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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Legends of the Saxon Saints, by Aubrey de Vere
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Legends of the Saxon Saints
+
+Author: Aubrey de Vere
+
+Release Date: June 14, 2009 [EBook #29121]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGENDS OF THE SAXON SAINTS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Clarke, Leonard Johnson and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SAXON SAINTS
+
+BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
+
+=Alexander the Great:= a Dramatic Poem. Small crown 8vo. cloth, price
+5_s._
+
+=The Infant Bridal=, and other Poems. A New and Enlarged Edition. Fcp.
+8vo. cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
+=The Legends of St. Patrick=, and other Poems, Small crown 8vo. cloth,
+price 5_s._
+
+=St. Thomas of Canterbury:= a Dramatic Poem. Large fcp. 8vo. cloth,
+price 5_s._
+
+=Antar and Zara:= an Eastern Romance. INISFAIL, and other Poems,
+Meditative and Lyrical. Fcp. 8vo. price 6_s._
+
+=The Fall of Rora, the Search after Proserpine=, and other Poems,
+Meditative and Lyrical. Fcp. 8vo. price 6_s._
+
+London: C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 Paternoster Square.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BY THE LATE SIR AUBREY DE VERE, BART.
+
+  =Mary Tudor:= an Historical Drama.
+  =Julian the Apostate and the Duke of Mercia.=
+  =A Song of Faith=, Devout Exercises and Sonnets.
+
+B. M. PICKERING.
+
+
+
+
+LEGENDS
+
+OF THE
+
+SAXON SAINTS
+
+
+BY
+
+AUBREY DE VERE
+
+
+  Hic sunt in fossa Bedæ Venerabilis ossa
+
+(_Old Inscription_)
+
+
+  LONDON
+  C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
+  1879
+
+
+(_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved_)
+
+
+
+_TO THE VENERABLE BEDE_
+
+    'Mid quiet vale or city lulled by night
+    Well-pleased the wanderer, wakeful on his bed,
+    Hears from far Alps on fitful breeze the sound
+    Of torrents murmuring down their rocky glens,
+    Strange voice from distant regions, alien climes:--
+    Should these far echoes from thy legend-roll
+    Delight of loftier years, these echoes faint,
+    Thus waken, thus make calm, one restless heart
+    In our distempered day, to thee the praise,
+    Voice of past times, O Venerable Bede!
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+Many years ago a friend remarked to me on the strangeness of the
+circumstance that the greatest event in the history of a nation, its
+conversion to Christianity, largely as it is often recorded in national
+legends, has never been selected as a theme for poetry. That event may
+indeed not supply the materials necessary for an Epic or a Drama, yet it
+can hardly fail to abound in details significant and pathetic, which
+especially invite poetic illustration. With the primary interest of that
+great crisis, many others, philosophical, social, and political,
+generally connect themselves. Antecedent to a nation's conversion, the
+events of centuries have commonly either conduced to it, or thrown
+obstacles in its way; while the history as well as the character of that
+nation in the subsequent ages is certain to have been in a principal
+measure modified by that event. Looking back consequently on that period
+in which the moral influences of ages, early and late, are imaged, a
+people recognises its own features as in a mirror, but sees them such as
+they were when their expression was still undetermined; and it may well
+be struck by the resemblance at once to what now exists, and also by the
+dissimilitude. Many countries have unhappily lost almost all authentic
+records connected with their conversion. Such would have been the fate
+of England also, had it not been for a single book, 'Bede's
+Ecclesiastical History.' In the following poems I have endeavoured to
+walk in the footsteps of that great master. Their scope will best be
+indicated by some remarks upon the character of that wonderful age which
+he records.
+
+
+St. Augustine landed in the Isle of Thanet A.D. 597, and Bede died A.D.
+735. The intervening period, that of his chronicle, is the golden age of
+Anglo-Saxon sanctity. Notwithstanding some twenty or thirty years of
+pagan reaction, it was a time of rapid though not uninterrupted
+progress, and one of an interest the more touching when contrasted with
+the calamities which followed so soon. Between the death of Bede and the
+first Danish invasion, were eighty years, largely years of decline,
+moral and religious. Then followed eighty years of retribution, those of
+the earlier Danish wars, till, with the triumph of Alfred, England's
+greatest king, came the Christian restoration. Once more periods of
+relaxed morals and sacrilegious princes alternated with intervals of
+reform; again and again the Northmen over-swept the land. The 460 years
+of Anglo-Saxon Christianity constituted a period of memorable
+achievements and sad vicissitudes; but that period included more than a
+hundred years of high sanctity, belonging for the most part to the
+seventh century, a century to England as glorious as was the thirteenth
+to Mediæval Europe.
+
+Within that century the kingdoms of the Heptarchy successively became
+Christian, and those among them which had relapsed returned to the
+Faith. Sovereigns, many of whom had boasted a descent from Odin himself,
+stood as interpreters beside the missionaries when they preached, and
+rivalled each other in the zeal with which they built churches, some of
+which were founded on the sites of ancient temples, though, in other
+cases, with a charitable prudence, the existing fanes were spared,
+purified, and adapted to Christian worship. At Canterbury and York,
+cathedrals rose, and on many a site besides; and when the earlier had
+been destroyed by fire, or had fallen through decay, fabrics on a vaster
+scale rose above their ruins, and maintained a succession which lasts to
+this day. Monasteries unnumbered lifted their towers above the forests
+of a land in which the streams still ran unstained and the air of which
+had not yet been dimmed by smoke, imparting a dignity to fen and flat
+morass. Round them ere long cities gathered, as at St. Albans,
+Malmesbury, Sherborne, and Wimborne; the most memorable of those
+monasteries being that at Canterbury, and that at Westminister,
+dedicated to St. Peter, as the cathedral church near it had been
+dedicated to St. Paul. In the North they were at least as numerous. The
+University of Oxford is also associated with that early age. It was
+beside the Isis that St. Frideswida raised her convent, occupied at a
+later date by canons regular, and ultimately transformed into Christ
+Church by Cardinal Wolsey--becoming thus the chief, as it had been the
+earliest, among the schools in that great seat of learning which within
+our own days has exercised a religious influence over England not less
+remarkable than that which belonged to its most palmy preceding period.
+
+During that century England produced most of those saintly kings and
+queens whose names still enrich the calendar of the Anglo-Saxon Church,
+sovereigns who ruled their kingdoms with justice, lived in
+mortification, went on pilgrimages, died in cloisters. The great
+missionary work had also begun. Within a century from the death of St.
+Augustine, apostles from England had converted multitudes in Germany,
+and St. Wilfrid had preached to the inhabitants of Friesland. Something,
+moreover, had been done to retrieve the past. The Saxon kings made
+amends for the wrongs inflicted by their ancestors upon the British
+Celts, endowing with English lands the churches and convents founded by
+them in Brittany. King Kenwalk of Wessex showed thus also a royal
+munificence to the Celtic monastery of Glastonbury, only stipulating in
+return that the British monks there, condoning past injuries, should
+offer a prayer for him when they knelt at the tomb of King Arthur.
+
+The England of the seventh century had been very gradually prepared for
+that drama of many ages which had then its first rehearsal. In it three
+races had a part. They were those of the native Britons, the Saxons who
+had over-run the land, and the Irish missionaries. Rome, the last and
+greatest of the old-world empires, had exercised more of an enfeebling
+and less of an elevating influence among the British than among her
+other subject races; but her great military roads still remained the
+witnesses of her military genius; and many a city, some in ruin, were
+records of her wealth and her arts. The Teutonic race in England, which
+for centuries had maintained its independence against Rome, could not
+forgive the Britons for having submitted to their hated foe, and
+trampled on them the more ruthlessly because they despised them. Yet
+they at least might well have learned to respect that race. It has been
+well remarked that if the Britons submitted easily to Rome, yet of all
+her subject races they made far the most memorable fight against that
+barbaric irruption which swept over the ruins of her empire. For two
+centuries that race had fought on. It still retained the whole of
+Western Britain, Cornwall, Wales, and Strathclyde; while in other parts
+of England it possessed large settlements. On the other hand, in matters
+of spiritual concern the British race contrasted unfavourably with the
+other races subjected by the barbarians. In France, Spain, and Italy,
+the conquered had avenged a military defeat by a spiritual victory,
+bringing over their conquerors to Christianity; and, as a consequence,
+they had often risen to equality with them. In those parts of England,
+on the contrary, where the British had submitted to the Pagan
+conquerors, they by degrees abandoned their Christian faith;[1] and
+where they retained their independence, they hated the Saxon conquerors
+too much to share their Christianity with them. Far from desiring their
+conversion, they resisted all the overtures made to them by the Roman
+missionaries who ardently desired their aid; and as a consequence of
+that refusal, they eventually lost their country. The chief cause of
+that refusal was hatred of the invader. The Irish as well as the British
+had a passionate devotion to their own local traditions in a few matters
+not connected with doctrine; but they notwithstanding worked cordially
+with the Benedictines from St. Gregory's convent for the spread of the
+Christian Faith. Had the Britons converted the Anglo-Saxon race they
+would probably have blended with them, as at a later time that race
+blended with their Norman conquerors. Three successive waves of the
+Teuton-Scandinavian race swept over their ancient land, the Anglo-Saxon,
+the Danish, and the Norman: against them all the British Celts fought
+on. They fell back toward their country's western coasts, like the Irish
+of a later day; and within their Cambrian mountains they maintained
+their independence for eight centuries.
+
+Yet the Anglo-Saxons' victory was not an unmixed one. Everywhere
+throughout England they maintained during the seventh century two
+different battles, a material and a spiritual one, and with opposite
+results. Year by year that race pushed further its military dominion;
+but yearly the Christian Faith effected new triumphs over that of Odin.
+For this there were traceable causes. The character of the Teutonic
+invader included two very different elements, and the nobler of these
+had its affinities with Christianity. If, on the one hand, that
+character was fierce, reckless, and remorseless, and so far in natural
+sympathy with a religion which mocked at suffering and till the ninth
+century offered up human sacrifices, it was marked no less by
+robustness, simplicity, honesty, sincerity, an unexcitable energy and an
+invincible endurance. It possessed also that characteristic which
+essentially contradistinguishes the _ordo equestris_ from the _ordo
+pedestris_ in human character, viz., the spirit of reverence. It had
+aspirations; and, as a background to all its musings and all its hopes
+there remained ever the idea of the Infinite. As a consequence, it
+retained a large measure of self-respect, purity, and that veneration
+for household ties attributed to it by the Roman historian[2] at a time
+when that virtue was no longer a Roman one. Such a character could not
+but have its leanings toward Christianity; and, when brought under its
+influences, it put forth at once new qualities, like a wild flower
+which, on cultivation, acquires for the first time a perfume. Its spirit
+of reverence developed into humility, and its natural fortitude into a
+saintly patience; while its fierceness changed into a loyal fervour; and
+the crimes to which its passions still occasionally hurried it were
+voluntarily expiated by penances as terrible. Even King Penda, the hater
+of Christianity, hated an insincere faith more. 'Of all men,' he said,
+'he that I have ever most despised is the man who professes belief in
+some God and yet does not obey his laws.' Such was that character
+destined to produce under the influences of faith such noble specimens
+of Christian honour and spiritual heroism. From the beginning its
+greatness was one
+
+    True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home;
+
+and in later ages it became yet more eminently domestic, combining
+household ties with the pursuit of letters and science in colleges which
+still preserved a family life. Its monks had no vocation to the life of
+the desert; in this unlike the Irish saints, who, like those of Eastern
+lands, delighted in the forest hermitage and the sea-beat rock.
+
+The Anglo-Saxon race was but a branch of that great Teuton-Scandinavian
+race, generically one whether it remained in the German forests or
+wandered on to the remoter coasts of Denmark, Sweden and Norway. It was
+the race which the Romans called 'the Barbarians,' but which they could
+never conquer. A stern history had trained it for a wonderful destiny.
+Christianity in mastering the Greek had possessed itself of the
+intellect of the world, and in mastering Rome had found access to all
+those vast regions conquered by Roman arms, opened out by Roman roads,
+governed by Roman law, and by it helped to the conception of a higher
+law. But the Greek and the Roman civilisations had, each of them,
+corrupted its way, and yielded to the seductions of pride, sense, and
+material prosperity; and, as a consequence, both had become incapable
+of rendering full justice to much that is highest in Christianity. That
+which they lacked the 'Barbaric' race alone was capable of supplying. In
+its wanderings under darkened skies and amid pitiless climates it had
+preserved an innocence and simplicity elsewhere lost. Enriched by the
+union of the new element, thus introduced, with what it had previously
+derived from Greek thought and Roman law, that authentic Religion which
+had been prospectively sown within the narrow precinct of Judea extended
+its branches over the world. Had the Barbaric race shared in the Greek
+sciences and arts, and clothed itself in the Roman civilisation, it must
+have learned their corruptions. The larger destiny of man could thus,
+humanly speaking, never have been accomplished, and neither the mediæval
+world, the modern world, nor that yet higher order of human society
+which doubtless lies beyond both, could have existed. It was necessary
+that in some region, exacting, yet beneficent, civilisation should be
+retarded, that a remedy might be found for the abuses of civilisation;
+and races whose present backward condition we are accustomed to deplore
+may likewise be intended for a similar purpose. Plants are thus kept in
+the dark in order to reserve their fruitage for a fitter season.
+
+But what had been the earlier history of a race before which such
+destinies lay? What training had prepared it for its work--the last that
+might have been expected from it? On this subject there remains a
+tradition, the profoundly significant character of which ought to have
+made it more widely known. Mallet, in his 'Northern Antiquities,'
+translated by Bishop Percy, to whom our ballad literature is so deeply
+indebted, records it thus:--'A celebrated tradition, confirmed by the
+poems of all the northern nations, by their chronicles, by institutions
+and customs, some of which subsist to this day, informs us that an
+extraordinary person named Odin formerly reigned in the north.... All
+their testimonies are comprised in that of Snorri, the ancient historian
+of Norway, and in the commentaries and explications which Torphæus added
+to his narrative. The Roman Commonwealth was arrived at the highest
+pitch of power, and saw all the then known world subject to its laws,
+when an unforeseen event raised up enemies against it from the very
+bosom of the forests of Scythia and on the banks of the Tanais.
+Mithridates by flying had drawn Pompey after him into those deserts. The
+King of Pontus sought there for refuge and new means of vengeance. He
+hoped to arm against the ambition of Rome all the barbarous nations his
+neighbours, whose liberty she threatened. He succeeded in this at first,
+but all those peoples, ill united as allies, ill armed as soldiers, and
+still worse disciplined, were forced to yield to the superior genius of
+Pompey. Odin is said to have been of their number.... Odin commanded the
+Æsir, whose country must have been situated between the Pontus Euxinus
+and the Caspian Sea. Their principal city was Asgard. The worship there
+paid to their supreme God was famous throughout the circumjacent
+countries. Odin, having united under his banners the youth of the
+neighbouring nations, marched towards the north and west of Europe,
+subduing, as we are told, all the people he found in his passage, and
+giving them to one or other of his sons for subjects. Many sovereign
+families of the North are said to be descended from these princes. Thus
+Horsa and Hengist, the chiefs of those Saxons who conquered Britain in
+the fifth century, counted Odin or Wodin in the number of their
+ancestors; it was the same with the other Anglo-Saxon princes as well as
+the greatest part of those of lower Germany and the North.'[3]
+
+Gibbon refers to this ancient tradition, though not as accepting it for
+a part of ascertained history, yet in a spirit less sceptical than was
+usual to him. He writes thus: 'It is supposed that Odin was chief of a
+tribe of barbarians which dwelt on the banks of the lake Moeotis, till
+the fall of Mithridates and the arms of Pompey menaced the north with
+servitude. That Odin, yielding with indignant fury to a power which he
+was unable to resist, conducted his tribe from the frontiers of the
+Asiatic Sarmatia into Sweden, with the great design of forming, in that
+inaccessible retreat of freedom, a religion and a people which, in some
+remote age, might be subservient to his immortal revenge; when his
+invincible Goths, armed with martial fanaticism, should issue in
+numerous swarms from the neighbourhood of the Polar circle to chastise
+the oppressors of mankind.... Notwithstanding the mysterious obscurity
+of the Edda, we can easily distinguish two persons confounded under the
+name of Odin; the god of war, and the great legislator of Scandinavia.
+The latter, the Mahomet of the north, instituted a religion adapted to
+the climate and to the people. Numerous tribes on either side of the
+Baltic were subdued by the invincible valour of Odin, by his persuasive
+eloquence, and by the fame which he acquired of a most skilful magician.
+The faith that he had propagated during a long and prosperous life he
+confirmed by a voluntary death. Apprehensive of the ignominious approach
+of disease and infirmity, he resolved to expire as became a warrior. In
+a solemn assembly of the Swedes and Goths he wounded himself in nine
+mortal places, hastening away (as he asserted with his dying voice) to
+prepare the feast of heroes in the palace of the great god of war.'[4]
+
+In a note Gibbon adds, referring to the Roman and Oriental part of the
+legend: 'This wonderful expedition of Odin, which, by deducing the
+enmity of the Goths and Romans from so memorable a cause, might supply
+the noble groundwork of an epic poem, cannot safely be received as
+authentic history. According to the obvious sense of the Edda, and the
+interpretation of the most skilful critics, Asgard, instead of denoting
+a real city of the Asiatic Sarmatia, is the fictitious appellation of
+the mystic abode of the gods, the Olympus of Scandinavia.' Whether the
+emigration of the Barbaric race from the East be or be not historical,
+certainly the grounds upon which Gibbon bases his distrust of it are
+slender. He forgot that there might well have been both an earthly
+Asgard and also, according to the religion of the north, an Asgard in
+heaven, the destined abode of warriors faithful to Odin. Those who after
+his death changed their king into a god would, by necessity, have
+provided him with a celestial mansion; nor could they have assigned to
+it a name more acceptable to a race which blended so closely their
+religion with their patriotic love than that of their ancient capital,
+from which their great deliverer and prophet had led them forth in
+pilgrimage. Let us hope that Gibbon's remark as to the fitness of this
+grand legend for the purposes of epic poetry may yet prove prophecy. It
+has had one chance already: for we learn from the first book of _The
+Prelude_ that the theme was one of those on which the imagination of
+Wordsworth rested in youth, when he was seeking a fit subject for epic
+song.
+
+It is difficult to imagine a historical legend invested with a greater
+moral weight or dignity than belongs to this one. The mighty Republic
+was soon to pass into an Empire mightier and more ruthless still, the
+heir of all those ancient empires which from the earliest had
+represented a dominion founded on the pride of this world, and had
+trampled upon human right. A race is selected to work the retribution.
+It is qualified for its work by centuries of adversity, only to be
+paralleled by the prosperity of its rival. Yet when at last that
+retribution comes, it descends more in mercy than in judgment! Great
+changes had prepared the world for a new order of things. The centre of
+empire had moved eastward from Rome to Constantinople: the spiritual
+centre had moved westward from Jerusalem to Rome. The empire had herself
+become Christian, and was allowed after that event nearly a century more
+of gradual decline. The judgment was not thus averted; but it was
+ennobled. Her children were enabled to become the spiritual instructors
+of those wild races by which the '_State_ Universal' had been
+overwhelmed. That empire indeed, was not so much destroyed as
+transformed and extended, a grace rendered possible by her having
+submitted to the yoke of Christ; the new kingdoms which constituted the
+Christian '_Orbis Terrarum_' being, for the most part, fragments of it,
+while its laws made way into regions wider far, and exercised over them
+a vast though modified authority not yet extinct. Here, if anywhere, we
+catch glimpses of a hand flashing forth between the clouds, pointing
+their way to the nations, and conducting Humanity forward along its
+arduous and ascending road. There is a Providence or there could be no
+Progress.
+
+For the fulfilment of that part assigned to the 'Barbarians' in this
+marvellous drama of the ages, it was necessary that many things should
+combine; an exemption from the temptations which had materialised the
+races of the south; the severe life that perfects strength; a race
+endowed with the physical strength needed to render such sufferings
+endurable; and lastly, an original spiritual elevation inherent in that
+race, and capable of making them understand the lesson, and accept their
+high destiny. The last and greatest of these qualifications had not been
+wanting. Much as the religion of the Barbaric race had degenerated by
+the time when it deified its great deliverer, it had inherited the
+highest traditions of the early world. Mallet thus describes their
+religion in its purity: 'It taught the being of a "Supreme God, master
+of the universe, to whom all things are submissive and obedient." Such,
+according to Tacitus, was the supreme God of the Germans. The ancient
+Icelandic mythology calls him "the Author of everything that existeth;
+the eternal, the ancient, the living and awful Being, the searcher into
+concealed things, the Being that never changeth." This religion
+attributed to the Supreme Deity "an infinite power, a boundless
+knowledge, an incorruptible justice," and forbade its followers to
+represent Him under any corporeal form. They were not even to think of
+confining Him within the enclosure of walls, but were taught that it
+was within woods and consecrated forests that they could serve Him
+properly. There He seemed to reign in silence, and to make Himself felt
+by the respect which He inspired.[5] ... From this Supreme God were
+sprung (as it were emanations from His divinity) an infinite number of
+subaltern deities and genii, of which every part of the visible world
+was the seat and the temple.... To serve this divinity with sacrifices
+and prayers, to do no wrong to others, and to be brave and intrepid in
+themselves, were all the moral consequences they derived from these
+doctrines. Lastly, the belief of a future state cemented and completed
+the whole building.[6] ... Perhaps no religion ever attributed so much
+to a Divine Providence as that of the northern nations.'[7]
+
+It was not among the Scandinavians only that the religion of the North
+retained long these vestiges of its original purity, and elevation. 'All
+the Teutonic nations held the same opinions, and it was upon these that
+they founded the obligation of serving the gods, and of being valiant
+in battle.... One ought to regard in this respect the Icelandic
+mythology as a precious monument, without which we can know but very
+imperfectly this important part of the religion of _our fathers_.'[8]
+
+The earlier and purer doctrine seems to have long survived the
+incrustations of later times in the case of a select few. Harold
+Harfraga, the first king of all Norway, thus addressed an assembly of
+his people: 'I swear and protest in the most sacred manner that I will
+never offer sacrifice to any of the gods adored by the people, but to
+Him only who hath formed this world, and everything we behold in it.' A
+belief in the divine Love, as well as the divine power, knowledge and
+justice, though probably not held by the many at a later day, is yet
+distinctly expressed, as well as the kindred belief in an endless reign
+of peace, by the earliest and most sacred document of the Northern
+religion, viz. the 'Völuspá Prophecy.' That prophecy, after foretelling
+the destruction of all things, including the Odin gods themselves, by
+the Supreme God and His ministers, proceeds: 'There will arise out of
+the sea, another earth most lovely and verdant with pleasant fields
+where the grain shall grow unsown. Vidar and Vali, shall survive;
+neither the flood nor Surtur's fire shall harm them. They shall dwell on
+the plain of Ida _where Asgard formerly stood_.... Baldur and Hödur
+shall also repair thither from the abode of death. There they shall sit
+and converse together, and call to mind their former knowledge and the
+perils they underwent.'[9]
+
+The similarity between the higher doctrines of the northern faith and
+the religion of ancient Persia is at once accounted for by the tradition
+of the Odin migration from the East. A writer the reverse of credulous
+expresses himself thus on that subject: 'We know that the Scandinavians
+came from some country of Asia.... This doctrine was in many respects
+the same with that of the Magi. Zoroaster had taught that the conflict
+between Ormuzd and Ahriman (_i.e._ light and darkness, the Good and Evil
+Principle) should continue to the last day; and that then the Good
+Principle should be reunited to the Supreme God, from whom it had first
+issued; the Evil should be overcome and subdued; darkness should be
+destroyed; and the world, purified by a universal conflagration, should
+become a luminous and shining abode, into which evil should never be
+permitted to enter.'[10] The same writer continues thus: 'Odin and the
+Æsir may be compared to Ormuzd and the Amshaspands; Loki and his evil
+progeny, the Wolf Fenrir and the Midgard Serpent, together with the
+giants and monsters of Jötunheim and Hvergelmir, to Ahriman and the
+Devs.[11] ... We will not deny that some of these doctrines may have
+been handed down by oral tradition to the pontiff-chieftains of the
+Scandinavian tribes, and that the Skalds who composed the mythic poems
+of the elder Edda may have had an obscure and imperfect knowledge of
+them. Be this as it may, we must not forget that the higher doctrines of
+the Scandinavian system were confined to the few, whereas those of the
+Zendavesta were the religious belief of the whole nation.[12] ... The
+Persian system was calculated to form an energetic, intellectual and
+highly moral people; the Scandinavian a semi-barbarous troop of crafty
+and remorseless warriors.... Yet, such as they were, these
+Scandinavians seemed to have been destined by the inscrutable designs of
+Providence to invigorate at least one of the nations of which they were
+for centuries the scourge, in order, as we previously had occasion to
+observe, that the genial blending of cognate tribes might form a people
+the most capable of carrying on the great work of civilisation, which in
+some far distant age may finally render this world that abode of peace
+and intellectual enjoyment dimly shadowed forth in ancient myths as only
+to be found in a renovated and fresh emerging universe.'[13]
+
+The inferiority of the later Scandinavian to the earlier Persian
+religion may be sufficiently accounted for by the common process of
+gradual degeneration. That degeneration was not confined to the great
+emigrant race. Centuries before Odin had left the East, the Persian
+religion had degenerated upon its native soil. Its Magi retained a pure
+doctrine, which led them later to the Bethlehem crib; but its vulgar had
+in part yielded to the seduction of Greek poets, and worshipped in
+temples like theirs. It is remarkable that that 'one of the nations'
+with which the hopes of the future are so singularly connected is that
+one upon which the discipline of adversity had fallen with double force.
