From the bowels of the earth,
  Strange and varied sounds had birth;
  Now the battle’s bursting peal,
  Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
  Now an old man’s hollow groan
  Echoed from the dungeon stone;
  Now the weak and wailing cry
  Of a stripling’s agony!—­
  Cold by this was the midnight air;
    But the Abbot’s blood ran colder,
  When he saw a gasping knight lie there,
  With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
    And a hump upon his shoulder. 
  And the loyal churchman strove in vain
    To mutter a Pater Noster;
  For he who writhed in mortal pain
  Was camped that night on Bosworth plain—­
    The cruel Duke of Glo’ster!

  There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
  As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
  It was a haunch of princely size,
  Filling with fragrance earth and skies. 
  The corpulent Abbot knew full well
  The swelling form, and the steaming smell;
  Never a monk that wore a hood
  Could better have guessed the very wood
  Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
  Weary and wounded, at close of day.

  Sounded then the noisy glee
  Of a revelling company,—­
  Sprightly story, wicked jest,
  Rated servant, greeted guest,
  Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
  Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork: 
  But, where’er the board was spread,
  Grace, I ween, was never said!—­
  Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;
    And the Priest was ready to vomit,
  When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
  With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
    And a nose as red as a comet. 
  “A capital stew,” the Fisherman said,
    “With cinnamon and sherry!”
  And the Abbot turned away his head,
  For his brother was lying before him dead,
    The Mayor of St. Edmund’s Bury!

  There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
  As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
  It was a bundle of beautiful things,—­
  A peacock’s tail and a butterfly’s wings,
  A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
  A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
  And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
  Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,
  That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
  And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.

  Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
  Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
  And the breath of vernal gales,
  And the voice of nightingales: 
  But the nightingales were mute,
  Envious, when an unseen lute
  Shaped the music of its chords
  Into passion’s thrilling words: 
  “Smile, Lady, smile!—­I will not set
  Upon my brow the coronet,
  Till thou wilt gather roses white
  To wear around its gems of light. 
  Smile, Lady, smile!—­I will not see
  Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
  Till those bewitching lips of thine
  Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. 
  Smile, Lady, smile!—­for who would win
  A loveless throne through guilt and sin? 
  Or who would reign o’er vale and hill,
  If woman’s heart were rebel still?”