udly all the courtiers echoed: 'Where is glory like to thine?'

"'What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now, and old;
Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold;
Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

"'Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites;
Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights;
Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed of nights.

"'Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires;
Mothers weeping, virgins screaming, vainly for their slaughtered
sires.'--Such a tender conscience,' cries the Bishop, 'every
one admires.

"'But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to
search,
They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church;
Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.

"'Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's
bounty raised;
Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily
praised:
YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!'

"'Nay, I feel,' replied King Canute, 'that my end is drawing near.'
'Don't say so,' exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a
tear).
'Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty
year.'

"'Live these fifty years!' the Bishop roared, with actions made to
suit.
'Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute!
Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't.

"'Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela,
Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as
they?'
'Fervently,' exclaimed the Keeper, 'fervently I trust he may.'

"'HE to die?' resumed the Bishop. 'He a mortal like to US?
Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus:
Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus.

"'With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doctor can compete,
Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet;
Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.

"'Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill,
And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still?
So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred