‘ Tis a saying that stolen sweets are sweeter, And so with my hero it was, I think, “P. Abbott,” — if Philip or Paul or Peter, ‘ Twill never be known; there's a missing link.
The legend declares ( without praise or censure ) A youth had been challenged to sleep all night In the gray old Abbey; a madcap adventure, But madcap adventures were his delight.
In the Chapel of Kings, in Westminster Abbey, You may see the stone that was brought from Scone, And above it, the armchair, old and shabby, Where every king has once had his throne.
Monarchs in marble, greater or lesser, And at least three queens of the English land — In a circle they lie, round the good Confessor, Crown on the head and scepter in hand.
Gone from his tomb are the wondrous riches It once did hold, both of gems and gold; But you still may see the Gothic niches Where the sick awaited the cure of old.
Beggar or lord, poor drudge or duchess, Alike might they hope for the good saint's aid; And they left their jewels, or dropped their crutches As token that not in vain had they prayed.
‘ Twas St. Edward's Day, and the throng, gladhearted With the blessing of peace had gone its way; The last red beam of the sun had departed, And twilight spread through the chapel gray.
And the marble kings on their marble couches Once more they are lying in state, alone Save for a nimble shadow that crouches Behind the stone that was brought from Scone;
And the aged verger was never the wiser, As he passed that stone and the oaken chair; Though watchful was he as watchful miser, He never discovered my hero was there.
When the keys at his leather girdle jingled, How loud did they sound in young Abbott's ear! And when they were still, how the silence tingled! How dim was the light!— yet why should he fear?
The night was before him, the shadows were dreary As forth from his hiding-place he crept. There was nothing to do; his eyelids grew weary, And into the chair he crept and slept.
Never before, and nevermore since then, Hath any but royalty sat in that chair; But my hero himself, I hold, was a prince then — Of the Realm of Youth and of dreams most fair!
But with the dawn his slumbers were broken, And, rubbing his eyes, he sat bolt upright. “‘ Twere folly,” he cried, “if I left no token To prove that I stayed in the Abbey all night.”
So he carved his name, and carved it quaintly, As pleased him best, on that ancient seat. And the sculptured kings in the dawn smiled faintly — But never a one forbade the feat!
Then, somehow and somewhere, discreetly he flitted; And when the old verger returned for the day, “I warrant,” he muttered, with bent brows knitted, “Something uncanny hath passed this way!”
With the record of kings and of statesmen and sages, This of a mischievous youth is shown: “P. Abbott,” — a name that has lasted for ages, Nicked on the seat of that oaken throne!
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