Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, "Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, "The first is to tell him there in that stead, "The second, to tell him without any doubt, "Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet "Nay, frown not if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be; And if you will but lend me your gown There is none shall know us in fair London town." "Now horses and serving men thou shalt have, "Now welcome, sir Abbot," the King he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep the day: For if thou can'st answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. "And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews as I have been told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think thou art one penny worser than he." The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so little ! Now secondly tell me without any doubt How soon I may ride this whole world about." "You may rise with the sun, and ride with the same, The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "Yea, that I shall do and make your grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me." The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, "I'll make thee lord Abbot this day in his place!” Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, 66 For alack, I can neither write nor read." "Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me; Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." Old Ballad. *175* THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR. Out and in the river is winding Only, at times, a smoke wreath With the drifting cloud-rack joins,— Drearily blows the north wind From the land of ice and snow; The eyes that look are weary, And heavy the hands that row. And with one foot on the water, The Angel of shadow gives warning That day shall be no more. Is it the clang of wild-geese? Is it the Indian's yell, That lends to the voice of the north wind The tones of a far off bell? The voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface. The bells of the Roman Mission, Even so in our mortal journey And when the Angel of Shadow Happy is he who heareth The signal of his release In the bells of the Holy City, The chimes of eternal peace! * 176* John G. Whittier. Home they brought her warrior dead: All her maidens, watching, said, “She must weep or she will die.” Then they praised him, soft and low, Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Rose a nurse of ninety years, Like summer tempest came her tears- . 177 Alfred Tennyson. THE BEGGAR. A beggar through the world am I,— A little of thy steadfastness, Old oak, give me, That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unmovéd be. Some of thy stern, unyielding might Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,— That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance,— |