Wealthy and proud was he;
He had all that was worth a wish on earth--
But he had not charitie!

He would stretch put his _empty_ hands to _bless_,
Or lift them both to _pray_;
But alack! to lighten man's distress,
They moved no other way.

A famine came! but his heart was still
As hard as his pride was high;
And the starving poor but throng'd his door
To curse him and to die.

At length from the crowd rose a clamour so loud,
That a cruel plot laid he;
He open'd one of his granaries wide,
And bade them enter free.

In they rush'd--the maid and the sire.
And the child that could barely run--
Then he clos'd the barn, and set it on fire.
And burnt them every one!

And loud he laugh'd at each terrible shriek,
And cried to his archer-train,
"The merry mice!--how shrill they squeak!--
They are fond of the bishop's grain!"

But mark, what an awful judgment soon,