WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, | |
| Ere yet his last he breathed, | |
| To the merry monks of Croyland | |
| His drinking-horn bequeathed,— | |
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| That, whenever they sat at their revels, | 5 |
| And drank from the golden bowl, | |
| They might remember the donor, | |
| And breathe a prayer for his soul. | |
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| So sat they once at Christmas, | |
| And bade the goblet pass; | 10 |
| In their beards the red wine glistened | |
| Like dew-drops in the grass. | |
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| They drank to the soul of Witlaf, | |
| They drank to Christ the Lord, | |
| And to each of the Twelve Apostles, | 15 |
| Who had preached his holy word. | |
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| They drank to the Saints and Martyrs | |
| Of the dismal days of yore, | |
| And as soon as the horn was empty | |
| They remembered one Saint more. | 20 |
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| And the reader droned from the pulpit, | |
| Like the murmur of many bees, | |
| The legend of good Saint Guthlac, | |
| And Saint Basil’s homilies; | |
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| Till the great bells of the convent, | 25 |
| From their prison in the tower, | |
| Guthlac and Bartholomæus, | |
| Proclaimed the midnight hour. | |
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| And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, | |
| And the Abbot bowed his head, | 30 |
| And the flamelets flapped and flickered, | |
| But the Abbot was stark and dead. | |
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| Yet still in his pallid fingers | |
| He clutched the golden bowl, | |
| In which, like a pearl dissolving, | 35 |
| Had sunk and dissolved his soul. | |
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| But not for this their revels | |
| The jovial monks forbore, | |
| For they cried, “Fill high the goblet! | |
| We must drink to one Saint more!” | 40 |
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