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io8 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Week in, week out, he crossed the ford To Fearsad town, and dared the sword Of those who mocked his churchly cloth, And sought his bones to make them broth.
But, guarded by the grace of God, Unharmed he went his weary road, Till of a darkling Lammas day A planter took his life away.
He slew him by the trysting-tree At chosen opportunity — His hand upheld the Sacred Blood That flowed unto the common good !
Nor arm nor voice of any there Was raised to quell the murtherer; For shame each peasant's heart was numb, For fear each woman's soul was dumb.
With double blood upon his head The planter to his castle sped; And o'er their shepherd's body pale The people raised the funeral-wail.
They laid him after sunset-blush Beneath the ancient trysting-bush, And on his head they set the sod O'er which the sacring-cup had flowed.
They wandered long without a guide, And of their number many died, And ere they passed they begged to be Laid resting by the "Friar's Tree." |
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