+When the ancient enemy of the 'Barbaric races,' Rome, had passed away, a
+new enemy, and one to it more formidable, rose up against England in her
+own kinsfolk, the Scandinavian branch of the same stock. The Danish
+invaders expected to set kingdom against kingdom throughout the
+Heptarchy, and subject them all to the sceptre of Odin. On the contrary,
+it united them in one; and that union was facilitated by the bond of a
+common Christianity.[14]
+
+That the belief of the Anglo-Saxons, though less developed by poetry and
+romance, was substantially the same as that recorded in the Scandinavian
+Edda, appears to be certain. It is thus that Mr. Kemble speaks:
+
+'On the Continent as well as in England, it is only by the collection of
+minute and isolated facts--often preserved to us in popular
+superstitions, legends, and even nursery tales--that we can render
+probable the prevalence of a religious belief identical in its most
+characteristic features with that which we know to have been entertained
+in Scandinavia. Yet whatsoever we can thus recover proves that, in all
+main points, the faith of the Island Saxons was that of their
+Continental brethren.' 'The early period at which Christianity triumphed
+in England, adds to the difficulties which naturally beset the subject.
+Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, had entered into public relations with the
+rest of Europe long before the downfall of their ancient creed; here the
+fall of heathendom, and the commencement of history were
+contemporaneous. We too had no Iceland to offer a refuge to those who
+fled from the violent course of a conversion.'[15]
+
+Among the proofs of identity between the Anglo-Saxon and the
+Scandinavian religion, Mr. Kemble refers to the fact that 'genealogies
+of the Anglo-Saxon kings contain a multitude of the ancient gods,
+reduced indeed into the family relations, but still capable of
+identification with the deities of the North, and of Germany. In this
+relation we find Odin, Boeldoeg, Géat, Wig, and Frea. The days of
+the week, also dedicated to gods, supply us further with the names of
+Tiw, Dunor, Friege, and Soetere; and the names of places in all parts
+of England attest the wide dispersion of the worship.[16]
+
+Mr. Kemble shows also that among the Anglo-Saxons and the Scandinavians
+there existed a common belief respecting monsters, especially the wolf
+Fenrir, the Midgard snake, evil spirits and giants; respecting Loki, the
+accursed spirit, and Hela, the queen of Hades. To the same effect Mr.
+Sharon Turner speaks: 'The Voluspá and the Edda are the two great
+repositories of the oldest and most venerated traditions of pagan
+Scandinavia. The Voluspá opens abruptly, and most probably represents
+many of the ancient _Saxon_ traditions or imaginations.'[17] The
+authority of these eminent writers accounts for and justifies the
+frequent references to the Scandinavian mythology in the following
+'Saxon Legends.'
+
+We have thus seen that in the religion of the 'Barbaric' race there were
+blended two different elements: a higher one derived from its eastern
+origin, and a lower one the result of gradual degeneration. We had
+previously seen that a remarkable duality was to be found in the
+character of that race; and without understanding this duality and its
+root in their religion, no just conception can be formed of the
+relations of that race with Christianity. Had the 'Barbarians' possessed
+nothing deeper than is indicated by their fiercer traits, the history of
+the seventh century in England must have been very different. It was
+characterised by rapid conversions to Christianity on a large scale, and
+often, after the lapse of a few years, by sanguinary revolts against the
+Faith. The chief reason of such fluctuation seems to have been this,
+viz. because all that was profound, and of venerable antiquity in the
+Northern religion, was in sympathy with Christianity, as the religion of
+sanctity and self-sacrifice; while all that was savage in it opposed
+itself to a religion of humility and of charity. The Northern religion
+was an endless warfare, and so was that early Persian religion from
+which its higher element was derived; but by degrees that warfare had,
+for the many, ceased to be the warfare between light and darkness,
+between Good and Evil. To the speculative it had become a conflict
+between all the wild and illimitable forces of Nature and some unknown
+higher Law; but to the common herd it meant only an endless feud between
+race and race. Thus understood it could have no affinities with
+Christianity, either in her militant character, or as the religion of
+peace.
+
+In explanation of the frequent outbreaks against Christianity on the
+part of the Anglo-Saxons, after their conversion, Montalembert assigns
+another cause, viz. that the Roman missionaries had sometimes relied too
+much upon the converted kings, and their authority over their subjects.
+The work had in such cases to be done again; and it was largely done by
+Irish missionaries, who had left Iona only to seek as lonely a retreat
+in Lindisfarne. They shunned cities, drew the people to them, and worked
+upwards through that people to the great.
+
+The Irish mission in England during the seventh century was one among
+the great things of history, and has met with an inadequate
+appreciation. The ancient name of the Irish, 'Scoti,' commemorative of
+their supposed Scythian origin, the name by which Bede always
+designates them, had been frequently translated 'Scottish' by modern
+historians; and those who did not know that an Irish immigrant body had
+entered Scotland, then called Alba, about the close of the second
+century, had conquered its earlier inhabitants, the Picts, after a war
+of centuries, and had eventually given to that heroic land, never since
+subdued, its own name and its royal house, naturally remained ignorant
+that those 'Scottish' missionaries were Irish. A glance at Bede,[18] or
+such well known recent works as Sir W. Scott's 'History of
+Scotland,'[19] makes this matter plain; yet the amount of work done in
+England by those Irish missionaries is still known to few.
+
+They came from a country the fortunes, the character, and the
+institutions of which were singularly unlike those of England; one in
+which ancient Rome had had no part; which, in the form of clan-life,
+retained as its social type the patriarchal customs of its native East,
+all authority being an expansion of domestic authority, and the idea of
+a family, rather than that of a state, ruling over the hearts of men.
+About two centuries previously, Ireland had become Christian; and an
+image of its immemorial clan-system was reproduced in the vast convents
+which ere long covered the land, and sent forth their missionaries over
+a large part of Europe. It might well have been thought doubtful
+whether these were likely to work successfully among a race so
+dissimilar as the Anglo-Saxon; but the event proved that in this
+instance dissimilar qualities meant qualities complemental to each
+other, and that sympathy was attracted by unlikeness.
+
+The Irish mission in England began at a critical time, just when the
+reaction against the earlier successes of the Roman mission had set in.
+At York, under Paulinus, Christianity had triumphed; but eight years
+after that event Edwin, the Christian king of Dëira, perished in battle,
+and northern England was forced back by king Penda into paganism.
+Southern England, with the exception of Canterbury and a considerable
+part of Kent, had also lost the Gospel, after possessing it for thirty
+years. Nearly at the same time East Anglia and Essex, at the command of
+pagan-kings, had discarded it likewise. It was then that Oswald, on
+recovering his kingdom of Northumbria, besought the Irish monks of Iona
+to reconvert it, or rather to complete a conversion which had been but
+begun. Their work prospered; by degrees the largest kingdom of the
+Heptarchy became solidly and permanently Christian, its See being fixed
+in the Island of Lindisfarne, whence the huge diocese of the north was
+ruled successively by three of St. Columba's order, Aidan, Finan, and
+Colman. But the labours of St. Columba's sons were not confined to the
+north. In East Anglia an Irish monk, St. Fursey, founded on the coast of
+Suffolk the monastery of Burghcastle, in which King Sigebert became a
+monk. An Irish priest, Maidulphus, built that of Malmesbury in Wessex.
+Glastonbury was an older Celtic monastery inhabited partly by Irish
+monks, and partly by British. Peada, king of Mercia, son of the terrible
+Penda, was baptized by St. Finan close to the Roman Wall, as was also
+Sigebert, king of the East Saxons. Diama, an Irish monk, was first
+bishop of all Mercia, its second, Céolach, being Irish also, and also
+its fourth.
+
+Montalembert, in his _Moines d'Occident_, has given us the most
+delightful history that exists of the conversion of Anglo-Saxon England,
+a work combining the depth of a Christian philosopher with the sagacity
+of a statesman, and a dramatist's appreciation of character, while in it
+we miss nothing of that picturesque vividness and engaging simplicity
+which belong to our early chroniclers; thus conferring upon England a
+boon if possible greater than that bestowed upon Ireland in his lives of
+St. Columba, St. Columbanus and other saints. It is thus that he
+apportions the share which the Irish missionaries and the Roman had in
+that great enterprise.
+
+'En résumant l'histoire des efforts tentés pendant les soixante ans
+écoulés depuis le débarquement d'Augustin jusqu'à la mort de Penda, pour
+introduire le Christianisme en Angleterre, on constate les résultats que
+voici. Des huit royaumes de la confédération Anglo-Saxonne, celui de
+Kent fut seul exclusivement conquis et conservé par les moines romains,
+dont les premières tentatives, chez les Est-Saxons et les Northumbriens,
+se terminèrent par un échec. En Wessex et en Est-Anglie les Saxons à
+l'ouest et les Angles à l'est furent convertis par l'action combinée de
+missionnaires continentaux et de moines celtiques. Quant aux deux
+royaumes Northumbriens' (Dëira and Bernicia), 'à l'Essex et à la Mercie,
+comprenant à eux seuls plus de deux tiers du territoire occupé par les
+conquérants germains, ces quatre pays durent leur conversion définitive
+exclusivement à l'invasion pacifique des moines celtiques, qui
+n'avaient pas seulement rivalisé de zèle avec les moines romains, mais
+qui, une fois les premiers obstacles surmontés, avaient montré bien plus
+de persévérance et obtenu bien plus de succès.'[20] The only effort made
+at that early period to introduce Christianity into the kingdom of the
+South-Saxons was that of an Irish monk, Dicul, who founded a small
+monastery at Bosham. It did not however prove successful.
+
+There is something profoundly touching in the religious ties which
+subsisted between England and Ireland during the seventh century, when
+compared with the troubled relations of those two countries during many
+a later age. If the memory of benefits received produces a kindly
+feeling on the part of the recipient, that of benefits conferred should
+exert the same influence on the heart of the bestower. To remember the
+past, however disastrous or convulsed, is a nation's instinct, and its
+duty no less, since a tribute justly due is thus paid to great actions
+and to great sufferings in times gone by; nor among the wise and the
+generous can the discharge of that patriotic duty ever engender an
+enmity against the living: but there is a special satisfaction in
+turning to those recollections with which no human infirmity can connect
+any feeling save that of good will; and it is scarcely possible to
+recall them in this instance without a hope that the sacred bonds which
+united those two countries at that remote period may be a pledge for
+reciprocated benefits in the ages yet before us. For both countries that
+early time was a time of wonderful spiritual greatness. In noble rivalry
+with Ireland England also sent her missionaries to far lands; and a
+child of Wessex, St. Boniface, brought the Faith to Germany, by which it
+was eventually diffused over Scandinavia, thus, by anticipation,
+bestowing the highest of all gifts on that terrible race the Northmen,
+in later centuries the scourge of his native land.
+
+At home both islands were filled with saints whose names have ever since
+resounded throughout Christendom. Both islands, as a great writer[21]
+has told us, 'had been the refuge of Christianity, for a time almost
+exterminated in Christendom, and the centres of its propagation in
+countries still heathen. Secluded from the rest of Europe by the stormy
+waters in which they lay, they were converted just in time to be put in
+charge with the sacred treasures of Revelation, and with the learning of
+the old world, in that dreary time which intervened between Gregory and
+Charlemagne. They formed schools, collected libraries, and supplied the
+Continent with preachers and teachers.' He remarks also that 'There was
+a fitness in the course of things that the two peoples who had rejoiced
+in one prosperity should drink together the same cup of suffering:
+_Amabiles, et decori in vitâ suâ, in morte non divisi_;' and he proceeds
+to remind us that, immediately after their participation in that common
+religious greatness, they partook also a tragic inheritance. In England
+for two centuries and a half, in Ireland for a longer period, the
+Northmen were repulsed but to reappear. Again and again the sons of Odin
+blackened the river-mouths of each land with their fleets; wherever they
+marched they left behind them the ashes of burned churches and
+monasteries, till, in large parts of both, Christianity and learning had
+well nigh perished, and barbarism had all but returned. In both
+countries domestic dissensions had favoured the invader; eventually in
+both the Danish power broke down; but in both and in each case claiming
+a spiritual sanction--another branch of the same Scandinavian stock
+succeeded to the Dane, viz. the only one then Christianised, the Norman.
+In that seventh century how little could Saxon convert or Irish
+missionary have foreseen that the destinies of their respective
+countries should be at once so unlike yet so like, so antagonistic yet
+so interwoven!
+
+
+The aim of the 'Legends of Saxon Saints,' as the reader will perhaps
+have inferred from the preceding remarks, is to illustrate England, her
+different races and predominant characteristics, during the century of
+her conversion to Christianity, and in doing this to indicate what
+circumstances had proved favourable or unfavourable to the reception of
+the Faith. It became desirable thus to revert to the early emigration of
+that 'Barbaric' race of which the Anglo-Saxon was a scion, making the
+shadow of Odin pass in succession over the background of the several
+pictures presented (the Heroic being thus the unconscious precursor of
+the Spiritual), and to show how the religion which bore his name was
+fitted at once to predispose its nobler votaries to Christianity and to
+infuriate against it those who but valued their faith for what it
+contained of degenerate. It seemed also expedient to select for
+treatment not only those records most abounding in the picturesque and
+poetic, but likewise others useful as illustrating the chief
+representatives of a many-sided society; the pagan king and the British
+warrior, the bard of Odin and the prophetess of Odin, the Gaelic
+missionary and the Roman missionary, the poet and the historian of
+Anglo-Saxon Christianity. In a few instances, as in the tales of Oswald
+and of Oswy, where the early chronicle was copious in detail, it has
+been followed somewhat closely; but more often, where the original
+record was brief, all except the fundamental facts had to be supplied.
+On these occasions I found encouragement in the remark of a writer at
+once deep and refined. 'Stories to be versified should not be already
+nearly complete, having the beauty in themselves, and gaining from the
+poet but a garb. They should be rough, and with but a latent beauty. The
+poet should have to supply the features and limbs as well as the
+dress.'[22]
+
+Bede has been my guide. His records are, indeed, often 'rough,' as rough
+as the crab-tree, but, at the same time, as fresh as its blossom. Their
+brief touches reveal all the passions of the Barbaric races; but the
+chief human affections, things far deeper than the passions, are yet
+more abundantly illustrated by them.[23] It was a time when those
+affections were not frozen by conventionalities and forced to conceal
+themselves until they forgot to exist. In the narrative of Bede we find
+also invaluable illustrations of a higher but not less real range of
+human affections, viz. the affections of 'Christianised Humanity,'
+affections grounded on divine truths and heavenly hopes, and yet in
+entire harmony with affections of a merely human order, which lie
+beneath them in a parallel plane. Occasionally the two classes enter
+into conflict, as in the case of the monks of Bardeney who found it so
+difficult to reconcile their reverence for a Saint with their patriotic
+hatred of a foreign invader; but almost invariably the earthly and the
+heavenly emotions are mutually supplemental, as in those tender
+friendships of monk with monk, of king and bishop, grounded upon
+religious sympathy and co-operation; so that the lower sentiment without
+the higher would present, compared with the pictures now bequeathed to
+us, but an unfinished and truncated image of Humanity. Here, again, the
+semi-barbaric age described by Bede rendered the delineation more vivid.
+In ages of effeminate civilisation the Christian emotions, even more
+than those inherent in unassisted human nature, lose that ardour which
+belongs to them when in a healthy condition--an ardour which especially
+reveals itself during that great crisis, a nation's conversion, when,
+beside a throng of new feelings and new hopes, a host of new Truths has
+descended upon the intelligence of a whole people, and when a sense of
+new knowledge and endless progress is thus communicated to it, far
+exceeding that which is the boast of nations devoted chiefly to physical
+science. The sense of progress, indeed, when such a period reaches its
+highest, is a rapture. It is as though the motion of the planet which
+carries us through space, a motion of which we are cognisant but which
+we yet cannot feel, could suddenly become, like the speed of a
+racehorse, a thing brought home to our consciousness.
+
+Such ardours are scarcely imaginable in the later ages of a nation; but
+in Bede's day a people accepting the 'glad tidings' was glad; and,
+unambitious as his style is of the ornamental or the figurative, it is
+brightened by that which it so faithfully describes. His chronicle is
+often poetry, little as he intended it to be such; nay, it is poetry in
+her 'humanities' yet more than in her distinctively spiritual province,
+and better poetry than is to be found in the professed poetry of a
+materialistic age, when the poet is tempted to take refuge from the
+monotony of routine life, either amid the sensational accidents to be
+found on the byeways, not the highways, of life, or in some sickly
+dreamland that does not dare to deal with life, and belongs neither to
+the real nor to the ideal. In nothing is Bede's history of that great
+age, to which our own owes all that it possesses of real greatness,
+more striking than in that spirit of unconscious elevation and
+joyousness which belongs to the Christian life it records, a joyousness
+often so strikingly contrasted with the sadness--sometimes a heroic
+sadness--to be found in portions of his work describing pagan manners.
+With all its violences and inconsistencies, the seventh century was a
+noble age--an age of strong hearts which were gentle as well as strong,
+of a childhood that survived in manhood, of natures that had not lost
+their moral unity, of holy lives and of happy deaths. Bede's picture of
+it is a true one; and for that reason it comes home to us.
+
+To some it may seem a profaneness to turn those old legends into verse.
+I should not have attempted the enterprise if they were much read in
+prose. The verse may at least help to direct the attention of a few
+readers to them. From them the thoughtful will learn how to complete a
+'half-truth' often reiterated. Those who have declared that 'the wars of
+the Heptarchy are as dull as the battles of kites and crows,' have not
+always known that the true interest of her turbulent days belonged to
+peace, not to war, and is to be found in the spiritual development of
+the Anglo-Saxon race.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+                                                       PAGE
+
+  ODIN THE MAN                                                 1
+
+  KING ETHELBERT OF KENT AND ST. AUGUSTINE                    13
+
+  THE CONSECRATION OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY                       32
+
+  THE PENANCE OF ST. LAURENCE                                 47
+
+  KING SIGEBERT OF EAST ANGLIA, AND HEIDA THE PROPHETESS      66
+
+  KING SIGEBERT OF ESSEX, OR A FRIEND AT NEED                 84
+
+  KING OSWALD OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE BRITON'S REVENGE        100
+
+  CEADMON THE COWHERD, THE FIRST ENGLISH POET                117
+
+  KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY            142
+
+  THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF BARDENEY                     162
+
+  HOW SAINT CUTHBERT KEPT HIS PENTECOST AT CARLISLE          176
+
+  SAINT FRIDESWIDA, OR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OXFORD             208
+
+  THE BANQUET HALL OF WESSEX, OR THE KING WHO COULD SEE      223
+
+  EPILOGUE: BEDE'S LAST MAY                                  259
+
+  NOTES                                                      283
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+
+
+
+_ODIN, THE MAN_.
+
+     Odin, a Prince who reigned near the Caspian Sea, after a vain
+     resistance to the Roman arms, leads forth his people to the forests
+     north of the Danube, that, serving God in freedom on the limits of
+     the Roman Empire, and being strengthened by an adverse climate,
+     they may one day descend upon that empire in just revenge; which
+     destiny was fulfilled by the sack of Rome, under Alaric, Christian
+     King of the Goths, a race derived, like the Saxon, from that
+     Eastern people.
+
+
+    Forth with those missives, Chiron, to the Invader!
+    Hence, and make speed: they scathe mine eyes like fire:
+    Pompeius, thou hast conquered! What remains?
+    Vengeance! Man's race has never dreamed of such;
+    So slow, so sure. Pompeius, I depart:
+    I might have held these mountains yet four days:
+    The fifth had seen them thine--
+    I look beyond the limit of this night:
+    Four centuries I need; then comes mine hour.
+
+      What saith the Accursed One of the Western World?
+    I hear even now her trumpet! Thus she saith:
+    'I have enlarged my borders: iron reaped
+    Earth's field all golden. Strenuous fight we fought:
+    I left some sweat-drops on that Carthage shore,
+    Some blood on Gallic javelins. That is past!
+    My pleasant days are come: my couch is spread
+    Beside all waters of the Midland Sea;
+    By whispers lulled of nations kneeling round;
+    Illumed by light of balmiest climes; refreshed
+    By winds from Atlas and the Olympian snows:
+    Henceforth my foot is in delicious ways;
+    Bathe it, ye Persian fountains! Syrian vales,
+    All roses, make me sleepy with perfumes!
+    Caucasian cliffs, with martial echoes faint
+    Flatter light slumbers; charm a Roman dream!
+    I send you my Pompeius; let him lead
+    Odin in chains to Rome!' Odin in chains!
+    Were Odin chained, or dead, that God he serves
+    Could raise a thousand Odins--
+    Rome's Founder-King beside his Augur standing
+    Noted twelve ravens borne in sequent flight
+    O'er Alba's crags. They emblem'd centuries twelve,
+    The term to Rome conceded. Eight are flown;
+    Remain but four. Hail, sacred brood of night!
+    Hencefore my standards bear the Raven Sign,
+    The bird that hoarsely haunts the ruined tower;
+    The bird sagacious of the field of blood
+    Albeit far off. Four centuries I need:
+    Then comes my day. My race and I are one.
+      O Race beloved and holy! From my youth
+    Where'er a hungry heart impelled my feet,
+    Whate'er I found of glorious, have I not
+    Claimed it for thee, deep-musing? Ignorant, first,
+    For thee I wished the golden ingots piled
+    In Susa and Ecbatana:--ah fool!
+    At Athens next, treading where Plato trod,
+    For thee all triumphs of the mind of man,
+    And Phidian hand inspired! Ah fool, that hour
+    Athens lay bound, a slave! Later to Rome
+    In secrecy by Mithridates sent
+    To search the inmost of his hated foe,
+    For thee I claimed that discipline of Law
+    Which made her State one camp. Fool, fool once more!
+    Soon learned I what a heart-pollution lurked
+    Beneath that mask of Law. As Persia fell,
+    By softness sapped, so Rome. Behold, this day,
+    Following the Pole Star of my just revenge,
+    I lead my people forth to clearer fates
+    Through cloudier fortunes. They are brave and strong:
+    'Tis but the rose-breath of their vale that rots
+    Their destiny's bud unblown. I lead them forth,
+    A race war-vanquished, not a race of slaves;
+    Lead them, not southward to Euphrates' bank,
+    Not Eastward to the realms of rising suns,
+    Not West to Rome and bondage. Hail, thou North!
+    Hail, boundless woods, by nameless oceans girt,
+    And snow-robed mountain islets, founts of fire!
+          Four hundred years! I know that awful North:
+    I sought it when the one flower of my life
+    Fell to my foot. That anguish set me free:
+    It dashed me on the iron side of life:
+    I woke, a man. My people too shall wake:
+    They shall have icy crags for myrtle banks,
+    Sharp rocks for couches. Strength! I must have strength;
+    Not splenetic sallies of a woman's courage,
+    But hearts to which self-pity is unknown:
+    Hard life to them must be as mighty wine
+    Gladdening the strong: the death on battle fields
+    Must seem the natural, honest close of life;
+    Their fear must be to die without a wound
+    And miss Life's after-banquet. Wooden shield
+    Whole winter nights shall lie their covering sole:
+    Thereon the boy shall stem the ocean wave;
+    Thereon the youth shall slide with speed of winds
+    Loud-laughing down the snowy mountain-slope:
+    To him the Sire shall whisper as he bleeds,
+    'Remember the revenge? Thy son must prove
+    More strong, more hard than thou!'
+                                     Four hundred years!
+    Increase is tardy in that icy clime,
+    For Death is there the awful nurse of Life:
+    Death rocks the cot. Why meet we there no wolf
+    Save those huge-limbed? Because weak wolf-cubs die.
+    'Tis thus with man; 'tis thus with all things strong:--
+    Rise higher on thy northern hills, my Pine!
+    That Southern Palm shall dwindle.
+                                     House stone-walled--
+    Ye shall not have it! Temples cedar-roofed--
+    Ye shall not build them! Where the Temple stands
+    The City gathers. Cities ye shall spurn:
+    Live in the woods; live singly, winning each,
+    Hunter or fisher by blue lakes, his prey:
+    Abhor the gilded shrine: the God Unknown
+    In such abides not. On the mountain's top
+    Great Persia sought Him in her day of strength:
+    With her ye share the kingly breed of Truths,
+    The noblest inspirations man hath known,
+    Or can know--ay, unless the Lord of all
+    Should come, Man's Teacher. Pray as Persia prayed;
+    And see ye pray for Vengeance! Leave till then
+    To Rome her Idol fanes and pilfered Gods.
+
+        I see you, O my People, year by year
+    Strengthened by sufferings; pains that crush the weak,
+    Your helpers. Men have been that, poison-fed,
+    Grew poison-proof: on pain and wrong feed ye!
