dead!" the Baron cried; "Dear Hermit, I did rave. O were we sleeping side by side! . . Good monk, I penance crave For all I said .... Ay, he is dead, Pray heaven to save! "Betake thee to thy crucifix, And let me while I may Rain kisses on these frozen cheeks Before they know decay. Leave me to weep and watch and keep The worm at bay. "Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust; But name not now the grave-- I'll watch him to the very dust! .... So, Hermit, to thy cave. Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing Insult the brave!" ------ Why starts the Hermit to his feet, why springs he to the bier, Why calleth he on Jesu sweet, Staying the starting tear. What whispereth he half trustfully And half in fear? {45} "Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh-- 'Twas in thy frenzy done; Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh The blood-drops trickling run; Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake, Thy warrior son. "Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Knight, In sackcloth gird thee well, The shrine of Moan must blaze in light, The morning mass must swell; Arouse from sleep the castle keep, Sound every bell!" They come, pale maid and mailèd man They throng into the hall, The watcher from the barbican, The warder from the wall. And she apart, with breaking heart, The last of all. "__Introibo! _Introibo!_" The morning mass begins; "_Mea culpa! mea culpa!_" Forgive us all our sins; And the rapt Hermit chaunts with streaming eyes, That seem to enter Paradise, "_Gloria! Gloria!_" The shrine of Moan had never known That gladdest of all hymns. ------ II.