Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/34

But where the silver cross, and plume?
    The costly velvet pall?
The gaudy train to cry, "make room
    For my lord cardinal!"
Why doth he, with dejected air,
    Thus bend on earth his eye?
And to the Abbot's greeting fair,
    Where is the prompt reply?

For faintly was he heard to say
    With voice of faultering sound,
"I come these weary bones to lay
    Within your hallow'd ground."
His sadness damp'd their welcome free,
    With folded arms they stood,
A broken-hearted man was he,
    Bereft of earthly good.

Then softly to his guarded cell
    The holy vesper stole,
But who the fatal strife may tell
    Which rack'd that mighty soul?
Ambition's rankling goad was there
    To break the dream of rest,
And death came on with dark despair
    To blanch the haughty breast.

What gleam'd upon his glazing sight?
    His proud cathedral-towers?
Or York-house, rich with golden light?
    Or Richmond's royal bowers?
Did visions of perverted powers
    Wake Penitence to pray