+    The wild-beast rage against you! frost and fire
+    Rack you in turn! I'll have no gold among you;
+    With gold come wants; and wants mean servitude.
+    Edge, each, his spear with fish-bone or with flint,
+    Leaning for prop on none. I want no Nations!
+    A Race I fashion, playing not at States:
+    I take the race of Man, the breed that lifts
+    Alone its brow to heaven: I change that race
+    From clay to stone, from stone to adamant
+    Through slow abrasion, such as leaves sea-shelves
+    Lustrous at last and smooth. To _be_, not _have_,
+    A man to be; no heritage to clasp
+    Save that which simple manhood, at its will,
+    Or conquers or re-conquers, held meanwhile
+    In trust for Virtue; this alone is greatness.
+    Remain ye Tribes, not Nations; led by Kings,
+    Great onward-striding Kings, above the rest
+    High towering, like the keel-compelling sail
+    That takes the topmost tempest. Let them die,
+    Each for his people! I will die for mine
+    Then when my work is finished; not before.
+    That Bandit King who founded Rome, the Accursed,
+    Vanished in storm. My sons shall see me die,
+    Die, strong to lead them till my latest breath,
+    Which shall not be a sigh; shall see and say,
+    'This Man far-marching through the mountainous world,
+    No God, but yet God's Prophet of the North,
+    Gave many crowns to others: for himself
+    His people were his crown.'
+                                Four hundred years--
+    Ye shall find savage races in your path:
+    Be ye barbaric, ay, but savage not:
+    Hew down the baser lest they drag you down;
+    Ye cannot raise them: they fulfil their fates:
+    Be terrible to foes, be kind to friend:
+    Be just; be true. Revere the Household Hearth;
+    This knowing, that beside it dwells a God:
+    Revere the Priest, the King, the Bard, the Maid,
+    The Mother of the heroic race--five strings
+    Sounding God's Lyre. Drive out with lance for goad
+    That idiot God by Rome called Terminus,
+    Who standing sleeps, and holds his reign o'er fools.
+    The earth is God's, not Man's: that Man from Him
+    Holds it whose valour earns it. Time shall come,
+    It may be, when the warfare shall be past,
+    The reign triumphant of the brave and just
+    In peace consolidated. Time may come
+    When that long winter of the Northern Land
+    Shall find its spring. Where spreads the black morass
+    Harvest all gold may glitter; cities rise
+    Where roamed the elk; and nations set their thrones;
+    Nations not like those empires known till now,
+    But wise and pure. Let such their temples build
+    And worship Truth, if Truth should e'er to Man
+    Show her full face. Let such ordain them laws
+    If Justice e'er should mate with laws of men.
+    Above the mountain summits of Man's hope
+    There spreads, I know, a land illimitable,
+    The table land of Virtue trial-proved,
+    Whereon one day the nations of the world
+    Shall race like emulous Gods. A greater God
+    Served by our sires, a God unknown to Rome,
+    Above that shining level sits, high-towered:
+    Millions of Spirits wing His flaming light,
+    And fiery winds among His tresses play:
+    When comes that hour which judges Gods and men,
+    That God shall plague the Gods that filched His name,
+    And cleanse the Peoples.
+                             When ye hear, my sons,
+    That God uprising in His judgment robes
+    And see their dreadful crimson in the West,
+    Then know ye that the knell of Rome is nigh;
+    Then stand, and listen! When His Trumpet sounds
+    Forth from your forests and your snows, my sons,
+    Forth over Ister, Rhenus, Rhodonus,
+    To Moesia forth, to Thrace, Illyricum,
+    Iberia, Gaul; but, most of all, to Rome!
+    Who leads you thither leads you not for spoil:
+    A mission hath he, fair though terrible;--
+    He makes a pure hand purer, washed in blood:
+    On, Scourge of God! the Vengeance Hour is come.
+       I know that hour, and wait it. Odin's work
+    Stands then consummate. Odin's name thenceforth
+    Goes down to darkness.
+                           Farewell, Ararat!
+    How many an evening, still and bright as this,
+    In childhood, youth, or manhood's sorrowing years,
+    Have I not watched the sunset hanging red
+    Upon thy hoary brow! Farewell for ever!
+    A legend haunts thee that the race of man
+    In earliest days, a sad and storm-tossed few,
+    From thy wan heights descended, making way
+    Into a ruined world. A storm-tossed race,
+    But not self-pitying, once again thou seest
+    Into a world all ruin making way
+    Whither they know not, yet without a fear.
+    This hour--lo, there, they pass yon valley's verge!--
+    In sable weeds that pilgrimage moves on,
+    Moves slowly like thy shadow, Ararat,
+    That eastward creeps. Phantom of glory dead!
+    Image of greatness that disdains to die!
+    Move Northward thou! Whate'er thy fates decreed,
+    At least that shadow shall be shadow of man,
+    And not of beast gold-weighted! On, thou Night
+    Cast by my heart! Thou too shalt meet thy morn!
+
+
+
+
+LEGENDS
+
+
+
+
+_KING ETHELBERT OF KENT AND SAINT AUGUSTINE._
+
+     Ethelbert, King of Kent, converses first with his Pagan Thanes, and
+     next with Saint Augustine, newly landed on the shores of Thanet
+     Island. The Saint, coming in sight of Canterbury, rejoices greatly,
+     and predicts the future greatness of that city.
+
+
+    Far through the forest depths of Thanet Isle,
+    That never yet had heard the woodman's axe,
+    Rang the glad clarion on the May-day morn,
+    Blent with the cry of hounds. The rising sun
+    Flamed on the forests' dewy jewelry,
+    While, under rising mists, a host with plumes
+    Rode down a broad oak alley t'wards the sea.
+
+    King Ethelbert rode first: he reigned in Kent,
+    Least kingdom of the Seven yet Head of all
+    Through his desert. That morn the royal train,
+    While sang the invisible lark her song in heaven,
+    Pursued the flying stag. At times the creature,
+    As though he too had pleasure in the sport,
+    Vaulted at ease through sunshine and through shade,
+    Then changed his mood, and left the best behind him.
+    Five hours they chased him; last, upon a rock
+    High up in scorn he held his antlered front,
+    Then took the wave and vanished.
+                                     Many a frown
+    Darkened that hour on many a heated brow;
+    And many a spur afflicted that poor flank
+    Which panted hard and smoked. The King alone
+    Laughed at mischance. 'The stag, with God to aid,
+    Has left our labour fruitless! Give him joy!
+    He lives to yield us sport some later morn:
+    So be it! Waits our feast, and not far off:
+    On to the left, 'twixt yonder ash and birch!'
+
+        He spake, and anger passed: they praised their sport;
+    And many an outblown nostril seemed to snuff
+    That promised feast. They rode through golden furze
+    So high the horsemen only were descried;
+    And glades whose centuried oaks their branches laid
+    O'er violet banks; and fruit trees, some snow-veiled
+    Like bridesmaid, others like the bride herself
+    Behind her white veil blushing. Glad, the thrush
+    Carolled; more glad, the wood-dove moaned; close by
+    A warbling runnel led them to the bay:
+    Two chestnuts stood beside it snowy-coned:
+    The banquet lay beneath them.
+                                  Feasting o'er,
+    The song succeeded. Boastful was the strain,
+    Each Thane his deeds extolling, or his sire's;
+    But one, an aged man, among them scoffed:
+    'When I was young; when Sigbert on my right
+    To battle rode, and Sefred on my left;
+    That time men stood not worsted by a stag!
+    Not then our horses swerved from azure strait
+    Scared by the ridged sea-wave!' Next spake a chief,
+    Pirate from Denmark late returned: 'Our skies,
+    Good friends, are all too soft to build the man!
+    We fight for fame: the Northman fights for sport;
+    Their annals boast they fled but once:--'twas thus:
+    In days of old, when Rome was in her pride,
+    Huge hosts of hers had fallen on theirs, surprised,
+    And way-worn: long they fought: a remnant spent,
+    Fled to their camp. Upon its walls their wives
+    Stood up, black-garbed, with axes heaved aloft,
+    And fell upon the fugitives, and slew them;
+    Slew next their little ones; slew last themselves,
+    Cheating the Roman Triumph. Never since then
+    Hath Northman fled the foemen.'
+                                    Egfrid rose:
+    'Who saith our kinsfolk of the frozen North
+    One stock with us, one faith, one ancient tongue,
+    Pass us in valour? Three days since I saw
+    Crossing the East Saxon's border and our own
+    Two boys that strove. The Kentish wounded fell;
+    The East Saxon on him knelt; then made demand:
+    "My victim art thou by the laws of war!
+    Yonder my dagger lies;--till I return
+    Wilt thou abide?" The vanquished answered, "Yea!"
+    A minute more, and o'er that dagger's edge
+    His life-blood rushed.' The pirate chief demurred;
+    'A gallant boy! Not less I wager this,
+    The glitter of that dagger ere it smote
+    Made his eye blink. Attend! Three years gone by,
+    Sailing with Hakon on Norwegian fiords
+    We fought the Jomsburg Rovers, at their head
+    Sidroc, oath-pledged to marry Hakon's child
+    Despite her father's best. In mist we met:
+    Instant each navy at the other dashed
+    Like wild beast, instinct-taught, that knows its foe;
+    Chained ship to ship, and clashed their clubs all day,
+    Till sank the sun: then laughed the white peaks forth,
+    And reeled, methought, above the reeling waves!
+    The victory was with us. Hakon, next morn,
+    Bade slay his prisoners. Thirty on one bench
+    Waited their doom: their leader died the first;
+    He winked not as the sword upon him closed!
+    No, nor the second! Hakon asked the third,
+    "What think'st thou, friend, of Death?" He tossed his head:
+    "My Father perished; I fulfil my turn."
+    The fourth, "Strike quickly, Chief! An hour this morn
+    We held contention if, when heads are off,
+    The hand can hold its dagger: I would learn."
+    The dagger and the head together fell.
+    The fifth, "One fear is mine--lest yonder slave
+    Finger a Prince's hair! Command some chief,
+    Thy best beloved, to lift it in his hands;
+    Then strike and spare not!" Hakon struck. That youth,
+    Sigurd by name, his forehead forward twitched,
+    Laughing, so deftly that the downward sword
+    Shore off those luckless hands that raised his hair.
+    All laughed; and Hakon's son besought his sire
+    To loosen Sigurd's bonds: but Sigurd cried,
+    "Unless the rest be loosed I will not live!"
+    Thus all escaped save four.'
+                                In graver mood
+    That chief resumed: 'A Norland King dies well!
+    His bier is raised upon his stateliest ship;
+    Piled with his arms; his lovers and his friends
+    Rush to their monarch's pyre, resolved with him
+    To share in death, and with becoming pomp
+    Attend his footsteps to Valhalla's Hall.
+    The torch is lit: forth sails the ship, black-winged,
+    Facing the midnight seas. From beach and cliff
+    Men watch all night that slowly lessening flame:
+    Yet no man sheds a tear.'
+                                Earconwald,
+    An aged chief, made answer, 'Tears there be
+    Of divers sorts: a wise and valiant king
+    Deserves that tear which praises, not bewails,
+    Greatness gone by.' The pirate shouted loud,
+    'A land it is of laughter, not of tears!'
+    Know ye the tale of Harald? He had sailed
+    Round southern coasts and eastern--sacked or burned
+    A hundred Christian cities. One he found
+    So girt with giant walls and brazen gates
+    His sea-kings vainly dashed themselves thereon,
+    And died beneath them, frustrate. Harald sent
+    A herald to that city proffering terms:
+    "Harald is dead: Christian was he in youth:
+    He sends you spoils from many a city burnt,
+    And craves interment in your chiefest church."
+    Next day the masked procession wound in black
+    Through streets defenceless. When the church was reached
+    They laid their chief before the altar-lights:
+    Anon to heaven rang out the priestly dirge,
+    And incense-smoke upcurled. Forth from its cloud
+    Sudden upleaped the dead man, club in hand,
+    Spurning his coffin's gilded walls, and smote
+    The hoary pontiff down, and brake his neck;
+    And all those maskers doffed their weeds of woe
+    And showed the mail beneath, and raised their swords,
+    And drowned that pavement in a sea of blood,
+    While raging rushed their mates through portals wide,
+    And, since that city seemed but scant of spoil,
+    Fired it and sailed. Ofttimes old Harald laughed
+    That tale recounting,'
+                            Many a Kentish chief
+    Re-echoed Harald's laugh;--not Ethelbert:
+    The war-scar reddening on his brow he rose
+    And spake: 'My Thanes, ye laugh at deeds accurst!
+    An old King I, and make my prophecy
+    One day that northern race which smites and laughs,
+    Our kith and kin albeit, shall smite our coasts:
+    That day ye will not laugh!' Earconwald,
+    Not rising, likewise answer made, heart-grieved:
+    'Six sons had I: all these are slain in war;
+    Yet I, an unrejoicing man forlorn,
+    Find solace ofttimes thinking of their deeds:
+    They laughed not when they smote. No God, be sure,
+    Smiles on the jest red-handed.' Egfrid rose,
+    And three times cried with lifted sword unsheathed,
+    'Behold my God! No God save him I serve!'
+      While thus they held discourse, where blue waves danced
+    Not far from land, behold, there hove in sight,
+    Seen 'twixt a great beech silky yet with Spring
+    And pine broad-crested, round whose head old storms
+    Had wov'n a garland of his own green boughs,
+    A bark both fair and large; and hymn was heard.
+    Then laughed the King, 'The stag-hunt and our songs
+    So drugged my memory, I had nigh forgotten
+    Why for our feast I chose this heaven-roofed hall:
+    Missives I late received from friends in France;
+    They make report of strangers from the South
+    Who, tarrying in their coasts have learned our tongue,
+    And northward wend with tidings strange and new
+    Of some celestial Kingdom by their God
+    Founded for men of Faith. Nor churl am I
+    To frown on kind intent, nor child to trust
+    This sceptre of Seven Realms to magic snare
+    That puissance hath--who knows not?--greater thrice
+    In house than open field. I therefore chose
+    For audience hall this precinct.'
+                                      Muttered low
+    Murdark, the scoffer with the cave-like mouth
+    And sidelong eyes, 'Queen Bertha's voice was that!
+    A woman's man! Since first from Gallic shores
+    That dainty daughter of King Charibert
+    Pressed her small foot on England's honest shore
+    The whole land dwindles!'
+                              In seraphic hymns
+    Ere long that serpent hiss was lost: for soon,
+    In raiment white, circling a rocky point,
+    O'er sands still glistening with a tide far-ebbed,
+    On drew, preceded by a silver Cross,
+    A long procession. Music, as it moved,
+    Floated on sea-winds inland, deadened now
+    By thickets, echoed now from cliff or cave:
+    Ere long before them that procession stood.
+    The King addressed them: 'Welcome, Heralds sage!
+    And if from God I welcome you the more,
+    Since great is God, and therefore great His gifts:
+    God grant He send them daily, heaped and huge!
+    Speak without fear, for him alone I hate
+    Who brings ill news, or makes inept demand
+    Unmeet for Kings. I know that Cross ye bear;
+    And in my palace sits a Christian wife,
+    Bertha, the sweetest lady in this land;
+    Most gracious in her ways, in heart most leal.
+    I knew her yet a child: she knelt whene'er
+    The Queen, her mother, entered: then I said,
+    A maid so reverent will be reverent wife,
+    And wedded her betimes. Morning and eve
+    She in her wood-girt chapel sings her prayer,
+    Which wins us kindlier harvest, and, some think,
+    Success in war. She strives not with our Gods:
+    Confusion never wrought she in my house,
+    Nor minished Hengist's glory. Had her voice,
+    Clangorous or strident, drawn upon my throne
+    Deserved opprobrium'--here the monarch's brows
+    Flushed at the thought, and fire was in his eyes--
+    'The hand that clasps this sceptre had not spared
+    To hunt her forth, an outcast in the woods,
+    Thenceforth with beasts to herd! More lief were I
+    To take the lioness to my bed and board
+    Than house a rebel wife.' Remembering then
+    The mildness of his Queen, King Ethelbert
+    Resumed, appeased, for placable his heart;
+    'But she no rebel is, and this I deem
+    Fair auspice for her Faith.'
+                                  A little breeze
+    Warm from the sea that moment softly waved
+    The standard from its staff, and showed thereon
+    The Child Divine. Upon His mother's knee
+    Sublime He stood. His left hand clasped a globe
+    Crowned with a golden Cross; and with His right,
+    Two fingers heavenward raised, o'er all the earth
+    He sent His Blessing.
+                          Of that band snow-stoled
+    One taller by the head than all the rest
+    Obeisance made; then, pointing to the Cross,
+    And forward moving t'ward the monarch's seat,
+    Opened the great commission of the Faith:--
+    'Behold the Eternal Maker of the worlds!
+    That Hand which shaped the earth and blesses earth
+    Must rule the race of man!'
+                                Majestic then
+    As when, far winding from its mountain springs,
+    City and palm-grove far behind it left,
+    Some Indian river rolls, while mists dissolved
+    Leave it in native brightness unobscured,
+    And kingly navies share its sea-ward sweep,
+    Forward on-flowed in Apostolic might
+    Augustine's strong discourse. With God beginning,
+    He showed the Almighty All-compassionate,
+    Down drawn from distance infinite to man
+    By the Infinite of Love. Lo, Bethlehem's crib!
+    There lay the Illimitable in narrow bound:
+    Thence rose that triumph of a world redeemed!
+    Last, to the standard pointing, thus he spake:
+    'Yon Standard tells the tale! Six hundred years
+    Westward it speeds from subject realm to realm:
+    First from the bosom of God's Race Elect,
+    His People, till they slew Him, mild it soared:
+    Rejected, it returned. Above their walls
+    While ruin rocked them, and the Roman fire,
+    Dreadful it hung. When Rome had shared that guilt,
+    Mocking that Saviour's Brethren, and His Bride,
+    Above the conquered conqueror of all lands
+    In turn this Standard flew. Who raised it high?
+    A son of this your island, Constantine!
+    In these, thine English oakwoods, Helena,
+    'Twas thine to nurse thy warrior. He had seen
+    Star-writ in heaven the words this Standard bears,
+    "Through Me is victory." Victory won, he raised
+    High as his empire's queenly head, and higher,
+    This Standard of the Eternal Dove thenceforth
+    To fly where eagle standard never flew,
+    God's glory in its track, goodwill to man.
+    Advance for aye, great Emblem! Light as now
+    Famed Asian headlands, and Hellenic isles!
+    O'er snow-crowned Alp and citied Apennine
+    Send forth a breeze of healing! Keep thy throne
+    For ever on those western peaks that watch
+    The setting sun descend the Hesperean wave,
+    Atlas and Calpe! These, the old Roman bound,
+    Build but the gateway of the Rome to be;
+    Till Christ returns, thou Standard, hold them fast:
+    But never till the North, that, age by age,
+    Dashed back the Pagan Rome, with Christian Rome
+    Partakes the spiritual crown of man restored,
+    From thy strong flight above the world surcease,
+    And fold thy wings in rest!'
+                                Upon the sod
+    He knelt, and on that Standard gazed, and spake,
+    Calm-voiced, with hand to heaven: 'I promise thee,
+    Thou Sign, another victory, and thy best--
+    This island shall be thine!'
+                                Augustine rose
+    And took the right hand of King Ethelbert,
+    And placed therein the Standard's staff, and laid
+    His own above the monarch's, speaking thus:
+    'King of this land, I bid thee know from God
+    That kings have higher privilege than they know,
+    The standard-bearers of the King of kings.'
+      Long time he clasped that royal hand; long time
+    The King, that patriarch's hand at last withdrawn,
+    His own withdrew not from that Standard's staff
+    Committed to his charge. His hand he deemed
+    Thenceforth its servant vowed. With large, meek eyes
+    Fixed on that Maid and Babe, he stood as child
+    That, gazing on some reverent stranger's face,
+    Nor loosening from that stranger's hold his palm,
+    Listens his words attent.
+                              The man of God
+    Meantime as silent gazed on Thanet's shore
+    Gold-tinged, with sunset spray to crimson turned
+    In league-long crescent. Love was in his face,
+    That love which rests on Faith. He spake: 'Fair land,
+    I know thee what thou art, and what thou lack'st!
+    The Master saith, "I give to him that hath:"
+    Thy harvest shall be great.' Again he mused,
+    And shadow o'er him crept. Again he spake:
+    'That harvest won, when centuries have gone by,
+    What countenance wilt thou wear? How oft on brows
+    Brightened by Baptism's splendour, sin more late
+    Drags down its cloud! The time may come when thou
+    This day, though darkling, yet so innocent,
+    Barbaric, not depraved, on greater heights
+    May'st sin in malice--sin the great offence,
+    Changing thy light to darkness, knowing God,
+    Yet honouring God no more; that time may come
+    When, rich as Carthage, great in arms as Rome,
+    Keen-eyed as Greece, this isle, to sensuous gaze
+    A sun all gold, to angels may present
+    Aspect no nobler than a desert waste,
+    Some blind and blinding waste of sun-scorched sands,
+    Trod by a race of pigmies not of men,
+    Pigmies by passions ruled!'
+                                Once more he mused;
+    Then o'er his countenance passed a second change;
+    And from it flashed the light of one who sees,
+    Some hill-top gained, beyond the incumbent night
+    The instant foot of morn. With regal step,
+    Martial yet measured, to the King he strode,
+    And laid a strong hand on him, speaking thus:
+    'Rejoice, my son, for God hath sent thy land
+    This day Good Tidings of exceeding joy,
+    And planted in her breast a Tree divine
+    Whose leaves shall heal far nations. Know besides,
+    Should sickness blight that Tree, or tempest mar,
+    The strong root shall survive: the winter past,
+    Heavenward once more shall rush both branch and bough,
+    And over-vault the stars.'
+                              He spake, and took
+    The sacred Standard from that monarch's hand,
+    And held it in his own, and fixed its point
+    Deep in the earth, and by it stood. Then lo!
+    Like one disburthened of some ponderous charge,
+    King Ethelbert became himself again,
+    And round him gazed well pleased. Throughout his train
+    Sudden a movement thrilled: remembrance had
+    Of those around, his warriors and his thanes,
+    That ever on his wisdom waiting hung,
+    Thus he replied discreet: 'Stranger and friend,
+    Thou bear'st good tidings! That thou camest thus far
+    To fool us, knave and witling may believe:
+    I walk not with their sort; yet, guest revered,
+    Kings are not as the common race of men;
+    Counsel they take, lest honour heaped on one
+    Dishonour others. Odin holds on us
+    Prescriptive right, and special claims on me,
+    The son of Hengist's grandson. Preach your Faith!
+    The man who wills I suffer to believe:
+    The man who wills not, let him moor his skiff
+    Where anchorage likes him best. The day declines:
+    This night with us you harbour, and our Queen
+    Shall lovingly receive you.'
+                                Staid and slow
+    The King rode homewards, while behind him paced
+    Augustine and his Monks. The ebb had left
+    'Twixt Thanet and the mainland narrow space
+    Marsh-land more late: beyond the ford there wound
+    A path through flowery meads; and, as they passed,
+    Not herdsmen only, but the broad-browed kine
+    Fixed on them long their meditative gaze;
+    And oft some blue-eyed boy with flaxen locks
+    Ran, fearless, forth, and plucked them by the sleeve,
+    Some boy clear-browed as those Saint Gregory marked,
+    Poor slaves, new-landed on the quays of Rome,
+    That drew from him that saying, '"Angli"--nay,
+    Call them henceforward "Angels"!'
+                                      From a wood
+    Issuing, before them lustrous they beheld
+    King Ethelbert's chief city, Canterbury,
+    Strong-walled, with winding street, and airy roofs,
+    And high o'er all the monarch's palace pile
+    Thick-set with towers. Then fire from God there fell
+    Upon Augustine's heart; and thus he sang
+    Advancing; and the brethren sang 'Amen':
+
+        'Hail, City loved of God, for on thy brow
+    Great Fates are writ. Thou cumberest not His earth
+    For petty traffic reared, or petty sway;
+    I see a heavenly choir descend, thy crown
+    Henceforth to bind thy brow. Forever hail!
+
+        'I see the basis of a kingly throne
+    In thee ascending! High it soars and higher,
+    Like some great pyramid o'er Nilus kenned
+    When vapours melt--the Apostolic Chair!
+    Doctrine and Discipline thence shall hold their course,
+    Like Tigris and Euphrates, through all lands
+    That face the Northern Star. Forever hail!
+
+        'Where stands yon royal keep, a church shall rise
+    Like Incorruption clothing the Corrupt
+    On the resurrection morn! Strong House of God,
+    To Him exalt thy walls, and nothing doubt,
+    For lo! from thee like lions from their lair
+    Abroad shall pace the Primates of this land:--
+    They shall not lick the hand that gives and smites,
+    Doglike, nor snakelike on their bellies creep
+    In indirectness base. They shall not fear
+    The people's madness, nor the rage of kings
+    Reddening the temple's pavement. They shall lift
+    The strong brow mitred, and the crosiered hand
+    Before their presence sending Love and Fear
+    To pave their steps with greatness. From their fronts
+    Stubborned with marble from Saint Peter's Rock
+    The sunrise of far centuries forth shall flame:
+    He that hath eyes shall see it, and shall say,
+    "Blessed who cometh in the name of God!"'
