Twice crimson in gore,
While the soul disincarnate
Hunts on to hell-door?

--Ah! friendless in death!
Rude forest-hands fling
On the charcoaler's wain
What but now was the king!
And through the long Minster
The carcass they bear,
And huddle it down
Without priest, without prayer:--

Now with worms for his courtiers
He lies in the narrow
Cold couch of the chancel:
--But whence was the arrow?

_In his cups_; Rufus, it is said, was 'fey,' as the old phrase has it, on
the day of his death. He feasted long and high, and then chose out two
cross-bow shafts, presenting them to Tyrrell with the exclamation given
above.

_Serlo_; He was Abbot of Gloucester, and had sent to Rufus the narrative
of an ominous dream, reported in the Monastery.

_The true dreams_; On his last night Rufus 'laid himself down to sleep,
but not in peace; the attendants were startled by the King's voice--a
bitter cry--a cry for help--a cry for deliverance--he had been suddenly
awakened by a dreadful dream, as of exquisite anguish befalling him in