And from the marble grottoes of thy bed, The loose cerulean woof, To braid with sedge their undulating hair, With pearly wrist to cleave; And every Spirit of thy haunted banks, Shall hold communion sweet Around thy hallowed brim. 135 140 RYALTO BISHOP BRUNO. "Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the third, then Emperour, being not far from a place which the Germanes call BEN STRUDEL, or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, "Ho, ho, Bishop Bruno, whether art thou travelling? but dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile." At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the Bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within a short time after, the Bishop feasting with the Emperor in a Castle belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table." Heywood's Hierarchie of the blessed Angels. Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, And the sound it gave was his passing knell. Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain, And Death was the porter that opened the door. He started up at the fearful dream, And he heard at his window the screech owl scream! Bishop Bruno slept no more that night, Oh! glad was he when he saw the day light! Now he goes forth in proud array, Before and behind his soldiers ride, So he went on stately and proud, When he heard a voice that cried aloud, Ho! ho! Bishop Bruno! you travel with glee- Behind and before and on either side, And the Bishop at that grew cold with fear, For he heard the words distinct and clear. And when he rung at the palace bell, But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, And now the Bishop had blest the meat, The Bishop then grew pale with affright, All the wine and dainty cheer Could not comfort his heart so sick with fear. But by little and little recovered he, When he sat down to the royal fare Then from amid the masquers crowd His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare, The bony hand suspended his breath, Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall. R. S. Y. |