+
+      Thus sang the Saint, advancing; and, behold,
+    At every pause the brethren sang 'Amen!'
+    While down from window and from roof the throng
+    Eyed them in silence. As their anthem ceased,
+    Before them stood the palace clustered round
+    By many a stalwart form. Midway the gate
+    On the first step, like angel newly lit,
+    Queen Bertha stood. Back from her forehead meek,
+    The meeker for its crown, a veil descended,
+    While streamed the red robe to the foot snow-white
+    Sandalled in gold. The morn was on her face,
+    The star of morn within those eyes upraised
+    That flashed all dewy with the grateful light
+    Of many a granted prayer. O'er that sweet shape
+    Augustine signed the Venerable Sign;
+    The lovely vision sinking, hand to breast,
+    Received it; while, by sympathy surprised,
+    Or taught of God, the monarch and his thanes
+    Knelt as she knelt, and bent like her their heads,
+    Sharing her blessing. Like a palm the Faith
+    Thenceforth o'er England rose, those saintly men
+    Preaching by life severe, not words alone,
+    The doctrine of the Cross. Some Power divine,
+    Stronger than patriot love, more sweet than Spring,
+    Made way from heart to heart, and daily God
+    Joined to His Church the souls that should be saved,
+    Thousands, where Medway mingles with the Thames,
+    Rushing to Baptism. In his palace cell
+    High-nested on that Vaticanian Hill
+    Which o'er the Martyr-gardens kens the world,
+    Gregory, that news receiving, or from men,
+    Or haply from that God with whom he walked,
+    The Spirit's whisper ever in his ear,
+    Rejoiced that hour, and cried aloud, 'Rejoice,
+    Thou Earth! that North which from its cloud but flung
+    The wild beasts' cry of anger or of pain,
+    Redeemed from wrath, its Hallelujahs sings;
+    Its waves by Roman galleys feared, this day
+    Kiss the bare feet of Christ's Evangelists;
+    That race whose oak-clubs brake our Roman swords
+    Glories now first in bonds--the bond of Truth:
+    At last it fears;--but fears alone to sin,
+    Striving through faith for Virtue's heavenly crown.
+
+
+
+
+_THE CONSECRATION OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY._
+
+     Sebert, King of the East Saxons, having built the great church of
+     Saint Peter at Westminster, Mellitus the Bishop prepares to
+     consecrate it, but is warned in a vision that it has already been
+     consecrated by one greater than he.
+
+
+    As morning brake, Sebert, East Saxon king,
+    Stood on the winding shores of Thames alone,
+    And fixed a sparkling eye upon Saint Paul's:
+    The sun new-risen had touched its roofs that laughed
+    Their answer back. Beyond it London spread;
+    But all between the river and that church
+    Was slope of grass and blossoming orchard copse
+    Glittering with dews dawn-reddened. Bertha here,
+    That church begun, had thus besought her Lord,
+    'Spare me this bank which God has made so fair!
+    Here let the little birds have leave to sing,
+    The bud to blossom! Here, the vespers o'er,
+    Lovers shall sit; and here, in later days,
+    Children shall question, "Who was he--Saint Paul?
+    What taught, what wrought he that his name should shine
+    Thus like the stars in heaven?"'
+                                      As Sebert stood,
+    The sweetness of the morning more and more
+    Made way into his heart. The pale blue smoke,
+    Rising from hearths by woodland branches fed,
+    Dimmed not the crystal matin air; not yet
+    From clammy couch had risen the mist sun-warmed:
+    All things distinctly showed; the rushing tide,
+    The barge, the trees, the long bridge many-arched,
+    And countless huddled gables, far away,
+    Lessening, yet still descried.
+                                   A voice benign
+    Dispersed the Prince's trance: 'I marked, my King,
+    Your face in yonder church; you took, I saw,
+    A blessing thence; and Nature's here you find:
+    The same God sends them both.' The man who spake,
+    Though silver-tressed, was countenanced like a child;
+    Smooth-browed, clear-eyed. That still and luminous mien
+    Predicted realms where Time shall be no more;
+    Where gladness, like some honey-dew divine,
+    Freshens an endless present. Mellitus,
+    From Rome late missioned and the Coelian Hill,
+    Made thus his greeting.
+                            Westward by the Thames
+    The King and Bishop paced, and held discourse
+    Of him whose name that huge Cathedral bore,
+    Israel's great son, the man of mighty heart,
+    The man for her redemption zealous more
+    Than for his proper crown. Not task for her
+    God gave him: to the Gentiles still he preached,
+    And won them to the Cross. 'That Faith once spurned,'
+    Thus cried the Bishop with a kindling eye,
+    'Lo, how it raised him as on eagle's wings,
+    And past the starry gates! The Spirit's Sword
+    He wielded well! Save him who bears the Keys,
+    Save him who made confession, "Thou art Christ,"
+    Saint Paul had equal none! Hail, Brethren crowned!
+    Hail, happy Rome, that guard'st their mingled dust!'
+
+    Next spake the Roman of those churches twain
+    By Constantine beside the Tyber built
+    To glorify their names. With sudden turn,
+    Sebert, the crimson mounting to his brow,
+    Made question, 'Is your Tyber of the South
+    Ampler than this, our Thames?' The old man smiled;
+    'Tyber to Thames is as that willow-stock
+    To yonder oak.' The Saxon cried with joy:
+    'How true thy judgment is! how just thy tongue!
+    What hinders, O my Father, but that Thames,
+    Huge river from the forests rolled by God,
+    Should image, like that Tyber, churches twain,
+    Honouring those Princes of the Apostles' Band?
+    King Ethelbert, my uncle, built Saint Paul's;
+    Saint Peter's Church be mine!'
+                                    An hour's advance
+    Left them in thickets tangled. Low the ground,
+    Well-nigh by waters clipt, a savage haunt
+    With briar and bramble thick, and 'Thorny Isle'
+    For that cause named. Sebert around him gazed,
+    A maiden blush upon him thus he spake:
+    'I know this spot; I stood here once, a boy:
+    'Twas winter then: the swoll'n and turbid flood
+    Rustled the sallows. Far I fled from men:
+    A youth had done me wrong, and vengeful thoughts
+    Burned in my heart: I warred with them in vain:
+    I prayed against them; yet they still returned:
+    O'erspent at last, I cast me on my knees
+    And cried, "Just God, if Thou despise my prayer,
+    Faithless, thence weak, not less remember well
+    How many a man in this East Saxon land
+    Stands up this hour, in wood, or field, or farm,
+    Like me sore tempted, but with loftier heart:
+    To these be helpful--yea, to one of these!"
+    And lo, the wrathful thoughts, like routed fiends,
+    Left me, and came no more!'
+                                Discoursing thus,
+    The friends a moment halted in a space
+    Where stood a flowering thorn. Adown it trailed
+    In zigzag curves erratic here and there
+    Long lines of milky bloom, like rills of foam
+    Furrowing the green back of some huge sea wave
+    Refluent from cliffs. Ecstatic minstrelsy
+    Swelled from its branches. Birds as thick as leaves
+    Thronged them; and whether joy was theirs that hour
+    Because the May had come, or joy of love,
+    Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged,
+    So piercing was that harmony, the place
+    Eden to Sebert looked, while brake and bower
+    Shone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,'
+    The Bishop cried, 'could better chant God's praise?
+    Here shall your church ascend:--its altar rise
+    Where yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake;
+    Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oft
+    Have trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed!
+    Angels this church o'er-winging, age on age
+    Shall see that boy at prayer!'
+                                    In peace, in war,
+    Daily the work advanced. The youthful King
+    Kneeling, himself had raised the earliest sod,
+    Made firm the corner stone. Whate'er of gold
+    Sun-ripened harvests of the royal lands
+    Yielded from Thames to Stour, or tax and toll
+    From quays mast-thronged to loud-resounding sea,
+    Save what his realm required by famine vexed
+    At times, or ravage of the Mercian sword,
+    Went to the work. His Queen her jewels brought,
+    Smiling, huge gift in slenderest hands up-piled;
+    His thanes their store; the poor their labour free.
+    Some clave the quarry's ledges: from its depths
+    Some haled the blocks; from distant forests some
+    Dragged home the oak-beam on the creaking wain:
+    Alas, that arms in noble tasks so strong
+    Should e'er have sunk in dust! Ere ten years passed
+    Saint Peter's towers above the high-roofed streets
+    Smiled on Saint Paul's. That earlier church had risen
+    Where stood, in Roman days, Apollo's fane:
+    Upon a site to Dian dedicate
+    Now rose its sister. Erring Faith had reached
+    In those twin Powers that ruled the Day and Night,
+    To Wisdom witnessing and Chastity,
+    Her loftiest height, and perished. Phoenix-like,
+    From ashes of dead rites and truths abused
+    Now soared unstained Religion.
+                                    What remained?
+    The Consecration. On its eve, the King
+    Held revel in its honour, solemn feast,
+    And wisely-woven dance, where beauty and youth,
+    Through loveliest measures moving, music-winged,
+    And winged not less by gladness, interwreathed
+    Brightness with brightness, glance turned back on glance,
+    And smile on smile--a courtseying graciousness
+    Of stateliest forms that, winding, sank or rose
+    As if on heaving seas. In groups apart
+    Old warriors clustered. Eadbald discussed
+    And Snorr, that truce with Wessex signed, and said,
+    'Fear nought: it cannot last!' A shadow sat
+    That joyous night upon one brow alone,
+    Redwald's, East Anglia's King. In generous youth
+    He, guest that time with royal Ethelbert,
+    Had gladly bowed to Christ. From shallowest soil
+    Faith springs apace, but springs to die. Returned
+    To plains of Ely, all that sweetness past
+    Seemed but a dream while scornful spake his wife,
+    Upon whose brow beauty from love divorced
+    Made beauty's self unbeauteous: 'Lose--why not?--
+    Thwarting your liegeful subjects, lose at will
+    Your Kingdom; you that might have reigned ere now
+    Bretwalda of the Seven!' In hour accursed
+    The weak man with his Faith equivocated:
+    Fraudful, beneath the self-same roofs he raised
+    Altars to Christ and idols. By degrees
+    That Truth he mocked forsook him. Year by year
+    His face grew dark, and barbed his tongue though smooth,
+    Manner and mind like grass-fields after thaw,
+    Silk-soft above, yet iron-hard below:
+    Spleenful that night at Sebert's blithe discourse
+    He answered thus, with seeming-careless eye
+    Wandering from wall to roof:
+                                  'I like your Church:
+    Would it had rested upon firmer ground,
+    Adorned some airier height: its towers are good,
+    Though dark the stone: three quarries white have I;
+    You might have used them gratis had you willed:
+    At Ely, Elmham, and beside the Cam
+    Where Felix rears even now his cloistral Schools,
+    I trust to build three churches soon: my Queen,
+    That seconds still my wishes, says, "Beware
+    Lest overhaste, your people still averse,
+    Frustrate your high intent." A woman's wit--
+    Yet here my wife is wiser than her wont.
+    I miss your Bishop: grandly countenanced he,
+    Save for that mole. He shuns our revel:--ay!
+    Monastic virtue never feels secure
+    Save when it skulks in corners!' As he spake,
+    Despite that varnish on his brow clear-cut,
+    Stung by remembrance, from the tutored eye
+    Forth flashed the fire barbaric: race and heart
+    A moment stood confessed.
+                                  Old Mellitus,
+    That night how fared he? In a fragile tent
+    Facing that church expectant, low he knelt
+    On the damp ground. More late, like youthful knight
+    In chapel small watching his arms untried,
+    He kept his consecration vigil still,
+    With hoary hands screening a hoary head,
+    And thus made prayer: 'Thou God to Whom all worlds
+    Form one vast temple: Thou Who with Thyself,
+    Ritual eterne, dost consecrate _that_ Church,
+    For aye creating, hallowing it forever;
+    Thou Who in narrowest heart of man or child
+    Makest not less Thy dwelling, turn Thine eyes
+    To-morrow on our rite. The work we work
+    Work it Thyself! Thy storm shall try it well;
+    Consummate first its strength in righteousness;
+    So shall beginning just, whate'er befall,
+    Or guard it, or restore.'
+                              So prayed the man,
+    Nor ever raised his head--saw nought--heard nought--
+    Nor knew that on the night had come a change,
+    Ill Spirits, belike, whose empire is the air,
+    Grudging its glories to that pile new raised,
+    And, while they might, assailing. Through the clouds
+    A panic-stricken moon stumbled and fled,
+    And wildly on the waters blast on blast
+    Ridged their dark floor. A spring-tide from the sea
+    Breasted the flood descending. Woods of Shene
+    And Hampton's groves had heard that flood all day,
+    No more a whisperer soft; and meadow banks,
+    Not yet o'er-gazed by Windsor's crested steep
+    Or Reading's tower, had yielded to its wave
+    Blossom and bud. More high, near Oxenford,
+    Isis and Cherwell with precipitate stream
+    Had swelled the current. Gathering thus its strength
+    Far off and near, allies and tributaries,
+    That night by London onward rolled the Thames
+    Beauteous and threatening both.
+                                      Its southern bank
+    Fronting the church had borne a hamlet long
+    Where fishers dwelt. Upon its verge that night
+    Perplexed the eldest stood: his hand was laid
+    Upon the gunwale of a stranded boat;
+    His knee was crooked against it. Shrinking still
+    And sad, his eye pursued that racing flood,
+    Here black like night, dazzled with eddies there,
+    Eddies by moonshine glazed. In doubt he mused:
+    Sudden a Stranger by him stood and spake:
+    'Launch forth, and have no fear.' The fisher gazed
+    Once on his face; and launched. Beside the helm
+    That Stranger sat. Then lo! a watery lane
+    Before them opening, through the billows curved,
+    Level, like meadow-path. As when a weed
+    Drifts with the tide, so softly o'er that lane
+    Oarless the boat advanced, and instant reached
+    The northern shore, dark with that minster's shade;--
+    Before them close it frowned.
+                                'Where now thou stand'st
+    Abide thou:' thus the Stranger spake: anon
+    Before the church's southern gate he stood:--
+    Then lo! a marvel. Inward as he passed,
+    Its threshold crossed, a splendour as of God
+    Forth from the bosom of that dusky pile
+    Through all its kindling windows streamed, and blazed
+    From wave to wave, and spanned that downward tide
+    With many a fiery bridge. The moon was quenched;
+    But all the edges of the headlong clouds
+    Caught up the splendour till the midnight vault
+    Shone like the noon. The fisher knew, that hour,
+    That with vast concourse of the Sons of God
+    That church was thronged; for in it many a head
+    Sun-bright, and hands lifted like hands in prayer,
+    High up he saw: meantime harmonic strain,
+    As though whatever moves in earth or skies,
+    Winds, waters, stars, had joined in one their song,
+    Above him floated like a breeze from God
+    And heaven-born incense. Louder swelled that strain;
+    And still the Bride of God, that church late dark,
+    Glad of her saintly spousals, laughed and shone
+    In radiance ever freshening. By degrees
+    That vision waned. At last the fisher turned:
+    The matin star shook on the umbered wave;
+    Along the East there lay a pallid streak,
+    That streak which preludes dawn.
+                                      Beside the man
+    Once more that Stranger stood:--'Seest thou yon tent?
+    My Brother kneels within it. Thither speed
+    And bid him know I sent thee, speaking thus,
+    "He whom the Christians name 'the Rock' am I:
+    My Master heard thy prayer: I sought thy church,
+    And sang myself her Consecration rite:
+    Close thou that service with thanksgiving psalm."'
+
+    Thus spake the Stranger, and was seen no more:
+    But whether o'er the waters, as of old
+    Footing that Galilean Sea, with faith
+    Not now infirm he reached the southern shore,
+    Or passed from sight as one whom crowds conceal,
+    The fisher knew not. At the tent arrived,
+    Before its little door he bent, and lo!
+    Within, there knelt a venerable man
+    With hoary hands screening a hoary head,
+    Who prayed, and prayed. His tale the fisher told:
+    With countenance unamazed, yet well content,
+    That kneeler answered, 'Son, thy speech is true!
+    Hence, and announce thy tidings to the King,
+    Who leaves his couch but now.'
+                                   'How beautiful'--
+    That old man sang, as down the Thames at morn
+    In multitudinous pomp the barges dropped,
+    Following those twain that side by side advanced,
+    One royal, one pontific, bearing each
+    The Cross in silver blazoned or in gold--
+    'How beautiful, O Sion, are thy courts!
+    Lo, on thy brow thy Maker's name is writ:
+    Fair is this place and awful; porch of heaven:
+    Behold, God's Church is founded on a rock:
+    It stands, and shall not fall: the gates of Hell
+    Shall not prevail against it.'
+                                  From the barge
+    Of Sebert and his Queen, antiphonal
+    Rapturous response was wafted: 'I beheld
+    Jerusalem, the City sage and blest;
+    From heaven I saw it to the earth descending
+    In sanctity gold-vested, as a Bride
+    Decked for her Lord. I heard a voice which sang,
+    Behold the House where God will dwell with men:
+    And God shall wipe the tears from off their face;
+    And death shall be no more.'
+                                    Old Thames that day
+    Brightened with banners of a thousand boats
+    Winnowed by winds flower-scented. Countless hands
+    Tossed on the brimming river chaplets wov'n
+    On mead or hill, or branches lopped in woods
+    With fruit-bloom red, or white with clustering cone,
+    Changing clear stream to garden. Mile on mile
+    Now song was heard, now bugle horn that died
+    Gradual 'mid sedge and reed. Alone the swan
+    High on the western waters kept aloof;
+    Remote she eyed the scene with neck thrown back,
+    Her ancient calm preferring, and her haunt
+    Crystalline still. Alone the Julian Tower
+    Far down the eastern stream, though tap'stries waved
+    From every window, every roof o'er-swarmed
+    With anthem-echoing throngs, maintained, unmoved,
+    Roman and Stoic, her Cæsarean pride:
+    On Saxon feasts she fixed a cold, grey gaze;
+    'Mid Christian hymns heard but the old acclaim--
+    'Consul Romanus.'
+                          When the sun had reached
+    Its noonday height, a people and its king
+    Around their minster pressed. With measured tread
+    And Introit chanted, up the pillared nave
+    Reverent they moved: then knelt. Between their ranks
+    Their Bishop last advanced with mitred brow
+    And in his hand the Cross, at every step
+    Signing the benediction of his Lord.
+    The altar steps he mounted. Turning then
+    Westward his face to that innumerous host,
+    Thus spake he unastonished: 'Sirs, ere now
+    This church's Consecration rite was sung:--
+    Be ours to sing thanksgiving to our God,
+    "Ter-Sanctus," and "Te Deum."'
+
+
+
+
+_THE PENANCE OF SAINT LAURENCE._
+
+     Eadbald, King of Kent, persecuting the Church, Laurence the Bishop
+     deems himself the chief of sinners because he has consented, like
+     the neighbouring bishops, to depart; but, being consoled by a
+     wonderful reprimand, faces the King, and offers himself up to
+     death. The King reproves them that gave him evil counsel.
+
+
+    The day was dying on the Kentish downs
+    And in the oakwoods by the Stour was dead,
+    While sadly shone o'er snowy plains of March
+    Her comfortless, cold star. The daffodil
+    That year was past its time. The leaden stream
+    Had waited long that lamp of river-beds
+    Which, when the lights of Candlemas are quenched,
+    Looks forth through February mists. A film
+    Of ice lay brittle on the shallows: dark
+    And swift the central current rushed: the wind
+    Sighed through the tawny sedge.
+                                    'So fleets our life--
+    Like yonder gloomy stream; so sighs our age--
+    Like yonder sapless sedge!' Thus Laurence mused
+    Standing on that sad margin all alone,
+    His twenty years of gladsome English toil
+    Ending at last abortive. 'Stream well-loved,
+    Here on thy margin standing saw I first,
+    My head by chance uplifting from my book,
+    King Ethelbert's strong countenance; he is dead;
+    And, next him, riding through the April gleams,
+    Bertha, his Queen, with face so lit by love
+    Its lustre smote the beggar as she passed
+    And changed his sigh to song. She too is dead;
+    And half their thanes that chased the stag that day,
+    Like echoes of their own glad bugle-horn,
+    Have passed and are not. Why must I abide?
+    And why must age, querulous and coward both,
+    Past days lamenting, fear not less that stroke
+    Which makes an end of grief? Base life of man!
+    How sinks thy slow infection through our bones;
+    Then when you fawned upon us, high-souled youth
+    Heroic in its gladness, spurned your gifts,
+    Yearning for noble death. In age, in age
+    We kiss the hand that nothing holds but dust,
+    Murmuring, "Not yet!"'
+                           A tear, ere long ice-glazed,
+    Hung on the old man's cheek. 'What now remains?'
+    Some minutes passed; then, lifting high his head,
+    He answered, 'God remains.' His faith, his heart,
+    Were unsubverted. 'Twas the weight of grief,
+    The exhausted nerve, the warmthless blood of age,
+    That pressed him down like sin, where sin was none--
+    Not sin, but weakness only. Long he mused,
+    Then slowly walked, and feebly, through the woods
+    Towards his house monastic. Vast it loomed
+    Through ground-fog seen; and vaster, close beside,
+    That convent's church by great Augustine reared
+    Where once old woodlands clasped a temple old,
+    Vaunt of false Gods. To Peter and to Paul
+    That church was dedicate, albeit so long
+    High o'er the cloudy rack of fleeting years
+    It bore, and bears, its founder's name, not theirs.
+    Therein that holy founder slept in Christ,
+    And Ethelbert, and Bertha. All was changed:
+    King Eadbald, new-crowned and bad of life,
+    Who still, whate'er was named of great or good,
+    Made answer, 'Dreams! I say the flesh rules all!'
+    Hated the Cross. His Queen, that portent crowned,
+    She that with name of wife was yet no wife,
+    Abhorred that Cross and feared. A Baptist new
+    In that Herodian court had Laurence stood,
+    Commanding, 'Put the evil thing away!'
+    Since then the woman's to the monarch's hate
+    Had added strength--the serpent's poison-bag
+    Venoming the serpent's fang. 'Depart the realm!'
+    With voice scarce human thus the tyrant cried,
+    'Depart or die;' and gave the Church's goods
+    To clown and boor.
+                       Upon the bank of Thames
+    Settled like ruin. Holy Sebert dead,
+    In that East Saxon kingdom monarch long,
+    Three sons unrighteous now their riot held.
+    Frowning into the Christian Church they strode,
+    Full-armed, and each, with far-stretched foot firm set
+    Watching the Christian rite. 'Give us,' they cried,
+    While knelt God's children at their Paschal Feast,
+    'Give us those circlets of your sacred bread:
+    Ye feed therewith your beggars; kings are we!'
+    The Bishop answered, 'Be, like them, baptized,
+    Sons of God's Church, His Sacrament with man,
+    For that cause Mother of Christ's Sacraments,
+    So shall ye share her Feast.' With lightning speed
+    Their swords leaped forth; contemptuous next they cried,
+    'For once we spare to sweep a witless head
+    From worthless shoulders. Ere to-morrow's dawn
+    Hence, nor return!' He sped to Rochester:
+    Her bishop, like himself, was under ban:
+    The twain to Canterbury passed, and there
+    Resolved to let the tempest waste its wrath,
+    And crossed the seas. By urgency outworn,
+    'Gainst that high judgment of his holier will
+    Laurence to theirs deferred, but tarried yet
+    For one day more to cast a last regard
+    On regions loved so long.
+                                As compline ceased
+    He reached the abbey gates, and entered in:
+    Sadly the brethren looked him in the face,
+    Yet no one said, 'Take comfort!' Sad and sole
+    He passed to the Scriptorium: round he gazed,
+    And thought of happy days, when Gregory,
+    One time their Abbot, next their Pope, would send
+    Some precious volume to his exiled sons,
+    While they in reverence knelt, and kissed its edge,
+    And, kissing, heard once more, as if in dream,
+    Gregorian chants through Roman palm trees borne
+    With echoes from the Coliseum's wall
+    Adown that Coelian Hill; and saw God's poor
+    At feast around that humble board which graced
+    That palace senatorial once. He stood:
+    He raised a casket from an open chest,
+    And from that casket drew a blazoned scroll,
+    And placed it on the window-sill up-sloped
+    Breast-high, and faintly warmed by sinking sun;
+    Then o'er it bent a space.
+                                With sudden hands
+    The old man raised that scroll; aloud he read:
+    'I, Ethelbert the King, and all my Thanes,
+    Honouring the Apostle Peter, cede to God
+    This Abbey and its lands. If heir of mine
+    Cancel that gift, when Christ with angels girt
+    Makes way to judge the Nations of this world,
+    His name be cancelled from the Book of Life.'
+    The old man paused; then read the signatures,
+    'I, Ethelbert, of Kent the King.' Who next?
+    'I, Eadbald, his son;' to these succeeding,
+    'I, Hennigisil, Duke;' 'I, Hocca, Earl.'--
+    'Can such things be?' Around the old man's brow
+    The veins swelled out; dilated nostril, mouth
+    Working as mouth of him that tasteth death,
+    With what beside is wiselier unrevealed,
+    Witnessed that agony which spake no more;
+    He dashed the charter on the pavement down;
+    Then on it gazed a space.
