In baldricks' of the grey wolf's hide

Their falchions straight and short were tied, And mantles gay they wore;

Sharp knives were in their girdles stuck,

Hafted with antler of the buck,

Or tusk of Denney boar.

The watchman on the castle top
Almost might hear an acorn drop,
It was so calm and still,—

Might hear the stags in Hocknell groan,
And catch, by fits, the distant moan
Of Kingsgarn's little rill.

Save when the rustling birches played
In shifting hues of light and shade,
By some chance zephyr swept,
Whiles riding over Lady Cross,

On waste and woodland, moor and moss,
The silvery moonshine slept.

Then all again was hush'd and still,
All but the tinkling of the rill,
When loud the king 'gan cry;
His knights without upstarted all,
And heard him on St. Mary call,
Like one in misery.

And "Ho!" he cries, "Ho! bear a light,
And leave me not this livelong night,

But while the time with talk."

1 Girdles.

They rolled them in their mantles round, Then laid them lightly on the ground, And carp'd of hound and hawk.

Yet little burden in their lore

(Whatso the song) the Red King bore;
Nor when they spake of fight,
Of siege and sally, knightly jest,
Rough pastimes, which he loved the best,
Kindled his heavy sprite.

But now the mist hung thin and low,
Or drifted o'er the moorland slow

In many a curly wreath;

His whistle first the plover blew,

Then sharp and shrill the blackcock crew, And flapped along the heath.

Thin amber clouds bespoke the prime;
These changed to red; and in less time
Than I can tell the story,

Through Dear-leap's grove of aged oak
And Langley's shadowy thickets broke
The sun in all his glory.

And with a lusty roundelay
The throstle welcom'd in the day;
And, towering from the lair,
The skylark from his feathers flung
The dewdrops, mounting as he sung
His matins in mid air.

With lords and ladies clad in pall
Revell'd the Norman in his hall,

Till roof and tower did ring;
When as a monk of orders black,
With scrip and wallet on his back,
Stood up before the King.

"Sir King," he said aloud, "let be
Thy wassail, wine, and minstrelsy,
And list what I deliver:

Better it were to watch and pray,
To fast, and sanctify this day,
Than wend to wood or river.

"Last night I dreamt a dream; behold
I saw a church was fret with gold
With arras richly dight:1

There saw I altar, pall, and pix,2
Chalice, and font, and crucifix,

And tapers burning bright.

"You too I saw, in little tide,

You paced as overgrown with pride,
Nor brooked to doff your cap;
And straightways as you entered in,
(Though wind was none) with heavy din
The great church door did clap.

"Who of Christ's Body doth partake
In love, and for His Passion's sake,

Thrice blessed is his meed;

1 Adorned. * The case in which the Holy Sacrament was preserved.

But woe to him who eats the Flesh
Of God, and crucifies afresh

His Saviour in the deed!

"I may not tell, I may not show The deadly sin I saw thee do;

But He whom thou didst scorn,
Lo! waking in His anger, He

Did smite thee, like the scathed tree :
Oh, woe that thou wast born!

"I saw how from thy lips forth came
As it were smoke and smouldering flame,
Which scattered far and near ;
And then the visions of the night
Went upward from before my sight,
And I awoke in fear.

"And thus, O King, I read my dream :
Thy faulty balance kicks the beam,
The cup of wrath stands high;
That God who did man's flesh inherit,
That God whom thou hast grieved in spirit,
Forewarns thee thou shalt die."

Sirs," quoth the king, in merry thought, And mocked the man of God to nought,"Monk-like, he dreams for gain :

Give him a hundred pence, but mark
Thou bode me better luck, Sir Clerk,
What time thou dreamst again.1

1 Vision and reply are historical.

"Now, lordlings mine, for hart or deer,
Ho! merry huntsmen, call 'Arere!'

And couple up your pack."
With spurs loud rang the castle hall,
And yeomen good their coursers all
Untethered from the rack.

The draught is made, the tale is told,
They take their horns, those yeomen bold,
And now they give them breath;

All blasts of venery1 they knew,

For field or forest; yet they blew
A tokening of the death!

And they have slung their bugle horns,
Yet still in Sloden's haunted thorns

The pealing echo hung;

Nor once, as wont, the coursers neigh'd,
Nor dogs in merry chorus bay'd

What while the larum rung.

And groom or gallant, for a space,
Each gazed upon his fellow's face,
Nor yet a word they spake ;

Then each man clomb unto his steed,
And forth they rode, down hill and mead,

By busket and by brake.

It was a pleasure but to hear

The bridles ringing sharp and clear

Amid the forest green,

1 Hunting.