When each star beams full of love Oft we see some child of wandering So, as ancient legends say, "Dreams of heaven on the brow Of the dead, are smiling now; All around in silent sadness, Weep the monks their murdered lord: Of those hearts, that now have found Years have rolled upon their way, Since that dread, that fateful day, Anxious crowds, who seek some blessing, Some relief from sickening doom, Onward with glad hearts are pressing, To the sainted martyr's tomb, Blazoned all with gems and gold: What a glory now doth fold Him who sleeps so still, so cold! 11 The monks sat weeping around; the aged Robert consoled them by a narration of the austere life of the martyred prelate, in proof of it he thrust his hand under the garments, and showed the monk's habit and haircloth which he wore next to his skin. This was the one thing wanted to raise the enthusiasm of the bystanders to the highest pitch. They burst into thanksgivings, which resounded through the choir, kissed the hands and feet of the corpse, and called him by the name of Saint Thomas,' by which, from that time forward, he was so long known to the European world. * STANLEY'S MEMORIALS OF CANTERBURY. But woe for him who once decreed Never dawned a brighter morrow Till he bowed in shame and sorrow Martyred Becket's shrine before; Then, through many an after age, King and peasant, priest and sage, Prest on in one great pilgrimage. O can we their weakness blame, Who in true contrition bending Yet mourn not, for that temple still Hark! the white-robed band of singers Hymn a purer song of praise; While the summer fondly lingers, Or reluctant turns her gaze, And autumn's lovely blush is seen 12 Henry VIII. There the hop its wild festoon And a dark green arch hath builded, There the meadows lie below, By the river's silver flow, Smiling 'neath the sunset glow. Through the evening calm and still, Bearing many a joyous fragrance, Play thy turret-tops among; SPENSER. FAERIE QUEEN. Book I, c. 5, s. 37-40. HIPPOLYTUS a iolly huntsman was, That wont in charett chace the foming bore: Who, all in rage, his seagod syre besought Some cursed vengeaunce on his sonne to cast: From surging gulf two monsters streight were brought; With dread whereof his chacing steedes aghast Both charett swifte and huntsman overcast. His goodly corps, on ragged cliffs yrent, That of Hippolytus was lefte no moniment. |