THE NORMAN BARON. Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l'intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image. THIERRY: CONQUÊTE DE L'ANGLETERRE. In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud, without, the tempest thundered, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By Written in the Doomsday Book. his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells, that, from the neighbouring kloster, Rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, Till at length the lays they chaunted Tears upon his eyelids glistened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, And the lightning showed the sainted And exclaimed the shuddering baron, In that hour of deep contrition, All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, A feeling of sadness and longing, Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. |