heard of before,

Such a judgment had never been witness’d of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,

As louder and louder drawing near

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door,

And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,

And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,

From the right and the left, from behind and before,

From within and without, from above and below,

And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,

And now they pick the Bishop’s bones:

They gnaw’d the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him!

King Charlemain

It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by,

And the bloom of her beauty was fled:

’Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam’d in her eye,

And all but the Monarch could plainly descry

From whence came her white and her red.

Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare,

And he gloried in wearing her chain;

The court was a desert if she were not there,

To him she alone among women seem’d fair,

Such dotage possess’d Charlemain.

The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid,

Alike the proud leman detest;

And the good old Archbishop, who ceased to upbraid,

Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray’d

That he soon might consign her to rest.

A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all,

For Agatha sickens and dies.

And now they are ready with bier and with pall,

The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall,

And the strains of the requiem arise.

But Charlemain sent them in anger away,

For she should not be buried, he said;

And despite of all counsel, for many a day,

Where array’d in her costly apparel she lay,

The Monarch would sit by the dead.

The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain,

And the army cry out for their Lord;

The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain,

Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain,

And still he unsheathes not the sword.

The Soldiers they clamour, the Monks bend in prayer

In the quiet retreats of the cell;

The Physicians to counsel together repair,

And with common consent, one and all they declare

That his senses are bound by a spell.

Then with relics protected, and confident grown,

And telling devoutly his beads,

The good old Archbishop, when this was made known,

Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone,

And to look for the spell he proceeds.

He searches with care, though with tremulous haste,

For the spell that bewitches the King;

And under her tongue for security placed,

Its margin with mystical characters traced,

At length he discovers a ring.

Rejoicing he seized it and hasten’d away,

The Monarch re-enter’d the room;

The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay

He bade the attendants no longer delay,

But bear her with speed to the tomb.

Now merriment, joyaunce, and feasting again

Enliven’d the palace of Aix;

And now by his heralds did King Charlemain

Invite to his palace the courtier train

To hold a high festival day.

And anxiously now for the festival day

The highly-born Maidens prepare;

And now, all apparell’d in costly array,

Exulting they come to the palace of Aix,

Young and aged, the brave and the fair.

Oh! happy the Damsel who ’mid her compeers

 For a moment engaged the King’s eye!

Now glowing with hopes and now fever’d with fears,

Each maid or triumphant, or jealous, appears,

 As noticed by him, or pass’d by.

And now as the evening approach’d, to the ball

 In anxious suspense they advance,

Hoping each on herself that the King’s choice might fall,

When lo! to the utter confusion of all,

 He ask’d the Archbishop to dance.

The damsels they laugh, and the barons they stare,

 ’Twas mirth and astonishment all;

And the Archbishop started, and mutter’d a prayer,

And, wroth at receiving such mockery there,

 In haste he withdrew from the hall.

The moon dimpled over the water with light

 As he wander’d along the lake side;

But the King had pursued, and o’erjoyed at his sight,

“Oh turn thee, Archbishop, my joy and delight,

 Oh turn thee, my charmer”, he cried;

“Oh come where the feast and the dance and the song

 Invite thee to mirth and to love;

Or at this happy moment away from the throng

To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along…

 The moon never pierces that grove”.

As thus by new madness the King seem’d possest,

 In new wonder the Archbishop heard;

Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly prest

The good old man’s poor wither’d hand to his breast

 And kiss’d his long grey grizzle beard.

“Let us well then these fortunate moments employ!”

 Cried