+                                  Remembering soon
+    Whose name stood first on that dishonoured list,
+    Contrite he raised that charter to his breast,
+    And pressed it there in silence. Hours went by;
+    Then dark was all that room, and dark around
+    The windy corridors and courts stone-paved;
+    And bitter blew the blast: his unlooped cloak
+    Fell loose: the cold he noted not. At last
+    A brother passed the door with lamp in hand:
+    Dazzled, he started first: then meekly spake,
+    'Beseech the brethren that they strew my bed
+    Within the church. Until the second watch
+    There must I fast, and pray,'
+                                  The brethren heard,
+    And strewed his couch within the vast, void nave,
+    A mat and deer-skin, and, more high, that stone
+    The old head's nightly pillow. Echoes faint
+    Ere long of their receding footsteps died
+    While from the dark fringe of a rainy cloud
+    An ice-cold moon, ascending, streaked the church
+    With gleam and gloom alternate. On his knees
+    Meantime that aged priest was creeping slow
+    From stone to stone, as when on battle-plain,
+    The battle lost, some warrior wounded sore,
+    By all forsaken, or some war-horse maimed,
+    Drags a blind bulk along the field in search
+    Of thirst-assuaging spring. Glittered serene
+    That light before the Sacrament of Love:
+    Thither he bent his way, and long time prayed:
+    Thence onward crept to where King Ethelbert
+    Slept, marble-shrined--his ashes, not the King,
+    Yet ashes kingly since God's temple once,
+    And waiting God's great day. Before that tomb,
+    Himself as rigid, with lean arms outspread,
+    Thus made the man his moan:
+                                    'King Ethelbert!
+    Hear'st thou in glory? Ofttimes on thy knees
+    Thou mad'st confession of thine earthly sins
+    To me, a wounded worm this day on earth:
+    Now comforted art thou, and I brought low:
+    Yet, though I see no more that beaming front,
+    And haply for my sins may see it never,
+    Yet inwardly I gladden, knowing this
+    That thou art glad. Perchance thou hear'st me not,
+    For thou wert still a heedless man of mirth,
+    Though sage as strong at need. If this were so,
+    Not less thy God would hear my prayer to thee,
+    And grant it in thy reverence. Ethelbert!
+    Thou hadst thy trial time, since, many a year
+    All shepherdless thy well-loved people strayed
+    What time thyself, their shepherd, knew'st not Christ,
+    Sole shepherd of man's race. King Ethelbert!
+    Rememberest thou that day in Thanet Isle?
+    That day the Bride of God on English shores
+    Set her pure foot; and thou didst kneel to kiss it:
+    Thou gav'st her meat and drink in kingly wise;
+    Gav'st her thy palace for her bridal bower;
+    This Abbey build'dst--her fortress! O those days
+    Crowned with such glories, with such sweetness winged!
+    Thou saw'st thy realm made one with Christ's: thou saw'st
+    Thy race like angels ranging courts of Heaven:
+    This day, behold, thou seest the things thou seest!
+    If there be any hope, King Ethelbert,
+    Help us this day with God!'
+                                  Upon his knees
+    Then crept that exile old to Bertha's tomb,
+    And there made moan: 'Thou tenderest Queen and sweetest,
+    Whom no man ever gazed on save with joy,
+    Or spake of, dead, save weeping! Well I know
+    That on thee in thy cradle Mary flung
+    A lily whiter from her hand, a rose
+    Warm from her breath and breast, for all thy life
+    Was made of Chastities and Charities--
+    This hour thine eyes are on that Vision bent
+    Whereof the radiance, ere by thee beheld,
+    Gave thee thine earthly brightness. Mirrored there,
+    Seest thou, like moat in sunbeam well-nigh lost,
+    Our world of temporal anguish? See it not!
+    For He alone, the essential Peace Eterne,
+    Could see it unperturbed. In Him rejoice!
+    Yet, 'mid thy heavenly triumph, plead, O plead
+    For hearts that break below!'
+                                   Upon the ground
+    Awhile that man sore tried his forehead bowed;
+    Then raised it till the frore and foggy beam
+    Mixed with his wintry hair. Once more he crept
+    Upon his knees through shadow; reached at length
+    His toilsome travel's last and dearest bourn,
+    The grave of Saint Augustine. O'er it lay
+    The Patriarch's statued semblance as in sleep:
+    He knew it well, and found it, though to him
+    In darkness lost and veil beside of tears,
+    With level hands grazing those upward feet
+    Oft kissed, yet ne'er as now.
+                                  'Farewell forever!
+    Farewell, my Master, and farewell, my friend!
+    Since ever thou in heaven abid'st--and I----
+    Gregory the Pontiff from that Roman Hill
+    Sent thee to work a man's work far away,
+    And manlike didst thou work it. Prince, yet child,
+    Men saw thee, and obeyed thee. O'er the earth
+    Thy step was regal, meekness of thy Christ
+    Weighted with weight of conquerors and of kings:
+    Men saw a man who toiled not for himself,
+    Yet never ceased from toil; who warred on Sin;
+    Had peace with all beside. In happy hour
+    God laid His holy hand upon thine eyes:
+    I knelt beside thy bed: I leaned mine ear
+    Down to thy lips to catch their last; in vain:
+    Yet thou perchance wert murmuring in thy heart:
+    "I leave my staff within no hireling's hand;
+    Therefore my work shall last," Ah me! Ah me!
+    There was a Laurence once on Afric's shore:
+    He with his Cyprian died. I too, methinks,
+    Had shared--how gladly shared--my Bishop's doom.
+    Father, with Gregory pray this night! That God
+    Who promised, "for my servant David's sake,"
+    Even yet may hear thy prayer.'
+                                    Thus wept the man,
+    Till o'er him fell half slumber. Soon he woke,
+    And, from between that statue's marble feet
+    Lifting a marble face, in silence crept
+    To where far off his bed was strewn, and drew
+    The deer-skin covering o'er him. With its warmth
+    Deep sleep, that solace of lamenting hearts
+    Which makes the waking bitterer, o'er him sank,
+    Nor wholly left him, though in sleep he moaned
+    When from the neighbouring farm, an hour ere dawn,
+    The second time rang out that clarion voice
+    Which bids the Christian watch.
+                                      As thus he lay
+    T'wards him there moved in visions of the Lord
+    A Venerable Shape, compact of light,
+    And loftier than our mortal. Near arrived,
+    That mild, compassionate Splendour shrank his beam,
+    Or healed with strengthening touch the gazer's eyes
+    Made worthier of such grace; and Laurence saw
+    Princedom not less than his, the Apostles' Chief,
+    To whom the Saviour answered, 'Rock art thou,'
+    And later--crowning Love, not less than Faith--
+    'Feed thou My Sheep, My Lambs!' He knew that shape,
+    For oft, a child 'mid catacombs of Rome,
+    And winding ways girt by the martyred dead,
+    His eyes had seen it. Pictured on those vaults
+    Stood Peter, Moses of the Christian Law,
+    Figured in one that by the Burning Bush
+    Unsandalled knelt, or drew with lifted hand
+    The torrent from the rock, yet wore not less
+    In aureole round his head the Apostle's name
+    'Petros,' and in his hand sustained the Keys--
+    Such shape once more he saw.
+                                 'And comest thou then
+    Long-waited, or with sceptre-wielding hand
+    Earthward to smite the unworthiest head on earth,
+    Or with the darker of those Keys thou bearest
+    Him from the synod of the Saints to shut
+    Who fled as flies the hireling? Let it be!
+    Not less in that bright City by whose gate
+    Warder thou sitt'st, my Master thou shalt see
+    Pacing the diamond terraces of God
+    And bastions jacinth-veined, my great Augustine,
+    When all who wrought the ill have passed to doom,
+    And all who missed the good. Nor walks he sole:
+    By him forever and forever pace
+    My Ethelbert, my Bertha! Who can tell
+    But in the on-sweeping centuries thrice or twice
+    These three may name my name?' He spake and wept.
+        To whom the Apostolic Splendour thus:
+    'Live, and be strong: for those thou lovest in Christ
+    Not only in far years shall name thy name;
+    This day be sure that name they name in Christ:
+    Else wherefore am I here? Not thou alone,
+    Much more in grief's bewilderment than fear,
+    Hast from the right way swerved. Was I not strong?
+    I, from the first Elect, and named anew?
+    I who received, at first, divine command
+    The Brother-band to strengthen; last to rule?
+    I who to Hebrew and to Gentile both
+    Flung wide the portals of the heavenly realm?
+    Was I not strong? Behold, thou know'st my fall!
+    A second fall was near. At Rome the sword
+    Against me raged. Forth by the Appian Way
+    I fled; and, past the gateway, face to face,
+    Him met, Who up the steep of Calvary, bare
+    For man's behoof the Cross. "Where goest thou, Lord?"
+    I spake; then He: "I go to Rome, once more
+    To die for him who fears for me to die."
+    To Rome returned I; and my end was peace.
+    Return thou too. Thy brethren have not sinned:
+    They fled, consentient with the Will Supreme:
+    Their names are written in the Book of Life:
+    Enough that He Who gives to each his part
+    Hath sealed thy sons and thee to loftier fates;
+    Therefore more sternly tries. Be strong; be glad:
+    For strength from joyance comes.'
+                                      The Vision passed:
+    The old man, seated on his narrow bed,
+    Rolled thrice his eyes around the vast, dim church,
+    Desiring to retain it. Vain the quest!
+    Yet still within his heart that Radiance lived:
+    The sweetness of that countenance fresh from God
+    Would not be dispossessed, but kindled there
+    Memorial dawn of brightness, more and more
+    Growing to perfect day: inviolate peace,
+    Such peace as heavenly visitants bequeath,
+    O'er-spread his spirit, gradual, like a sea:
+    Forth from the bosom of that peace upsoared
+    Hope, starry-crowned, and winged, that liberates oft
+    Faith, unextinct, though bound by Powers accursed
+    That o'er her plant the foot, and hold the chain--
+    Terror and Sloth. To noble spirits set free
+    Delight means gratitude. Thus Laurence joyed:
+    But soon, remembering that unworthy past,
+    Remorse succeeded, sorrow born of love,
+    Consoled by love alone. 'Ah! slave,' he cried,
+    That, serving such a God, could'st dream of flight:
+    How many a babe, too weak to lift his head,
+    Is strong enough to die!' While thus he mused
+    The day-dawn reaching to his pallet showed
+    That Discipline, wire-woven, in ancient days
+    Guest of monastic bed. He snatched it thence:
+    Around his bending neck and shoulders lean
+    In dire revenge he hurled it. Spent at last,
+    Though late, those bleeding hands down dropped: the cheek
+    Sank on the stony pillow. Little birds,
+    Low-chirping ere their songs began, attuned
+    Slumber unbroken. In a single hour
+    He slept a long night's sleep.
+                                  The rising sun
+    Woke him: but in his heart another sun,
+    New-risen serene with healing on its wings,
+    Outshone that sun in brightness. 'Mid the choir
+    His voice was loudest while they chanted lauds:
+    Brother to brother whispered, issuing forth,
+    'He walks in stature higher by a head
+    Than in the month gone by!'
+                                  That day at noon
+    King Eadwald, intent to whiten theft
+    And sacrilege with sanctitudes of law,
+    Girt by his warriors and his Witena,
+    Enthronèd sat. 'What boots it?' laughed a thane;
+    'Laurence has fled! we battle with dead men!'
+    'Ay, ay,' the King replied, 'I told you oft
+    Sages can brag; your dreamer weaves his dream:
+    But honest flesh rules all!' While thus they spake
+    Confusion filled the hall: through guarded gates
+    A priest advanced with mitre and with Cross,
+    A monk that seemed not monk, but prince disguised:
+    It was Saint Laurence. As he neared the throne
+    The fashion of the tyrant's face was changed:
+    'Dar'st thou?' he cried, 'I deemed thee fled the realm--
+    What seek'st thou here?' The Saint made answer, 'Death.'
+    Calmly he told his tale; then ended thus:
+    'To me that sinful past is sin of one
+    Buried in years gone by. All else is dream
+    Save that last look the Apostle on me bent
+    Ere from my sight he ceased. I saw therein
+    The reflex of that wondrous last Regard
+    Cast by the sentenced Saviour of mankind
+    On one who had denied Him, standing cold
+    Beside the High Priest's gate. Like him, I wept;
+    His countenance wrought my penance, not his hand:
+    I scarcely felt the scourge.'
+                                  King Eadbald
+    Drave back the sword half drawn, and round him stared;
+    Then sat as one amazed. He rose; he cried,
+    'Ulf! Kathnar! Strip his shoulders bare! If true
+    His tale, the brand remains!'
+                                  Two chiefs stepped forth:
+    They dragged with trembling hand, and many a pause,
+    The external garb pontific first removed,
+    Dark, blood-stained garment from the bleeding flesh,
+    The old man kneeling. Once, and only once,
+    The monarch gazed on that disastrous sight,
+    Muttering, 'and yet he lives!' A time it was
+    Of swift transitions. Hearts, how proud soe'er,
+    Made not that boast--consistency in sin,
+    Though dark and rough accessible to Grace
+    As earth to vernal showers. With hands hard-clenched
+    The King upstarted: thus his voice rang out:
+    'Beware, who gave ill counsel to their King!
+    The royal countenance is against them set,
+    Ill merchants trafficking with his lesser moods!
+    Does any say the King wrought well of late,
+    Warring on Christ, and chasing hence his priests?
+    The man that lies shall die! This day, once more
+    I ratify my Father's oath, and mine,
+    To keep the Church in peace: and though I sware
+    To push God's monks from yonder monastery
+    And lodge therein the horses of the Queen,
+    Those horses, and the ill-persuading Queen,
+    Shall flee my kingdom, and the monks abide!
+    Brave work ye worked, my loose-kneed Witena,
+    This day, Christ's portion yielding to my wrath!
+    See how I prize your labours!' With his sword
+    He clave the red seal from their statute scroll
+    And stamped it under foot. Once more he spake,
+    Gazing with lion gaze from man to man:
+    'The man that, since my Father, Ethelbert,
+    Though monarch, stooped to common doom of men,
+    Hath filched from Holy Church fee-farm, or grange,
+    Sepulchral brass, gold chalice, bell or book,
+    See he restore it ere the sun goes down;
+    If not, he dies! Not always winter reigns;
+    May-breeze returns, and bud-releasing breath,
+    When hoped the least:--'tis thus with royal minds!'
+    He spake: from that day forth in Canterbury
+    Till reigned the Norman, crowned on Hastings' field,
+    God's Church had rest. In many a Saxon realm
+    Convulsion rocked her cradle: altars raised
+    By earlier kings by later were o'erthrown:
+    One half the mighty Roman work, and more,
+    Fell to the ground: Columba's Irish monks
+    The ruin raised. From Canterbury's towers,
+    'Rome of the North' long named, from them alone
+    Above sea-surge still shone that vestal fire
+    By tempest fanned, not quenched; and at her breast
+    For centuries six were nursed that Coelian race,
+    The Benedictine Primates of the Land.
+
+
+
+
+_KING SIGEBERT OF EAST ANGLIA, AND HEIDA THE PROPHETESS._
+
+     Sigebert, King of East Anglia, moved by what he has heard from a
+     Christian priest, consults the Prophetess Heida. In the doctrine he
+     reports Heida recognises certain sacred traditions from the East,
+     originally included in the Northern religion, and affirms that the
+     new Faith is the fulfilment of the great Voluspà prophecy, the
+     earliest record of that religion, which foretold the destruction
+     both of the Odin-Gods and the Giant race, the restoration of all
+     things, and the reign of Love.
+
+
+    Long time upon the late-closed door the King
+    Kept his eyes fixed. The wondrous guest was gone;
+    Yet, seeing that his words were great and sage,
+    Compassionate for the sorrowful state of man,
+    Yet sparing not man's sin, their echoes lived
+    Thrilling large chambers in the monarch's breast
+    Silent for many a year. Exiled in France
+    The mystery of the Faith had reached his ear
+    In word but not in power. The westering sun
+    Lengthened upon the palace floor its beam,
+    Yet the strong hand which propped that thoughtful head
+    Sank not, nor moved. Sudden, King Sigebert
+    Arose and spake: 'I go to Heida's Tower:
+    Await ye my return.'
+                          The woods ere long
+    Around him closed. Upon the wintry boughs
+    An iron shadow pressed; and as the wind
+    Increased beneath their roofs, an iron sound
+    Clangoured funereal. Down their gloomiest aisle,
+    With snow flakes white, the monarch strode, till now
+    Before him, and not distant, Heida's Tower,
+    The Prophetess by all men feared yet loved,
+    Smit by a cold beam from the yellowing west,
+    Shone like a tower of brass. Her ravens twain
+    Crested the turrets of its frowning gate,
+    Unwatched by warder. Sigebert passed in:
+    Beneath the stony vault the queenly Seer
+    Sat on her ebon throne.
+                              With pallid lips
+    The King rehearsed his tale; how one with brow
+    Lordlier than man's, and visionary eyes
+    Which, wander where they might, saw Spirits still,
+    Had told him many marvels of some God
+    Mightier than Odin thrice. He paused awhile:
+    A warning shadow came to Heida's brow:
+    Nathless she nothing spake. The King resumed:
+    'He spake--that stranger--of the things he saw:
+    For he, his body tranced, it may be dead,
+    In spirit oft hath walked the Spirit-Land:
+    Thence, downward gazing, once he saw our earth,
+    A little vale obscure, and, o'er it hung,
+    Those four great Fires that desolate mankind:
+    The Fire of Falsehood first; the Fire of Lust,
+    Ravening for weeds and scum; the Fire of Hate,
+    Hurling, on war-fields, brother-man 'gainst man;
+    The Fire of tyrannous Pride. While yet he gazed,
+    Behold, those Fires, widening, commixed, then soared
+    Threatening the skies. A Spirit near him cried,
+    "Fear nought; for breeze-like pass the flames o'er him
+    In whom they won no mastery there below:
+    But woe to those who, charioted therein,
+    Rode forth triumphant o'er the necks of men,
+    And had their day on earth. Proportioned flames
+    Of other edge shall try their work and them!"
+    Thus spake my guest: the frost wind smote his brows,
+    While on that moonlit crag we sat, ice-cold,
+    Yet down them, like the reaper's sweat at noon,
+    The drops of anguish streamed. Till then, methinks,
+    That thing Sin is I knew not.
+                                  Calm of voice
+    Again he spake. He told me of his God:
+    That God, like Odin, is a God of War:
+    Who serve Him wear His armour day and night:
+    The maiden, nay, the child, must wield the sword;
+    Yet none may hate his neighbour. Thus he spake,
+    That Prophet from far regions: "Wherefore wreck
+    Thy brother man? upon his innocent babes
+    Drag down the ruinous roof? Seek manlier tasks!
+    The death in battle is the easiest death:
+    Be yours the daily dying; lifelong death;
+    Death of the body that the soul may live:--
+    War on the Spirits unnumbered and accurst
+    Which, rulers of the darkness of this world,
+    Drive, hour by hour, their lances through man's soul
+    That wits not of the wounding!"'
+                                    Heida turned
+    A keen eye on the King: 'Whence came your guest?
+    Not from those sun-bright southern shores, I ween?'
+    He answered, 'Nay, from western isle remote
+    That Prophet came.' Then Heida's countenance fell:
+    'The West! the West! it should have been the East!
+    Conclude your tale: what saith your guest of God?'
+    The King replied: 'His God so loved mankind
+    That, God remaining, he became a man;
+    So hated sin that, sin to slay, He died.
+    One tear of His had paid the dreadful debt:--
+    Not so He willed it: thus He willed, to wake
+    In man, His lost one, quenchless hate of sin,
+    Proportioned to the death-pang of a God;
+    Nor chose He lonely majesty of death:
+    'Twixt sinners paired He died.'
+                                    In Heida's eye
+    Trembled a tear. 'A dream was mine in youth,
+    When first the rose of girlhood warmed my cheek,
+    A dream of some great Sacrifice that claimed
+    Not praise--not praise--it only yearned to die
+    Helping the Loved. A maid alone, I thought,
+    Such sacrifice could offer.' As she spake,
+    She pressed upon the pale cheek, warmed once more,
+    Her cold, thin hand a moment.
+                                   'Maiden-born
+    Was He, my guest revealed,' the King replied:
+    'Then from that Angel's "Hail," and her response,
+    "So be it unto me," when sinless doubt
+    Vanished in world-renewing, free consent,
+    He told the tale;--the Infant in the crib;
+    The shepherds o'er him bowed;' (with widening eyes
+    Heida, bent forward, saw like them that Child)
+    'The Star that led the Magians from the East----'
+    'The East, the East! It should have been the East!'
+    Once more she cried; 'our race is from the East:
+    The Persian worshipped t'ward the rising sun:
+    You said, but now, the West.' The King resumed:
+    'God's priest was from the West; but in the East
+    The great Deliverer sprang.' Next, step by step,
+    Like herald panting forth in leaguered town
+    Tidings unhoped for of deliverance strange
+    Through victory on some battle field remote,
+    The King rehearsed his theme, from that first Word,
+    'The Woman's Seed shall bruise the Serpent's head,'
+    Prime Gospel, ne'er forgotten in the East,
+    To Calvary's Cross, the Resurrection morn,
+    Lastly the great Ascension into heaven:
+    And ever as he spake on Heida's cheek
+    The red spot, deepening, spread; within her eyes
+    An unastonished gladness waxed more large:
+    Back to the marble woman came her youth:
+    Once more within her heaving breast it lived,
+    Once more upon her forehead shone, as when
+    The after-glow returns to Alpine snows
+    Left death-like by dead day. Question at times
+    She made, yet seemed the answer to foreknow.
+    That tale complete, low-toned at last she spake:
+    'Unhappy they to whom these things are hard!'
+    Then silent sat, and by degrees became
+    Once more that dreaded prophet, stern and cold.
+    The silence deeper grew: the sun, not set,
+    Had sunk beneath the forest's western ridge;
+    And jagged shadows tinged that stony floor
+    Whereon the monarch knelt. Slowly therefrom
+    He raised his head; then slowly made demand:
+    'Is he apostate who discards old Faith?'
+
+    Long time in musings Heida sat, then spake:
+    'Yea, if that Faith discarded be the Truth:
+    Not so, if it be falsehood. God is Truth;
+    God-taught, true hearts discern that Truth, and guard:
+    Whom God forsakes forsake it. O thou North,
+    That beat'st thy brand so loud against thy shield,
+    Hearing nought else, what Truth one day was thine!
+    Behold within corruption's charnel vaults
+    It sleeps this day. What God shall lift its head?
+    We came from regions of the rising sun:
+    Scorning the temples built by mortal hand,
+    We worshipp'd God--one God--the Immense, All-Just:
+    That worship was the worship of great hearts:
+    Duty was worship then: that God received it:
+    I know not if benignly He received;
+    If God be Love I know not. This I know,
+    God loves not priest that under roofs of gold
+    Lifts, in his right hand held, the Sacrifice;
+    The left, behind him, fingering for the dole.
+    King of East Anglia's realm, the primal Truths
+    Are vanished from our Faith: the ensanguined rite,
+    The insane carouse survive!'
+                                Thus Heida spake,
+    Heida, the strong one by the strong ones feared;
+    Heida, the sad one by the mourners loved;
+    Heida, the brooder on the sacred Past,
+    The nursling of a Prophet House, the child
+    Of old traditions sage!
+                            She paused, and then
+    Milder, resumed: 'What moved thee to believe?'
+    And Sigebert made answer thus: 'The Sword:
+    For as a sword that Truth the stranger preached
+    Ran down into my heart.' Heida to him,
+    'Well saidst thou "as a Sword:" a Sword is Truth;--
+    As sharp a sword is Love: and many a time
+    In youth, but not the earliest, happiest youth,
+    When first I found that grief was in the world,
+    Had learned how deep its root, an infant's wail
+    Went through me like a sword. Man's cry it seemed,
+    The blindfold, crownèd creature's cry for Truth,
+    His spirit's sole deliverer.'
+                                    Once again
+    She mused, and then continued, 'Truth and Love
+    Are gifts too great to give themselves for nought;
+    Exacting Gods. Within man's bleeding heart,
+    If e'er to man conceded, both shall lie
+    Crossed, like two swords--
+    Behold thine image, crowned Humanity!
+    Better such dower than life exempt from woe:
+    Our Fathers knew to suffer; joyed in pain;
+    They knew not this--how deep its root!'
+                                            Once more
+    The Prophetess was mute: again she spake:
+    'How named thy guest his God?' The King replied:
+    'The Warrior God, Who comes to judge the world;
+    The Lord of Love; the God Who wars on Sin,
+    And ceases not to war.' 'Ay, militant,'
+    Heida rejoined, with eyes that shone like stars:
+    'The Persian knew Him. Ormuzd was His name:
+    Unpitying Light against the darkness warred;
+    Against the Light the Darkness. Could the Light
+    Remit, one moment's length, to pierce that gloom,
+    Himself in gloom were swallowed.'
+                                     Yet again
+    In silence Heida sat; then cried aloud,
+    'Odin, and all his radiant Æsir Gods
+    Forth thronging daily from the golden gates
+    Of Asgard City, their supernal house,
+    War on that giant brood of Jotünheim,
+    Lodged 'mid their mountains of eternal ice
+    Which circles still that sea surrounding earth,
+    Man's narrow home. I know that mystery now!
