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