+    That warfare means the war of Good on Ill:
+    We shared that warfare once! This day, depraved,
+    Warring, we war alone for rage and hate;
+    Men fight as fight the lion and the pard:
+    For them the sanctity of war is lost,
+    Lost like the kindred sanctity of Love,
+    Our household boast of old. The Father-God
+    Vowed us to battle but as Virtue's proof,
+    High test of softness scorned. His warrior knew
+    'Twas Odin o'er the battle field who sent
+    Pure-handed maiden Goddesses, the Norns,
+    Not vulture-like, but dove-like, mild as dawn,
+    To seal the foreheads of his sons elect,
+    Seal them to death, the bravest with a kiss:
+    His warrior, arming, cried aloud, "This day
+    I speed five Heroes to Valhalla's Hall:
+    To-morrow night in love I share their Feast!"
+    He honoured whom he slew.'
+                                To her the King:
+    'That Stranger with severer speech than thine,
+    Sharp flail and stigma, charged the world with sin,
+    The vast, wide world, and not one race alone:
+    Each nation, he proclaimed, from Man's great stem
+    Issuing, had with it borne one Word divine
+    Rapt from God's starry volume in the skies,
+    Each word a separate Truth, that, angel-like,
+    Before them winging, on their faces flung
+    Splendour of destined morn, and led man's race
+    Triumphant long on virtue's road. Themselves
+    Had changed that True to False. The Judge had come;
+    That Power Who both beginning is and end
+    Had stooped to earth to judge the earth with fire;
+    A fire of Love, He came to cleanse the just;
+    A fire of Vengeance, to consume the impure:
+    His fan is in His hand: the chaff shall burn;
+    The grain be garnered. "Fall, high palace roofs,"
+    He cried, "for ye have sheltered dens of sin:
+    Fall, he that, impious, scorned the First and Last;
+    Fall, he that bowed not to the hoary head;
+    Fall, he that loosed by fraud the maiden zone;
+    Fall, he that lusted for the poor man's field;
+    Fall, rebel Peoples; fall, disloyal Kings;
+    And fall"--dread Mother, is the word offence?--
+    "False Gods, long served; for God Himself is nigh."'
+
+    The monarch ceased: on Heida's face that hour
+    He feared to look; but when she spake, her voice
+    Betrayed no passion of a soul perturbed:
+    Austere it was; not wrathful; these her words:
+    'Son, as I hearkened to thy tale this day,
+    Memory returned to me of visions three
+    That lighted three great junctures of my life:
+    And thrice thy words were echoes strange of words
+    That shook my tender childhood, slumbering half,
+    Half-waked by matin beams--"The Gods must die."
+    Three times that awful sound was in mine ear:
+    Later I learned that voice was nothing new.
+    My Son, the earliest record of our Faith,
+    So sacred that on Runic stave or stone
+    None dared to grave it, lore from age to age
+    Transmitted by white lips of trembling seers,
+    Spared not to wing, like arrow sped from God,
+    That word to man, "Valhalla's Gods must die!"
+    The Gods and Giant Race that strove so long,
+    Met in their last and mightiest battle field,
+    Must die, and die one death. That prophet-voice
+    The Gods have heard. Therefore they daily swell
+    Valhalla's Hall with heroes rapt from earth
+    To aid them in that fight.'
+                                  On Heida's face
+    At last the King, his head uplifting, gazed:--
+    There where the inviolate calm had dwelt alone
+    A million thoughts, each following each, on swept,
+    That calm beneath them still, as when some grove,
+    O'er-run by sudden gust of summer storm,
+    With inly-working panic thrills at first,
+    Then springs to meet the gale, while o'er it rush
+    Shadows with splendours mixed. Upon her breast
+    Came down the fire divine. With lifted hands
+    She stood: she sang a death-song centuries old,
+    The dirge prophetic both of Gods and men:
+
+      'The iron age shall make an iron end:
+    The men who lived in hate, or impious love,
+    Shall meet in one red battle field. That day
+    The forests of the earth, blackening, shall die;
+    The stars down-fall; the Wingèd Hound of Heaven,
+    That chased the Sun from age to age, shall close
+    O'er it at last; the Ash Tree, Ygdrasil,
+    Whose boughs o'er-roof the skies, whose roots descend
+    To Hell, whose leaves are lives of men, whose boughs
+    The destined empires that o'er-awe the world,
+    Shall drop its fruit unripe. The Midgard Snake,
+    Circling that sea which girds the orb of earth,
+    Shall wake, and turn, and ocean in one wave
+    O'er-sweep all lands. Thereon shall Naglfar ride,
+    The skeleton ship all ribbed with bones of men,
+    Whose sails are woven of night, and by whose helm
+    Stand the Three Fates. When heaves that ship in sight,
+    Then know the end draws nigh.'
+                                  She ceased; then spake:
+    'If any doubt, the Voluspà tells all,
+    The song the mystic maiden, Vola, sang;
+    Our first of prophets she, as I the last:
+    She sang that song no Prophet dared to write.'
+      But Sigebert made answer where he knelt,
+    Old Faith back rushing blindly on his heart:
+    'Though man's last nation lay a wreath of dust,
+    Though earth were sea, not less in heaven the Gods
+    Would hold their revels still; Valhalla's Halls
+    Resound the heroes' triumph!'
+                                    Once again
+    Heida arose: once more her pallid face
+    Shone lightning-like, wan cheeks and flashing eyes;
+    Once more she sang: 'The Warder of the Gods,
+    Soundeth the Gjallar Trumpet, never heard
+    Before by Gods or mortals: from their feast
+    The everlasting synod of the Gods
+    Rush forth, gold-armed, with chariot and with horse:
+    First rides the Father of the flock divine,
+    Odin, our King, and, at his right hand, Thor
+    Whose thunder hammer splits the mountain crags
+    And level lays the summits of the world;
+    Heimdall and Bragi, Uller, Njord, and Tyr,
+    Behind them throng; with these the concourse huge
+    Of lesser Gods, and Heroes snatched from earth,
+    Since man's first battle, part to bear with Gods
+    In this their greatest. From their halls of ice
+    To meet them stride the mighty Giant-Brood,
+    The moving mountains of old Jötunheim,
+    Strong with all strengths of Nature, flood or fire,
+    Glacier, or stream volcanic from red hills
+    Cutting through grass-green billows;--on they throng
+    Topping the clouds, and, leagues before them, flinging
+    Huge shade, like shade of mountains cast o'er wastes
+    When sets the sun.' A little time she ceased;
+    Then fiercelier sang: 'Flanking that Giant-Brood
+    I see two Portents, terrible as Sin:--
+    The Midgard Snake primeval at the right,
+    With demon-crest as haughtily upheaved
+    As though all ocean curled into one wave:--
+    A million rainbows braid that glooming arch;
+    And Death therein is mirrored. At the left,
+    On moves that brother Terror, wolf in shape,
+    Which, bound till now by craft of prescient Gods,
+    Weltered in Hell's abyss. Till came the hour
+    A single hair inwoven by heavenly hand
+    Sufficed to chain that monster to his rock;--
+    His fast is over now; his dusky jaws
+    At last the Eternal Hunger lifts distent
+    As far as heaven from earth.'
+                                The Prophetess
+    One moment pressed her palms upon her eyes,
+    Then flung them wide. 'The Father of the Gods,
+    Our Odin, at that Portent hurls his lance;
+    And Thor, though bleeding fast, with hammer raised
+    Deals with that Serpent's scales.'
+                                        'The Gods shall win,'
+    Shouted the King, forgetting at that hour
+    All save the strife, while on his brow there burned
+    Hue of the battle at the battle's height
+    When no man staunches wound. With voice serene
+    (The storm had left her) Heida made reply:
+    'If any doubt, the Voluspà tells all.
+    Ere yet Valhalla's lower heaven was shaped
+    Muspell, the great Third Heaven immeasurable,
+    Above it towered, throne of that God Supreme,
+    Who knew beginning none, and knows no end:
+    High on its southern cliff that dread One sits,
+    Nor ever from the South withdraws His gaze,
+    Nor ever drops that bright, sky-pointing Sword
+    Whose splendour dims the noontide sun. That God--
+    He, and the Spirit-Host that wing His light,
+    When shines the Judgment Sign, shall stand on earth,
+    And judge the earth with fire. Nor men nor Gods
+    Shall face that fire and live.'
+                                    As Heida spake
+    The broad full moon above the forest soared,
+    And changed her form to light. With hands out-stretched
+    She sang her last of songs: 'The Hour is come:
+    Bifrost, the rainbow-bridge 'twixt heaven and earth
+    Shatters; the crystal walls of heaven roll in:
+    Above the ruins ride the Sons of Light.
+    That dread One first--
+    Forth from His helm the intolerable beam
+    Strikes to the battle-field; the Giant-Brood
+    Die in that flame; and Odin, and his Gods:
+    Valhalla falls, and with it Jötunheim,
+    Its ice-piled mountains melting into waves:
+    In fire are all things lost!'
+                                  Then wept the King:
+    'Alas for Odin and his brethren Gods
+    That in their great hands stayed the northern land!
+    Alas for man!' But Heida, with fixed face
+    Whereon there sat its ancient calm, replied:
+    'Nothing that lived but shall again have life,
+    Such life as virtue claims. Ill-working men
+    With Loki and with Hela, evil Gods,
+    Shall dwell far down in Náströnd's death-black pile
+    Compact of serpent scales, whose thousand gates
+    Face to the North, blinded by endless storm:
+    But from the sea shall rise a happier earth,
+    Holier and happier. There the good and true
+    Secure shall gladden, and the fiery flame
+    Harm them no more. Another Asgard there
+    Where stood that earlier, ere our fathers left
+    Their native East, shall lift sublimer towers
+    Dawn-lighted by a loftier Ararat:
+    Just men and pure shall pace its palmy steeps
+    With him of race divine yet human heart,
+    Baldur, upon whose beaming front the Gods
+    Gazing, exulted; from whose lips mankind
+    Shall gather counsel. Hand in hand with him
+    Shall stand the blind God, Hödur, now not blind,
+    That, witless, slew him with the mistletoe,
+    Yet loved him well. Others, both men and Gods,
+    That dread Third Heaven attained, shall make abode
+    With Him Who ever is, and ever was,
+    Enthroned like Him upon its southern cliff,
+    Drinking the light immortal. From beneath,
+    Like winds from flowery wildernesses borne,
+    The breath of all good deeds and virtuous thoughts,
+    Their own, or others', since the worlds were made,
+    All generous sufferings, o'er their hearts shall hang,
+    Fragrance perpetual; and, where'er they gaze,
+    The Vision of their God shall on them shine.'
+
+        Thus Heida spake, and ceased; then added, 'Son,
+    Our Faith shall never suffer wreck: fear nought!
+    Fulfilment, not Destruction, is its end.
+    But thou return, and bid thy herald guest
+    Who sought thee, wandering from his westward Isle,
+    Approach my gates at dawn, and in mine ear
+    Divulge his message to this land. Farewell!'
+
+        Then from his knees the monarch rose, and took
+    Through the huge moonlit woods his homeward way.
+
+
+
+
+_KING SIGEBERT OF ESSEX, OR A FRIEND AT NEED._
+
+     Sigebert, King of Essex, labours with Cedd the Bishop for the
+     conversion of his people; but he feasts with a certain impious
+     kinsman; and it is foretold to him that for that sin, though
+     pardoned, he shall die by that kinsman's hand. This prophecy having
+     been accomplished, Cedd betakes himself to Lastingham, there to
+     pray with his three brothers for the king's soul. His prayer is
+     heard, and in a few days he dies. Thirty of Cedd's monks, issuing
+     from Essex to pray at his grave, die also, and are buried in a
+     circle round it.
+
+
+    'At last resolve, my brother, and my friend!
+    Fling from you, as I fling this cloak, your Gods,
+    And cleave to Him, the Eternal, One and Sole,
+    The All-Wise, All-Righteous and Illimitable,
+    Who made us, and will judge.' Thus Oswy spake
+    To Sigebert, his friend, of Essex King,
+    Essex once Christian. Royal Sebert dead,
+    The Church of God had sorrow by the Thames:
+    Three Pagan brothers in his place held sway:
+    They warred upon God's people; for which cause
+    God warred on them, and by the Wessex sword
+    In one day hewed them down. King Sigebert,
+    Throned in their place, to Oswy thus replied:
+    'O friend, I saw the Truth, yet saw it not!
+    'Twas like the light forth flashed from distant oar,
+    Now vivid, vanished now. Not less, methinks,
+    Thy Christ ere now had won me save for this;
+    I feared that in my bosom love for thee,
+    Not Truth alone, prevailed. I left thy court;
+    I counselled with my wisest; by degrees,
+    Though grieving thus to outrage loyal hearts,
+    Reached my resolve: henceforth I serve thy God:
+    My kingdom may renounce me if it will.'
+    Then came the Bishop old, and nigh that Wall
+    Which spans the northern land from sea to sea
+    Baptized him to the God Triune. At night
+    The King addressed him thus: 'My task is hard;
+    Yield me four priests of thine from Holy Isle
+    To shape my courses.' Finan gazed around
+    And made election--Cedd and others three;
+    He consecrated Cedd with staff and ring;
+    And by the morning's sunrise Sigebert
+    Rode with them, face to south.
+                                  The Spring, long checked,
+    Fell, like God's Grace, or fire, or flood, at once
+    O'er all the land: it swathed the hills in green;
+    It fringed with violets cleft and rock; illumed
+    The stream with primrose tufts: but mightier far
+    That Spring which triumphed in the monarch's breast,
+    All doubt dispelled. That smile which knew not cause
+    Looked like his angel's mirrored on his face:
+    At times he seemed with utter gladness dazed;
+    At times he laughed aloud. 'Father,' he cried,
+    'That darkness from my spirit is raised at last:
+    Ah fool! ah fool! to wait for proof so long!
+    Unseal thine eyes, and all things speak of God:
+    The snows on yonder thorn His pureness show;
+    Yon golden iris bank His love. But now
+    I marked a child that by its father ran:
+    Some mystery they seemed of love in heaven
+    Imaged in earthly love. 'With sad, sweet smile
+    The old man answered: 'Pain there is on earth--
+    Bereavement, sickness, death.' The King replied:
+    'It was by suffering, not by deed, or word,
+    God's Son redeemed mankind.' Then answered Cedd:
+    'God hath thee in His net; and well art thou!
+    That Truth thou seest this day, and feelest, live!
+    So shall it live within thee. If, more late,
+    Rebuke should come, or age, remember then
+    This day-spring of thy strength, and answer thus,
+    "With me God feasted in my day of youth:
+    So feast He now with others!"'
+                                  Years went by,
+    And Cedd in work and word was mighty still,
+    And throve with God. The strong East Saxon race
+    Grew gentle in his presence: they were brave,
+    And faith is courage in the things divine,
+    Courage with meekness blent. The heroic heart
+    Beats to the spiritual cognate, paltering not
+    Fraudulent with truth once known. Like winds from God
+    God's message on them fell. Old bonds of sin,
+    Snapt by the vastness of the growing soul,
+    Burst of themselves; and in the heart late bound
+    Virtue had room to breathe. As when that Voice
+    Primeval o'er the formless chaos rolled,
+    And, straight, confusions ceased, the greater orb
+    Ruling the day, the lesser, night; even so,
+    Born of that Bethlehem Mystery, order lived:
+    Divine commandments fixed a firmament
+    Betwixt man's lower instincts and his mind:
+    From unsuspected summits of his spirit
+    The morning shone. The nation with the man
+    Partook the joy: from duty freedom flowed;
+    And there where tribes had roved a people lived.
+    A pathos of strange beauty hung thenceforth
+    O'er humblest hamlet: he who passed it prayed
+    'May never sword come here!' Bishop and King
+    Together laboured: well that Bishop's love
+    Repaid that royal zeal. If random speech
+    Censured the King, though justly, sudden red
+    Circling the old man's silver-tressèd brow
+    Showed, though he spake not, that in saintly breast
+    The human heart lived on.
+                              In Ithancester
+    He dwelt, and toiled: not less to Lindisfarne,
+    His ancient home, in spirit oft he yearned,
+    Longing for converse with his God alone;
+    And made retreat there often, not to shun
+    Labour allotted, but to draw from heaven
+    Strength for his task. One year, returning thence,
+    Dëira's King addressed him as they rode:
+    'My father, choose the richest of my lands
+    And build thereon a holy monastery;
+    So shall my realm be blessed, and I, and mine.'
+    He answered: 'Son, no wealthy lands for us!
+    Spake not the prophet: "There where dragons roamed,
+    In later days the grass shall grow--the reed"?
+    I choose those rocky hills that, on our left,
+    Drag down the skiey waters to the woods:
+    Such loved I from my youth: to me they said,
+    "Bandits this hour usurp our heights, and beasts
+    Cumber our caves: expel the seed accurst,
+    And yield us back to God!"'
+                                The King gave ear;
+    And Cedd within those mountains passed his Lent,
+    Driving with prayer and fast the spirits accurst
+    With ignominy forth. Foundations next
+    He laid with sacred pomp. Fair rose the walls:
+    All day the March sea blew its thunder blasts
+    Through wide-mouthed trumpets of ravine or rift
+    On winding far to where in wooden cell
+    The old man prayed, while o'er him rushed the cloud
+    Storm-borne from crag to crag. Serener breeze,
+    With alternation soft in Nature's course,
+    Following ere long, great Easter's harbinger,
+    Thus spake he: 'I must keep the Feast at home;
+    My children there expect me.' Parting thence,
+    He left his brothers three to consummate
+    His work begun, Celin, and Cynabil,
+    And Chad, at Lichfield Bishop ere he died.
+    Thus Lastingham had birth.
+                                Beside the Thames
+    Meantime dark deeds were done. There dwelt two thanes,
+    The kinsmen of the King, his friends in youth,
+    Of meanest friend unworthy. Far and wide
+    They ravined, and the laws of God and man
+    Despised alike. Three times, in days gone by,
+    A warning hand their Bishop o'er them raised;
+    The fourth like bolt from heaven on them it fell,
+    And clave them from God's Church. They heeded not;
+    And now the elder kept his birthday feast,
+    Summoning his friends around him, first the King.
+    Doubtful and sad, the o'er-gentle monarch mused:
+    'To feast with sinners is to sanction sin,
+    A deed abhorred; the alternative is hard:
+    Must then their sovereign shame with open scorn
+    Kinsman and friend? I think they mourn the past,
+    And, were our Bishop here, would pardon sue.'
+    Boding, yet self-deceived, he joined that feast:
+    Thereat he saw scant sign of penitence:
+    Ere long he bade farewell.
+                              That self-same hour
+    Cedd from his northern pilgrimage returned;
+    The monarch met him at the offenders' gate,
+    And, instant when he saw that reverend face,
+    His sin before him stood. Down from his horse
+    Leaping, he told him all, and penance prayed.
+    Long time the old man on that royal front
+    Fixed a sad eye. 'Thy sin was great, my son,
+    Shaming thy God to spare a sinner's shame:
+    That sin thy God forgives, and I remit:
+    But those whom God forgives He chastens oft:
+    My son, I see a sign upon thy brow!
+    Ere yonder lessening moon completes her wane
+    Behold, the blood-stained hand late clasped in thine
+    Shall drag thee to thy death.' The King replied:
+    'A Sigebert there lived, East Anglia's King,
+    Whose death was glorious to his realm. May mine,
+    Dark and inglorious, strengthen hearts infirm,
+    And profit thus my land.'
+                              A time it was
+    When Christian mercy, judged by Pagan hearts,
+    Not virtue seemed but sin. That sin's reproach
+    The King had long sustained. Ere long it chanced
+    That, near the stronghold of that impious feast,
+    A vanquished rebel, long in forests hid,
+    Drew near, and knelt to Sigebert for grace,
+    And won his suit. The monarch's kinsmen twain,
+    Those men of blood, forth-gazing from a tower,
+    Saw all; heard all. Upon them fury fell,
+    As when through cloudless skies there comes a blast
+    From site unknown, that, instant, finds its prey,
+    Circling some white-sailed bark, or towering tree,
+    And, with a touch, down-wrenching; all things else
+    Unharmed, though near. They snatched their daggers up,
+    And rushed upon their prey, and, shouting thus,
+    'White-livered slave, that mak'st thy throne a jest,
+    And mock'st great Odin's self, and us, thy kin,
+    To please thy shaveling,' struck him through the heart;
+    Then, spurring through the woodlands to the sea,
+    Were never heard of more.
+                            Throughout the land
+    Lament was made; lament in every house,
+    As though in each its eldest-born lay dead;
+    Lament far off and near. The others wept:
+    Cedd, in long vigils of the lonely night,
+    Not wept alone, but lifted strength of prayer
+    And, morn by morn, that Sacrifice Eterne,
+    Mightier tenfold in impetrative power
+    Than prayers of all man's race, from Adam's first
+    To his who latest on the Judgment Day
+    Shall raise his hands to God. Four years went by:
+    That mourner's wound they staunched not. Oft in sleep
+    He murmured low, 'Would I had died for thee!'
+    And once, half-waked by rush of morning rains,
+    'Why saw I on his brow that fatal sign?--
+    He might have lived till now!' Within his heart
+    At last there rose a cry, 'To Lastingham!
+    Pray with thy brothers three, for saints are they:
+    So shall thy friend, who resteth in the Lord
+    With perfect will submiss, the waiting passed,
+    Gaze on God's Vision with an eye unscaled,
+    In glory everlasting.' At that thought
+    Peace on the old man settled. Staff in hand
+    Forth on his way he fared. Nor horse he rode
+    Nor sandals wore. He walked with feet that bled,
+    Paying, well pleased, that penance for his King;
+    And murmured ofttimes, 'Not my blood alone!--
+    Nay, but my life, my life!'
+                                  Yet penance pain,
+    Like pain of suffering Souls at peace with God,
+    Quelled not that gladness which, from secret source
+    Rising, o'erflowed his heart. Old times returned:
+    Once more beside him rode his King in youth
+    Southward to where his realm--his duty--lay,
+    Exulting captive of the Saviour Lord,
+    With face love-lit. As then, the vernal prime
+    Hourly with ampler respiration drew
+    Delight of purer green from balmier airs:
+    As then the sunshine glittered. By their path
+    Now hung the woodbine; now the hare-bell waved;
+    Rivulets new-swoll'n by melted snows, and birds
+    'Mid echoing boughs with rival rapture sang:
+    At times the monks forgat their Christian hymns,
+    By humbler anthems charmed. They gladdened more
+    Beholding oft in cottage doors cross-crowned
+    Angelic faces, or in lonely ways;
+    Once as they passed there stood a little maid,
+    Some ten years old, alone 'mid lonely pines,
+    With violets crowned and primrose. Who were those,
+    The forest's white-robed guests, she nothing knew;
+    Not less she knelt. With hand uplifted Cedd
+    Signed her his blessing. Hand she kissed in turn;
+    Then waved, yet ceased not from her song, 'Alone
+    'Two lovers sat at sunset.'
+                                Every eve
+    Some village gave the wanderers food and rest,
+    Or half-built convent with its church thick-walled
+    And polished shafts, great names in after times,
+    Ely, and Croyland, Southwell, Medeshamstede,
+    Adding to sylvan sweetness holier grace,
+    Or rising lonely o'er morass and mere
+    With bowery thickets isled, where dogwood brake
+    Retained, though late, its red. To Boston near,
+    Where Ouse, and Aire, and Derwent join with Trent,
+    And salt sea waters mingle with the fresh,
+    They met a band of youths that o'er the sands
+    Advanced with psalm, cross-led. The monks rejoiced,
+    Save one from Ireland--Dicul. He, quick-eared,
+    Had caught that morn a war-cry on the wind,
+    And, sideway glancing from his Office-book,
+    Descried the cause. From Mercia's realm a host
+    Had crossed Northumbria's bound. His thin, worn face
+    O'er-flamed with sudden anger, thus he cried:
+    'In this, your land, men say, "Who worketh prays;"
+    In mine we say, "Well prays who fighteth well:"
+    A Pagan race treads down your homesteads! Slaves,
+    That close not with their throats!'
+                                      Advancing thus,
+    On the tenth eve they came to Lastingham:
+    Forth rushed the brethren, watching long far off,
+    To meet them, first the brothers three of Cedd,
+    Who kissed him, cheek and mouth. Gladly that night
+    Those foot-worn travellers laid them down, and slept,
+    Save one alone. Old Cedd his vigil made,
+    And, kneeling by the tabernacle's lamp,
+    Prayed for the man he mourned for, ending thus:
+    'Thou Lord of Souls, to Thee the Souls are dear!
+    Thou yearn'st toward them as they yearn to Thee;
+    Behold, not prayer alone for him I raise:
+    I offer Thee my life.' When morning's light
+    In that great church commingled with its gloom,
+    The monks, slow-pacing, by that kneeler knelt,
+    And prayed for Sigebert, beloved of God;
+    And lastly offered Mass: and it befell
+    That when, the Offering offered, and the Dead
+    Rightly remembered, he who sang that Mass
+    Had reached the 'Nobis quoque famulis,'
+    There came to Cedd an answer from the Lord
+    Heard in his heart; and he beheld his King
+    Throned 'mid the Saints Elect of God who keep
+    Perpetual triumph, and behold that Face
+    Which to its likeness hourly more compels
+    Those faces t'ward It turned. That function o'er,
+    Thus spake the Bishop: 'Brethren, sing "Te Deum;"'
+    They sang it; while within him he replied,
+    'Lord, let Thy servant now depart in peace.'
+
+    A week went by with gladness winged and prayer.
+    In wonder Cedd beheld those structures new
+    From small beginnings reared, though many a gift,
+    Sent for that work's behoof, had fed the poor
+    In famine time laid low. Moorlands he saw
+    By cornfields vanquished; marked the all-beauteous siege
+    Of pasture yearly threatening loftier crags
+    Loud with the bleat of lambs. Their shepherd once
+    Had roved a bandit; next had toiled a slave;
+    Now with both hands he poured his weekly wage
+    Down on his young wife's lap, his pretty babes
+    Gambolling around for joy. A hospital
+    Stood by the convent's gate. With moistened eye,
+    Musing on Him Who suffers in His sick,
+    The Bishop paced it. There he found his death:
+    That year a plague had wasted all the land:
+    It reached him. Late that night he said, ''Tis well!'
+    In three days more he lay with hands death cold
+    Crossed on a peaceful breast.
+                                    Like winter cloud
+    Borne through dark air, that portent feared of man,
+    Ill tidings, making way with mystic speed,
+    Shadowed ere long the troubled bank of Thames,
+    And spread a wailing round its Minsters twain,
+    Saint Peter's and Saint Paul's. Saint Alban's caught
+    That cry, and northward echoed. Southward soon
+    Forlorn it rang 'mid towers of Rochester;
+    Then seaward died. But in that convent pile,
+    Wherein so long the Saint had made abode,
+    A different grief there lived, a deeper grief,
+    That grief which part hath none in sobs or tears--
+    Which needs must act. There thirty monks arose,
+    And, taking each his staff, made vow thenceforth
+    To serve God's altar where their father died,
+    Or share his grave. Through Ithancestor's gate
+    As forth they paced between two kneeling crowds,
+    A little homeless boy, who heard their dirge
+    (Late orphaned, at its grief he marvelled not),
+    So loved them that he followed, shorter steps
+    Doubling 'gainst theirs. At first the orphan went
+    That mood relaxed: before them now he ran
+    To pluck a flower; as oft he lagged behind,
+    The wild bird's song so aptly imitating
+    That, by his music drawn, or by his looks,
+    That bird at times forgat her fears, and perched
+    Pleased on his arm. As flower and bird to him
+    Such to those monks the child. Better each day
+    He loved them; yet, revering, still he mocked,
+    And though he mocked, he kissed. The westering sun
+    On the eighth eve from towers of Lastingham
+    Welcomed those strangers. In another hour,
+    Well-nigh arrived, they saw that grave they sought
+    Sole on the church's northern slope. As when,
+    Some father, absent long, returns at last,
+    His children rush loud-voiced from field to house,
+    And cling about his knees; and they that mark--
+    Old reaper, bent no more, with hook in hand,
+    Or ploughman, leaning 'gainst the old blind horse--
+    Beholding wonder not; so to that grave
+    Rushed they; so clung. Around that grave ere long
+    Their own were ranged. That plague which smote the sire
+    Spared not his sons. With ministering hand
+    From pallet still to pallet passed the boy,
+    Now from the dark spring wafting colder draught,
+    Now moistening fevered lips, or on the brow
+    Spreading the new-bathed cincture. Him alone
+    The infection reached not. When the last was gone
+    He felt as though the earth, man's race--yea, God
+    Himself--were dead. Around he gazed, and spake,
+    'Why then do I remain?'
+                                From hill to hill
+    (The monks on reverend offices intent)
+    All solitary oft that boy repaired,
+    From each in turn forth gazing, fain to learn
+    If friend were t'wards him nighing. Many a hearth
+    More late, bereavement's earlier anguish healed,
+    Welcomed the creature: many a mother held
+    The milk-bowl to his mouth, in both hands stayed,
+    With smile the deeper for the draught prolonged,
+    And lodged, as he departed, in his hand
+    Her latest crust. With children of his age
+    Seldom he played. That convent gave him rest;
+    Nor lost he aught, surviving thus his friends,
+    Since childhood's sacred innocence he kept,
+    While life remained, unspotted. When mature
+    Five years he lived there monk, and reverence drew
+    To that high convent through his saintly ways;
+    Then died. Within that cirque of thirty graves
+    They laid him, close to Cedd. In later years,
+    Because they ne'er could learn his name or race,
+    Nor yet forget his gentle looks, the name
+    Of Deodatus graved they on his tomb.
+
+
+
+
+_KING OSWALD OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE BRITON'S REVENGE._
+
+     Northumbria having been subdued by Pagan Mercia, Oswald raises
+     there again the Christian standard. Penda wages war against him, in
+     alliance with Cadwallon, a Cambrian prince who hates the Saxon
+     conquerors the more bitterly when become Christians. Encouraged by
+     St. Columba in a vision, Oswald with a small force vanquishes the
+     hosts of Cadwallon, who is slain. He sends to Iona for monks of St.
+     Columba's order, converts his country to the Faith, and dies for
+     her. The earlier British race expiates its evil revenge.
+
+
+    The agony was over which but late
+    Had shook to death Northumbrian realm new-raised
+    By Edwin, dear to God. The agony
+    At last was over; but the tear flowed on:
+    The Faith of Christ had fallen once more to dust,
+    That Faith which spoused with golden marriage ring
+    The land to God, when Coiffi, horsed and mailed,
+    Chief Priest himself, hurled at the Temple's wall
+    His lance, and quivering left it lodged therein.
+    The agony had ceased; yet Rachael's cry
+    Still pierced the childless region. Penda's sword
+    Had swept it, Mercia's Christian-hating King;
+    Fiercelier Cadwallon's, Cambria's Christian Prince,
+    Christian in vain. The British wrong like fire
+    Burned in his heart. Well-nigh two hundred years
+    That British race, they only of the tribes
+    By Rome subdued, sustained unceasing war
+    'Gainst those barbaric hordes that, nursed long since
+    'Mid Teuton woods, when Rome her death-wound felt,
+    And '_Habet_' shrilled from every trampled realm,
+    Rushed forth in ruin o'er her old domain:--
+    That race against the Saxon still made head;
+    Large remnant yet survived. The Western coast
+    Was theirs; old sea-beat Cornwall's granite cliffs,
+    And purple hills of Cambria; northward thence
+    Strathclyde, from towered Carnegia's winding Dee
+    To Morecombe's shining sands, and those fair vales,
+    Since loved by every muse, where silver meres
+    Slept in the embrace of yew-clad mountain walls;
+    With tracts of midland Britain and the East.
+    Remained the memory of the greatness lost;
+    The Druid circles of the olden age;
+    The ash-strewn cities radiant late with arts
+    Extinct this day; bath, circus, theatre
+    Mosaic-paved; the Roman halls defaced;
+    The Christian altars crushed. That last of wrongs
+    The vanquished punished with malign revenge:
+    Never had British priest to Saxon preached;
+    And when that cry was heard, 'The Saxon King
+    Edwin hath bowed to Christ,' on Cambrian hills
+    Nor man nor woman smiled.
+                                They had not lacked
+    The timely warning. From his Kentish shores
+    Augustine stretched to them paternal hands:
+    Later, he sought them out in synod met,
+    Their custom, under open roof of heaven.
+    'The Mother of the Churches,' thus he spake,
+    'Commands--implores you! Seek from her, and win
+    The Sacrament of Unity Divine!
+    Thus strengthened, be her strength! With her conjoined,
+    Subdue your foe to Christ!' He sued in vain.
+    The British bishops hurled defiance stern
+    Against his head, while Cambrian peaks far off
+    Darkened, and thunder muttered. From his seat,
+    Slowly and sadly as the sun declined
+    At last, though late, that Roman rose and stretched
+    A lean hand t'ward that circle, speaking thus:
+    'Hear then the sentence of your God on sin!
+    Because ye willed not peace, behold the sword!
+    Because ye grudged your foe the Faith of Christ,
+    Nor holp to lead him on the ways of life,
+    For that cause from you by the Saxon hand
+    Your country shall be taken!'
+                                  Edwin slain,
+    Far off in exile dwelt his nephews long,
+    Oswald and Oswy. Alba gave them rest,
+    Alba, not yet called Scotland. Ireland's sons,
+    Then Scoti named, had warred on Alba's Picts:
+    Columba's Gospel vanquished either race;
+    Won both to God. It won not less those youths,
+    In boyhood Oswald, Oswy still a child.
+    That child was wild and hot, and had his moods,
+    Despotic now, now mirthful. Mild as Spring
+    Was Oswald's soul, majestic and benign;
+    Thoughtful his azure eyes, serene his front;
+    He of his ravished sceptre little recked;
+    The shepherds were his friends; the mountain deer
+    Would pluck the ivy fearless from his hand:
+    In gladness walked he till Northumbria's cry
+    Smote on his heart. 'Why rest I here in peace,'
+    Thus mused he, 'while my brethren groan afar?'
+    By night he fled with twelve companion youths,
+    Christians like him, and reached his native land.
+    Too fallen it seemed to aid him. On he passed;
+    The ways were desolate, yet evermore
+    A slender band around his footsteps drew,
+    Less seeking victory than an honest death.
+    Oft gazed their King upon them; murmured oft,
+    'Few hands--true hearts!' Sudden aloud he cried,
+    'Plant here the royal Standard, friends, and hence
+    Let sound the royal trumpet.'
+                                Stern response
+    Reached him ere long: not Mercia's realm alone;
+    Cambria that heard the challenge joined the war:
+    Cambria, upon whose heart the ancestral woe,
+    For ever with the years, like letters graved
+    On growing pines, grew larger and more large;--
+    To Penda forth she stretched a hand blood-red;
+    Christian with Pagan joined, an unblest bond,
+    A league accursed. The indomitable hate
+    Compelled that league. Still from his cave the Seer
+    Admonished, 'Set the foe against the foe;
+    Slay last the conqueror!' and from rock and hill
+    The Bard cried, 'Vengeance!' In the bardic clan
+    That hatred of their country's ancient bane
+    Lived like a faith. One night it chanced a tarn,
+    Secreted high 'mid cold and moonless hills,
+    Bursting its bank down burst. That valley's Bard
+    Clomb to the church-roof from his buried house:
+    Thence rang his song,--'twas 'Vengeance!--Vengeance' still!
+    That torrent reached the roof: he clomb the tower:
+    The torrent mounted: on the bleak hill-side
+    All night the dalesmen, wailing o'er their drowned,
+    Amid the roar of winds and downward rocks,
+    Still heard that war-song, 'Vengeance! Blood for blood!'
+    At last the tower fell flat, and winter morn
+    Shone on the waters only.
+                                Three short weeks
+    Dinned with alarums passed; in Mercia still
+    Lay Penda, sickness-struck, when, face to face,
+    The Cambrian host and Oswald's little band
+    Exulting met at sunset near a height
+    Then 'Heaven-Field' named, but later 'Oswald's Field,'
+    Backed by that Wall the Roman built of old
+    His fence from sea to sea. There Oswald stood:
+    There raised with hands outstretched a mighty Cross,
+    Strong-based, and deep in earth: his comrades twelve
+    Around it heaped the soil, while priests white-stoled
+    Chanted 'Vexilla Regis.' Work and rite
+    Complete, the King knelt down and made his prayer:
+    'True God Eternal, look upon this Cross,
+    The sole now standing on Northumbria's breast,
+    And help Thine own, though few, who trust in Thee!'
+
+    That night before his tent the wanderer sate
+    Listening the circling sentinel, or bay
+    Of wakeful hound remote, or downward course
+    Of streams from moorland hills. Before his view
+    His whole life rose: his father's angry brow;
+    The eyes all-wondrous, and all-tender hand
+    Of her, his mother, striving evermore
+    To keep betwixt her husband and her sire
+    Unbroken bond: his exiled days returned,
+    The kind that pitied them, the rude that jeered;
+    Lastly, that monk whose boast was evermore
+    Columba of Iona, Columkille;
+    That monk who made him Christian. 'Come what may,'
+    Thus Oswald mused, 'I have not lived in vain:
+    Lose I or win, a kingdom there remains;
+    Though not on earth!' A tear the vision dimmed
+    As thus he closed, 'My mother will be there!'
+    Then sank his lids in slumber.
+                                  On his sleep--
+    Was this indeed but dream?--a glory brake:
+    Columba, dear to Oswald from his youth,
+    Columba, clad in glory as the sun,
+    Beside him stood, and spake: 'Be strong! On earth
+    There lives not who can guess the might of prayer:
+    What then is prayer on high?' The saintly Shape
+    Heavenward his hands upraised, while rose to heaven
+    His stature, towering ever high and higher,
+    Warlike and priestly both. As morning cloud
+    Blown by a mighty wind his robe ran forth,
+    Then stood, a golden wall that severance made
+    'Twixt Oswald's band and that unnumbered host.
+    Again he spake, 'Put on thee heart of man
+    And fight: though few, thy warriors shall not die
+    In darkness of an unbelieving land,
+    But live, and live to God.' The vision passed:
+    By Oswald's seat his warriors stood and cried,
+    'The Bull-horn! Hark!' The monarch told them all:
+    They answered, 'Let thy God sustain thy throne:--
+    Thenceforth our God is He.'
+                                    The sun uprose:
+    Ere long the battle joined. Three dreadful hours
+    Doubtful the issue hung. Fierce Cambria's sons
+    With chief and clan, with harper and with harp,
+    Though terrible yet mirthful in their mood,
+    Rushed to their sport. Who mocked their hope that day?
+    Did Angels help the just? Their falling blood,
+    Say, leaped it up once more, each drop a man
+    Their phalanx to replenish? Backward driven,
+    Again that multitudinous foe returned
+    With clangour dire; futile, again fell back
+    Down dashed, like hailstone showers from palace halls
+    Where princes feast secure. Astonishment
+    Smote them at last. Through all those serried ranks,
+    Compact so late, sudden confusions ran
+    Like lines divergent through a film of ice
+    Stamped on by armèd heel, or rifts on plains
+    Prescient of earthquake underground. Their chiefs
+    Sounded the charge;--in vain: Distrust, Dismay,
+    Ill Gods, the darkness lorded of that hour:
+    Panic to madness turned. Cadwallon sole
+    From squadron on to squadron speeding still
+    As on a wingèd steed--his snow-white hair
+    Behind him blown--a mace in either hand--
+    Stayed while he might the inevitable rout;
+    Then sought his death, and found. Some fated Power
+    Mightier than man's that hour dragged back his hosts
+    Against their will and his; as when the moon,
+    Shrouded herself, drags back the great sea-tides
+    That needs must follow her receding wheels
+    Though wind and wave gainsay them, breakers wan
+    Thundering indignant down nocturnal shores,
+    And city-brimming floods against their will
+    Down drawn to river-mouths.
+                                  In after days
+    Who scaped made oath that in the midmost fight
+    The green earth sickened with a brazen glare
+    While darkness held the skies. They saw besides
+    On Heaven-Field height a Cross, and, at its foot,
+    A sworded warrior vested like a priest,
+    Who still in stature high and higher towered
+    As raged the battle. Higher far that Cross
+    Above him rose, barring with black the stars
+    That bickered through the eclipse's noonday night,
+    And ever from its bleeding arms sent forth
+    Thick-volleyed lightnings, azure fork and flame,
+    Through all that headlong host.
+                                  At eventide,
+    Where thickest fight had mingled, Oswald stood
+    With raiment red as his who treads alone
+    The wine-vat when the grapes are all pressed out,
+    Yet scathless and untouched. His mother's smile
+    Was radiant on his pure and youthful face,
+    Joyous, but not exulting. At his foot
+    Cadwallon lay, with four-score winters white,
+    A threatening corse: not death itself could shake
+    The mace from either rigid hand close-clenched,
+    Or smooth his brow. Above him Oswald bent,
+    Then spake: 'He also loved his native land:
+    Bear him with honour hence to hills of Wales,
+    And lay him with his Fathers.'
+                                    Thus was raised
+    In righteousness King Oswald's throne. But he,
+    Mindful in victory of Columba's word,
+    Thus mused, 'The Master is as he that serves:
+    How shall I serve this people?' O'er the waves
+    Then sent he of his Twelve the eldest three:
+    They to Iona sailed, and standing there
+    In full assembly of Iona's saints
+    Addressed them: 'To Columba Oswald thus:
+    Let him that propped the King on Heaven-Field's height,
+    That held the battle-balance high that day,
+    Unite my realm to Christ!' The monks replied,
+    'Such mission should be Aidan's.' Aidan went.
+    With gladness Oswald met him, and with gifts:
+    But Aidan said, 'Entreat me not to dwell
+    There where Paulinus dwelt, the man of God,
+    In thy chief city, York. Thy race is fierce;
+    And meekness only can subdue the proud:
+    Thy people first I want;--through them the great.
+    Grant me some island 'mid the raging main,
+    Humble and low, not cheered by smiling meads,
+    Where with my brethren I may watch with God,
+    Henceforth my only aid.' Oswald replied,
+    'Let Lindisfarne be thine. That rock-based keep
+    Built by my grandsire Ida o'er it peers:
+    I shall be near thee though I see thee not.'
+
+    Then Aidan on the Isle of Lindisfarne
+    Upreared that monastery which ruled in Christ
+    So long the Northern realm. A plain rock-girt
+    Level it lies and low: nor flower nor fruit
+    Gladdens its margin: thin its sod, and bleak:
+    Twice, day by day, the salt sea hems it round:
+    And twice a day the melancholy sands,
+    O'er-wailed by sea-bird, and with sea-weed strewn,
+    Replace the lonely ocean. Sacred Isles
+    That westward, eastward, guard the imperial realm,
+    Iona! Lindisfarne! With you compared
+    How poor that lilied Delos of old Greece,
+    For all its laurel bowers and nightingales!
+    England's great hands were ye to God forth stretched
+    Through adverse climes, beneath the Boreal star,
+    That took His Stigmata. In sanctity
+    Were her foundations laid. Her later crowns
+    Of Freedom first, of Science, and of Song
+    She owes them all to you!
+                                  In Lindisfarne
+    Aidan, and his, rejoicing dwelt with God:
+    Amid the winter storm their anthems rose;
+    And from their sanctuary lamp the gleam
+    Far shone from wave to wave. On starless nights
+    From Bamborough's turret Oswald watched it long,
+    Before his casement kneeling--first alone,
+    Companioned later. Kineburga there
+    Beside him knelt ere long, his tender bride,
+    Young, beauteous, modest, noble. 'Not for them,'
+    Thus spake the newly wedded, 'not for them,
+    For man's sake severed from the world of men,
+    In ceaseless vigil warring upon sin,
+    Ah, not for them the flower of life, the harp,
+    High feast, or bridal torch!' Purer perchance
+    _Their_ bridal torch burned on because from far
+    That sacred lamp had met its earliest beam!
+
+    There Aidan lived, and wafted, issuing thence,
+    O'er wilds Bernician and fierce battle-fields
+    The strength majestic of his still retreat,
+    The puissance of a soul whose home was God.
+    'What man is this,' the warriors asked, 'that moves
+    Unarmed among us; lifts his crucifix,
+    And says, "Ye swords, lie prone"?' The revelling crew
+    Rose from their cups: 'He preaches abstinence:
+    Behold, the man is mortified himself:
+    The moonlight of his watchings and his fasts
+    He carries on his face.' When Princes forced
+    Largess upon him, he replied, 'I want
+    Not yours but you;' and with their gifts redeemed
+    The orphan slave. The poor were as his children:
+    He to the beggar stinted not his hand
+    Nor, giving, said 'Be brief.' Such seed bare fruit:--
+    God in the dark, primeval woods had reared
+    A race whose fierceness had its touch of ruth;
+    Brave, cordial, chaste, and simple. Reverence
+    That race preserved: Reverence advanced to Love:
+    The ties of life it honoured: lit from heaven
+    They wore a meaning new. The Faith of Christ
+    Banished the bestial from the heart of man;
+    Restored the Hope divine.
+                             In all his toils
+    Oswald with Aidan walked. Impartial law,
+    Not licence, not despotic favour, stands
+    To Truth auxiliar true. Such laws were his:
+    Yet not through such alone he worked for Truth;
+    Function he claimed more high. When Aidan preached;
+    In forest depths when thousands girt him round;
+    When countless eyes, a clinging weight, were bent
+    Upon his lips--all knew they spake from God,--
+    The King, with monks from Ireland knit of old,
+    Beside the Bishop stood; each word he spake
+    Changed to the Saxon tongue.
+                                    Earth were not earth,
+    If reign like Oswald's lasted. Penda lived;
+    Nor e'er from Oswald turned for eight long years
+    An eye like some swart planet feared of man,
+    Omen of wars or plague. Cadwallon's fate,
+    Ally ill-starred, that fought without his aid,
+    O'er-flushed old hatred with a fiery shame:
+    Cadwallon nightly frowned above his dreams.
+    The tyrant watched his time. At Maserfield
+    The armies met. There on Northumbria's day
+    Settled what seemed, yet was not, endless night
+    There Faith and Virtue, deathless, seemed to die:
+    There holy Oswald fell. For God he fought,
+    Fought for his country. Walled with lances round,
+    A sheaf of arrows quivering in his breast,
+    One moment yet he stood. 'Preserve,' he cried,
+    'My country, God!' then added, gazing round,
+    'And these my soldiers: make their spirits thine!'
+      Thus perished good King Oswald, King and Saint;
+    Saint by acclaim of nations canonised
+    Ere yet the Church had spoken. Year by year
+    The Hexham monks to Heaven-Field, where of old
+    Had stood that 'Cross which conquered,' made repair,
+    With chanted psalm; and pilgrims daily prayed
+    Where died the just and true. Not vain their vows:
+    In righteousness foundations had been laid:
+    The earthquake reached them not. The Dane passed by
+    High up the Norman glittered: but beneath,
+    On Faith profounder based, and gentler Law
+    The Saxon realm lived on.
+                                But never more
+    From Heaven-Field's wreck the Briton raised his head
+    Britain thenceforth was England. His the right;
+    The land was his of old; and in God's House
+    His of the island races stood first-born:
+    Not less he sinned through hate, esteeming more
+    Memories of wrong than forward-looking hopes
+    And triumphs of the Truth. For that cause God
+    His face in blessing to the younger turned,
+    More honouring Pagans who in ignorance erred,
+    Than those who, taught of God, concealed their gift,
+    Divorcing Faith from Love. Natheless they clung,
+    That remnant spared, to rocky hills of Wales
+    With eagle clutch, whoe'er in England ruled,
+    From Horsa's day to Edward's. Centuries eight
+    In gorge or vale sea-lulled they held their own,
+    By native monarchs swayed, while native harps
+    Rang out from native cliffs defiant song
+    Wild as their singing pines. Heroic Land!
+    Freedom was thine; the torrent's plunge; the peak;
+    The pale mist past it borne! Heroic Race!
+    Caractacus was thine, and Galgacus,
+    And Boadicea, greater by her wrongs
+    Than by her lineage. Battle-axe of thine
+    Rang loud and long on Roman helms ere yet
+    Hengist had trod the island. Thine that King
+    World-famed, who led to fifty war-fields forth
+    'Gainst Saxon hosts his sinewy, long-haired race
+    Unmailed, yet victory-crowned; that King who left
+    Tintagel, Camelot, and Lyonnesse,
+    Immortal names, though wild as elfin notes
+    From phantom rocks echoed in fairy land--
+    Great Arthur! Year by year his deeds were sung,
+    While he in Glastonbury's cloister slept,
+    First by the race he died for, next by those
+    Their children, exiles in Armoric Gaul,
+    By Europe's minstrels then, from age to age;
+    But ne'er by ampler voice, or richlier toned
+    Than England lists to-day. Race once of Saints!
+    Thine were they, Ninian thine and Kentigern,
+    Iltud and Beino, yea and David's self,
+    Thy crown of Saints, and Winifred, their flower,
+    Who fills her well with healing virtue still.
+    Cadoc was thine, who to his Cambrian throne
+    Preferred that western convent at Lismore,
+    Yet taught the British Princes thus to sing:
+    'None loveth Song that loves not Light and Truth:
+    None loveth Light and Truth that loves not Justice:
+    None loveth Justice if he loves not God:
+    None loveth God that lives not blest and great.'
+
+
+
+
+_CEADMON THE COWHERD, THE FIRST ENGLISH POET._
+
+     Ceadmon, a cowherd, being at a feast, declares when the harp
+     reaches him, that he cannot sing. As he sleeps, a divine Voice
+     commands him to sing. He obeys, and the gift of song is imparted to
+     him. Hilda, Abbess of Whitby, enrolls him among her monks; and in
+     later years he sings the revolt of the Fallen Angels, and many
+     Christian mysteries, thus becoming the first English poet.
+
+
+    Alone upon the pleasant bank of Esk
+    Ceadmon the Cowherd stood. The sinking sun
+    Reddened the bay, and fired the river-bank,
+    And flamed upon the ruddy herds that strayed
+    Along the marge, clear-imaged. None was nigh:
+    For that cause spake the Cowherd, 'Praise to God!
+    He made the worlds; and now, by Hilda's hand
+    Planteth a crown on Whitby's holy crest:
+    Daily her convent towers more high aspire:
+    Daily ascend her Vespers. Hark that strain!
+    He stood and listened. Soon the flame-touched herds
+    Sent forth their lowings, and the cliffs replied,
+    And Ceadmon thus resumed: 'The music note
+    Rings through their lowings dull, though heard by few!
+    Poor kine, ye do your best! Ye know not God,
+    Yet man, his likeness, unto you is God,
+    And him ye worship with obedience sage,
+    A grateful, sober, much-enduring race
+    That o'er the vernal clover sigh for joy,
+    With winter snows contend not. Patient kine,
+    What thought is yours, deep-musing? Haply this,
+    "God's help! how narrow are our thoughts, and few!
+    Not so the thoughts of that slight human child
+    Who daily drives us with her blossomed rod
+    From lowland valleys to the pails long-ranged!"
+    Take comfort, kine! God also made your race!
+    If praise from man surceased, from your broad chests
+    That God would perfect praise, and, when ye died,
+    Resound it from yon rocks that gird the bay:
+    God knoweth all things. Let that thought suffice!'
+
+      Thus spake the ruler of the deep-mouthed kine:
+    They were not his; the man and they alike
+    A neighbour's wealth. He was contented thus:
+    Humble he was in station, meek of soul,
+    Unlettered, yet heart-wise. His face was pale;
+    Stately his frame, though slightly bent by age:
+    Slow were his eyes, and slow his speech, and slow
+    His musing step; and slow his hand to wrath;
+    A massive hand, but soft, that many a time
+    Had succoured man and woman, child and beast,
+    And yet could fiercely grasp the sword. At times
+    As mightily it clutched his ashen goad
+    When like an eagle on him swooped some thought:
+    Then stood he as in dream, his pallid front
+    Brightening like eastern sea-cliffs when a moon
+    Unrisen is near its rising.
+                              Round the bay
+    Meantime, as twilight deepened, many a fire
+    Up-sprang, and horns were heard. Around the steep
+    With bannered pomp and many a tossing plume
+    Advancing slow a cavalcade made way.
+    Oswy, Northumbria's king, the foremost rode,
+    Oswy triumphant o'er the Mercian host,
+    Invoking favour on his sceptre new;
+    With him an Anglian prince, student long time
+    In Bangor of the Irish, and a monk
+    Of Frankish race far wandering from the Marne:
+    They came to look on Hilda, hear her words
+    Of far-famed wisdom on the Interior Life;
+    For Hilda thus discoursed: 'True life of man
+    Is life within: inward immeasurably
+    The being winds of all who walk the earth;
+    But he whom sense hath blinded nothing knows
+    Of that wide greatness: like a boy is he,
+    A boy that clambers round some castle's wall
+    In search of nests, the outward wall of seven,
+    Yet nothing knows of those great courts within,
+    The hall where princes banquet, or the bower
+    Where royal maids discourse with lyre and lute,
+    Much less its central church, and sacred shrine
+    Wherein God dwells alone.' Thus Hilda spake;
+    And they that gazed upon her widening eyes
+    Low whispered, each to each, 'She speaks of things
+    Which she hath seen and known.'
+                                      On Whitby's height
+    The royal feast was holden: far below,
+    A noisier revel dinned the shore; therein
+    The humbler guests made banquet. Many a tent
+    Gleamed on the yellow sands by ripples kissed;
+    And many a savoury dish sent up its steam;
+    The farmer from the field had brought his calf;
+    Fishers that increase scaled which green-gulfed seas
+    From womb crystalline, teeming, yield to man;
+    And Jock, the woodsman, from his oaken glades
+    The tall stag, arrow-pierced. In gay attire
+    Now green, now crimson, matron sat and maid:
+    Each had her due: the elder, reverence most,
+    The lovelier that and love. Beside the board
+    The beggar lacked not place.
+                                    When hunger's rage,
+    Sharpened by fresh sea-air, was quelled, the jest
+    Succeeded, and the tale of foreign lands;
+    Yet, boast who might of distant chief renowned,
+    His battle-axe, or fist that felled an ox,
+    The Anglian's answer was 'our Hilda' still:
+    'Is not her prayer trenchant as sworded hosts?
+    Her insight more than wisdom of the seers?
+    What birth like hers illustrious? Edwin's self,
+    Dëira's exile, next Northumbria's king,
+    Her kinsman was. Together bowed they not
+    When he of holy hand, missioned from Rome,
+    Paulinus, o'er them poured the absolving wave
+    And joined to Christ? Kingliest was she, that maid
+    Who spurned earth-crowns!' More late the miller rose--
+    He ruled the feast, the miller old, yet blithe--
+    And cried, 'A song!' So song succeeded song,
+    For each man knew that time to chant his stave,
+    But no man yet sang nobly. Last the harp
+    Made way to Ceadmon, lowest at the board:
+    He pushed it back, answering, 'I cannot sing:'
+    The rest around him flocked with clamour, 'Sing!'
+    And one among them, voluble and small,
+    Shot out a splenetic speech: 'This lord of kine,
+    Our herdsman, grows to ox! Behold, his eyes
+    Move slow, like eyes of oxen!'
+                                   Slowly rose
+    Ceadmon, and spake: 'I note full oft young men
+    Quick-eyed, but small-eyed, darting glances round
+    Now here, now there, like glance of some poor bird,
+    That light on all things and can rest on none:
+    As ready are they with their tongues as eyes;
+    But all their songs are chirpings backward blown
+    On winds that sing God's song, by them unheard:
+    My oxen wait my service: I depart.'
+    Then strode he to his cow-house in the mead,
+    Displeased though meek, and muttered, 'Slow of eye!
+    My kine are slow: if rapid I, my hand
+    Might tend them worse.' Hearing his step, the kine
+    Turned round their hornèd fronts; and angry thoughts
+    Went from him as a vapour. Straw he brought,
+    And strewed their beds; and they, contented well,
+    Laid down ere long their great bulks, breathing deep
+    Amid the glimmering moonlight. He, with head
+    Propped on a favourite heifer's snowy flank,
+    Rested, his deer-skin o'er him drawn. Hard days
+    Bring slumber soon. His latest thought was this:
+    'Though witless things we are, my kine and I,
+    Yet God it was who made us.'
+                                 As he slept,
+    Beside him stood a Man Divine, and spake:
+    'Ceadmon, arise, and sing,' Ceadmon replied,
+    'My Lord, I cannot sing, and for that cause
+    Forth from the revel came I. Once, in youth,
+    I willed to sing the bright face of a maid,
+    And failed, and once a gold-faced harvest-field,
+    And failed, and once the flame-eyed face of war,
+    And failed again.' To him the Man Divine,
+    'Those themes were earthly. Sing!' And Ceadmon said,
+    'What shall I sing, my Lord?' Then answer came,
+    'Ceadmon, stand up, and sing thy song of God.'
+
+      At once obedient, Ceadmon rose, and sang;
+    And help was with him from great thoughts of old
+    Yearly within his silent nature stored,
+    That swelled, collecting like a flood which bursts
+    In spring its icy bar. The Lord of all
+    He sang; that God beneath whose hand eterne,
+    Then when He willed forth-stretched athwart the abyss,
+    Creation like a fiery chariot ran,
+    Forth-borne on wheels of ever-living stars:
+    Him first he sang. The builder, here below,
+    From fair foundations rears at last the roof;
+    But Song, a child of heaven, begins with heaven,
+    The archetype divine, and end of all;
+    More late descends to earth. He sang that hymn,
+    'Let there be light, and there was light;' and lo!
+    On the void deep came down the seal of God
+    And stamped immortal form. Clear laughed the skies;
+    From circumambient deeps the strong earth brake,
+    Both continent and isle; while downward rolled
+    The sea-surge summoned to his home remote.
+    Then came a second vision to the man
+    There standing 'mid his oxen. Darkness sweet,
+    He sang, of pleasant frondage clothed the vales,
+    And purple glooms ambrosial cast from hills
+    Now by the sun deserted, which the moon,
+    A glory new-created in her place,
+    Silvered with virgin beam, while sang the bird
+    Her first of love-songs on the branch first-flower'd--
+    Not yet the lion stalked. And Ceadmon sang
+    O'er-awed, the Father of all humankind
+    Standing in garden planted by God's hand,
+    And girt by murmurs of the rivers four,
+    Between the trees of Knowledge and of Life,
+    With eastward face. In worship mute of God,
+    Eden's Contemplative he stood that hour,
+    Not her Ascetic, since, where sin is none,
+    No need for spirit severe.
+                                And Ceadmon sang
+    God's Daughter, Adam's Sister, Child, and Bride,
+    Our Mother Eve. Lit by the matin star,
+    That nearer drew to earth and brighter flashed
+    To meet her gaze, that snowy Innocence
+    Stood up with queenly port: she turned; she saw
+    Earth's King, mankind's great Father: taught by God,
+    Immaculate, unastonished, undismayed,
+    In love and reverence to her Lord she drew,
+    And, kneeling, kissed his hand: and Adam laid
+    That hand, made holier, on that kneeler's head,
+    And spake; 'For this shall man his parents leave,
+    And to his wife cleave fast.'
+                                  When Ceadmon ceased,
+    Thus spake the Man Divine: 'At break of day
+    Seek out some prudent man, and say that God
+    Hath loosed thy tongue; nor hide henceforth thy gift.'
+    Then Ceadmon turned, and slept among his kine
+    Dreamless. Ere dawn he stood upon the shore
+    In doubt: but when at last o'er eastern seas
+    The sun, long wished for, like a god upsprang,
+    Once more he found God's song upon his mouth
+    Murmuring high joy; and sought an ancient friend,
+    And told him all the vision. At the word
+    He to the Abbess with the tidings sped,
+    And she made answer, 'Bring me Ceadmon here.'
+
+        Then clomb the pair that sea-beat mount of God
+    Fanned by sea-gale, nor trod, as others used,
+    The curving way, but faced the abrupt ascent,
+    And halted not, so worked in both her will,
+    Till now between the unfinished towers they stood
+    Panting and spent. The portals open stood:
+    Ceadmon passed in alone. Nor ivory decked,
+    Nor gold, the walls. That convent was a keep
+    Strong 'gainst invading storm or demon hosts,
+    And naked as the rock whereon it stood,
+    Yet, as a church, august. Dark, high-arched roofs
+    Slowly let go the distant hymn. Each cell
+    Cinctured its statued saint, the peace of God
+    On every stony face. Like caverned grot
+    Far off the western window frowned: beyond,
+    Close by, there shook an autumn-blazoned tree:
+    No need for gems beside of storied glass.
+
+        He entered last that hall where Hilda sat
+    Begirt with a great company, the chiefs
+    Far ranged from end to end. Three stalls, cross-crowned,
+    Stood side by side, the midmost hers. The years
+    Had laid upon her brows a hand serene;
+    There left alone a blessing. Levelled eyes
+    Sable, and keen, with meditative might
+    Conjoined the instinct and the claim to rule:
+    Firm were her lips and rigid. At her right
+    Sat Finan, Aidan's successor, with head
+    Snow-white, and beard that rolled adown a breast
+    Never by mortal passion heaved in storm,
+    A cloister of majestic thoughts that walked,
+    Humbly with God. High in the left-hand stall
+    Oswy was throned, a man in prime, with brow
+    Less youthful than his years. Exile long past,
+    Or deepening thought of one disastrous deed,
+    Had left a shadow in his eyes. The strength
+    Of passion held in check looked lordly forth
+    From head and hand: tawny his beard; his hair
+    Thick-curled and dense. Alert the monarch sat
+    Half turned, like one on horseback set that hears,
+    And he alone, the advancing trump of war.
+    Down the long gallery strangers thronged in mass,
+    Dane or Norwegian, huge of arm through weight
+    Of billows oar-subdued, with stormy looks
+    Wild as their waves and crags; Southerns keen-browed;
+    Pure Saxon youths, fair-fronted, with mild eyes,
+    These less than others strove for nobler place,
+    And Pilgrim travel-worn. Behind the rest,
+    And higher-ranged in marble-arched arcade,
+    Sat Hilda's sisterhood. Clustering they shone,
+    White-veiled, and pale of face, and still and meek,
+    An inly-bending curve, like some young moon
+    Whose crescent glitters o'er a dusky strait.
+    In front were monks dark-stoled: for Hilda ruled,
+    Though feminine, two houses, one of men:
+    Upon two chasm-divided rocks they stood,
+    To various service vowed, though single Faith:--
+    Not ever, save at rarest festival,
+    Their holy inmates met.
+                              'Is this the man
+    Favoured, though late, with gift of song?' thus spake
+    Hilda with gracious smile. Severer then
+    She added: 'Son, the commonest gifts of God
+    He counts His best, and oft temptation blends
+    With ampler boon. Yet sing! That God who lifts
+    The violet from the grass could draw not less
+    Song from the stone hard by. That strain thou sang'st,
+    Once more rehearse it.'
+                              Ceadmon from his knees
+    Arose and stood. With princely instinct first
+    The strong man to the Abbess bowed, and next
+    To that great twain, the bishop and the king,
+    Last to that stately concourse each side ranged
+    Down the long hall; then, dubious, answered thus:
+    'Great Mother, if that God who sent the song
+    Vouchsafe me to recall it, I will sing;
+    But I misdoubt it lost.' Slowly his face
+    Down-drooped, and all his body forward bent
+    While brooding memory, step by step, retraced
+    Its backward way. Vainly long time it sought
+    The starting-point. Then Ceadmon's large, soft hands
+    Opening and closing worked; for wont were they,
+    In musings when he stood, to clasp his goad,
+    And plant its point far from him, thereupon
+    Propping his stalwart weight. Customed support
+    Now finding not, unwittingly those hands
+    Reached forth, and on Saint Finan's crosier-staff
+    Settling, withdrew it from the old bishop's grasp;
+    And Ceadmon leant thereon, while passed a smile
+    From chief to chief to see earth's meekest man
+    The spiritual sceptre claim of Lindisfarne.
+    They smiled; he triumphed: soon the Cowherd found
+    That first fair corner-stone of all his song;
+    Thence rose the fabric heavenward. Lifting hands,
+    Once more his lordly music he rehearsed,
+    The void abyss at God's command forth-flinging
+    Creation like a Thought: where night had reigned,
+    The universe of God.
+                          The singing stars
+    Which with the Angels sang when earth was made
+    Sang in his song. From highest shrill of lark
+    To ocean's moaning under cliffs low-browed,
+    And roar of pine-woods on the storm-swept hills,
+    No tone was wanting; while to them that heard
+    Strange images looked forth of worlds new-born,
+    Fair, phantom mountains, and, with forests plumed
+    Heaven-topping headlands, for the first time glassed
+    In waters ever calm. O'er sapphire seas
+    Green islands laughed. Fairer, the wide earth's flower,
+    Eden, on airs unshaken yet by sighs
+    From bosom still inviolate forth poured
+    Immortal sweets that sense to spirit turned.
+    In part those noble listeners _made_ that song!
+    Their flashing eyes, their hands, their heaving breasts,
+    Tumult self-stilled, and mute, expectant trance,
+    'Twas these that gave their bard his twofold might--
+    That might denied to poets later born
+    Who, singing to soft brains and hearts ice-hard,
+    Applauded or contemned, alike roll round
+    A vainly-seeking eye, and, famished, drop
+    A hand clay-cold upon the unechoing shell,
+    Missing their inspiration's human half.
+
+      Thus Ceadmon sang, and ceased. Silent awhile
+    The concourse stood, for all had risen, as though
+    Waiting from heaven its echo. Each on each
+    Gazed hard and caught his hands. Fiercely ere long
+    Their gratulating shout aloft had leaped
+    But Hilda laid her finger on her lip,
+    Or provident lest praise might stain the pure,
+    Or deeming song a gift too high for praise.
+    She spake: 'Through help of God thy song is sound:
+    Now hear His Holy Word, and shape therefrom
+    A second hymn, and worthier than the first.'
+
+      She spake, and Finan standing bent his head
+    Above the sacred tome in reverence stayed
+    Upon his kneeling deacon's hands and brow,
+    And sweetly sang five verses, thus beginning,
+    '_Cum esset desponsata_,' and was still;
+    And next rehearsed them in the Anglian tongue:
+    Then Ceadmon took God's Word into his heart,
+    And ruminating stood, as when the kine,
+    Their flowery pasture ended, ruminate;
+    And was a man in thought. At last the light
+    Shone from his dubious countenance, and he spake:
+    'Great Mother, lo! I saw a second Song!
+    T'wards me it sailed; but with averted face,
+    And borne on shifting winds. A man am I
+    Sluggish and slow, that needs must muse and brood;
+    Therefore those verses till the sun goes down
+    Will I revolve. If song from God be mine
+    Expect me here at morn.'
+                                The morrow morn
+    In that high presence Ceadmon stood and sang
+    A second song, and worthier than his first;
+    And Hilda said, 'From God it came, not man;
+    Thou therefore live a monk among my monks,
+    And sing to God.' Doubtful he stood--'From youth
+    My place hath been with kine; their ways I know,
+    And how to cure their griefs,' Smiling she spake,
+    'Our convent hath its meads, and kine; with these
+    Consort each morn: at noon to us return.'
+    Then Ceadmon knelt, and bowed, and said, 'So be it:'
+    And aged Finan, and Northumbria's king
+    Oswy, approved; and all that host had joy.
+
+      Thus in that convent Ceadmon lived, a monk,
+    Humblest of all the monks, save him that knelt
+    In cell close by, who once had been a prince.
+    Seven times a day he sang God's praises, first
+    When earliest dawn drew back night's sable veil
+    With trembling hand, revisiting the earth
+    Like some pale maid that through the curtain peers
+    Round her sick mother's bed, misdoubting half
+    If sleep lie there, or death; latest when eve
+    Through nave and chancel stole from arch to arch,
+    And laid upon the snowy altar-step
+    At last a brow of gold. In later years,
+    By ancient yearnings driven, through wood and vale
+    He tracked Dëirean or Bernician glades
+    To holy Ripon, or late-sceptred York,
+    Not yet great Wilfred's seat, or Beverley:
+    The children gathered round him, crying, 'Sing!'
+    They gave him inspiration with their eyes,
+    And with his conquering music he returned it.
+    Oftener he roamed that strenuous eastern coast
+    To Jarrow and to Wearmouth, sacred sites
+    The well-beloved of Bede, or northward more
+    To Bamborough, Oswald's keep. At Coldingham
+    His feet had rest; there where St. Ebba's Cape
+    That ends the lonely range of Lammermoor,
+    Sustained for centuries o'er the wild sea-surge
+    In region of dim mist and flying bird,
+    Fronting the Forth, those convent piles far-kenned,
+    The worn-out sailor's hope.
+                                  Fair English shores,
+    Despite those blinding storms of north and east,
+    Despite rough ages blind with stormier strife,
+    Or froz'n by doubt, or sad with worldly care,
+    A fragrance as of Carmel haunts you still
+    Bequeathed by feet of that forgotten Saint
+    Who trod you once, sowing the seed divine!
+    Fierce tribes that kenned him distant round him flocked;
+    On sobbing sands the fisher left his net,
+    His lamb the shepherd on the hills of March,
+    Suing for song. With wrinkled face all smiles,
+    Like that blind Scian circling Grecian coasts,
+    If God the song accorded, Ceadmon sang;
+    If God denied it, after musings deep
+    He answered, 'I am of the kine and dumb;'--
+    The man revered his art, and fraudful song
+    Esteemed as fraudful coin.
+                                  Music denied,
+    He solaced them with tales wherein, so seemed it,
+    Nature and Grace, inwoven, like children played,
+    Or like two sisters o'er one sampler bent,
+    Braided one text. Ever the sorrowful chance
+    Ending in joy, the human craving still,
+    Like creeper circling up the Tree of Life,
+    Lifted by hand unseen, witnessed that He,
+    Man's Maker, is the Healer too of man,
+    And life His school parental. Parables
+    He shewed in all things. 'Mark,' one day he cried,
+    'Yon silver-breasted swan that stems the lake
+    Taking nor chill nor moisture! Such the soul
+    That floats o'er waters of a world corrupt,
+    Itself immaculate still.'
+                                      Better than tale
+    They loved their minstrel's harp. The songs he sang
+    Were songs to brighten gentle hearts; to fire
+    Strong hearts with holier courage; hope to breathe
+    Through spirits despondent, o'er the childless floor
+    Or widowed bed, flashing from highest heaven
+    A beam half faith, half vision. Many a tear,
+    His own, and tears of those that listened, fell
+    Oft as he sang that hand, lovely as light,
+    Forth stretched, and gathering from forbidden boughs
+    That fruit fatal to man. He sang the Flood,
+    Sin's doom that quelled the impure, yet raised to height
+    Else inaccessible, the just. He sang
+    That patriarch facing at divine command
+    The illimitable waste--then, harder proof,
+    Lifting his knife o'er him, the seed foretold;
+    He sang of Israel loosed, the ten black seals
+    Down pressed on Egypt's testament of woe,
+    Covenant of pride with penance; sang the face
+    Of Moses glittering from red Sinai's rocks,
+    The Tables twain, and Mandements of God.
+    On Christian nights he sang that jubilant star
+    Which led the Magians to the Bethlehem crib
+    By Joseph watched, and Mary. Pale, in Lent,
+    Tremulous and pale, he told of Calvary,
+    Nor added word, but, as in trance, rehearsed
+    That Passion fourfold of the Evangelists,
+    Which, terrible and swift--not like a tale--
+    With speed of things which must be done, not said,
+    A river of bale, from guilty age to age
+    Along the astonied shores of common life
+    Annual makes way, the history of the world,
+    Not of one day, one People. To its fount
+    That stream he tracked, that primal mystery sang
+    Which, chanted later by a thousand years,
+    Music celestial, though with note that jarred,
+    Some wandering orb troubling its starry chime,
+    Amazed the nations, 'There was war in heaven:
+    Michael and they, his angels, warfare waged
+    With Satan and his angels.' Brief that war,
+    That ruin total. Brief was Ceadmon's song:
+    Therein the Eternal Face was undivulged:
+    Therein the Apostate's form no grandeur wore:
+    The grandeur was elsewhere. Who hate their God
+    Change not alone to vanquished but to vile.
+    On Easter morns he sang the Saviour Risen,
+    Eden Regained. Since then on England's shores
+    Though many sang, yet no man sang like him.
+
+      O holy House of Whitby! on thy steep
+    Rejoice, howe'er the tempest, night or day,
+    Afflict thee, or the hand of Time to earth
+    Drag down thine airy arches long suspense;
+    Rejoice, for Ceadmon in thy cloisters knelt,
+    And singing paced beside thy sounding sea!
+    Long years he lived; and with the whitening hair
+    More youthful grew in spirit, and more meek;
+    Yea, those that saw him said he sang within
+    Then when the golden mouth but seldom breathed
+    Sonorous strain, and when--that fulgent eye
+    No longer bright--still on his forehead shone
+    Not flame but purer light, like that last beam
+    Which, when the sunset woods no longer burn,
+    Maintains high place on Alpine throne remote,
+    Or utmost beak of promontoried cloud,
+    And heavenward dies in smiles. Esteem of men
+    Daily he less esteemed, through single heart
+    More knit with God. To please a sickly child
+    He sang his latest song, and, ending, said,
+    'Song is but body, though 'tis body winged:
+    The soul of song is love: the body dead,
+    The soul should thrive the more.' That Patmian Sage
+    Whose head had lain upon the Saviour's breast,
+    Who in high vision saw the First and Last,
+    Who heard the harpings of the Elders crowned,
+    Who o'er the ruins of the Imperial House
+    And ashes of the twelve great Cæsars dead
+    Witnessed the endless triumph of the Just,
+    To humbler life restored, and, weak through age,
+    But seldom spake, and gave but one command,
+    The great '_Mandatum Novum_' of his Lord,
+    'My children, love each other!' Like to his
+    Was Ceadmon's age. Weakness with happy stealth
+    Increased upon him: he was cheerful still:
+    He still could pace, though slowly, in the sun,
+    Still gladsomely converse with friends who wept,
+    Still lay a broad hand on his well-loved kine.
+
+      The legend of the last of Ceadmon's days:--
+    That hospital wherein the old monks died
+    Stood but a stone's throw from the monastery:
+    'Make there my couch to-night,' he said, and smiled:
+    They marvelled, yet obeyed. There, hour by hour,
+    The man, low-seated on his pallet-bed,
+    In silence watched the courses of the stars,
+    Or casual spake at times of common things,
+    And three times played with childhood's days, and twice
+    His father named. At last, like one that, long
+    Compassed with good, is smit by sudden thought
+    Of greater good, thus spake he: 'Have ye, sons,
+    Here in this house the Blessed Sacrament?'
+    They answered, wrathful, 'Father, thou art strong;
+    Shake not thy children! Thou hast many days!'
+    'Yet bring me here the Blessed Sacrament,'
+    Once more he said. The brethren issued forth
+    Save four that silent sat waiting the close.
+    Ere long in grave procession they returned,
+    Two deacons first, gold-vested; after these
+    That priest who bare the Blessed Sacrament,
+    And acolytes behind him, lifting lights.
+    Then from his pallet Ceadmon slowly rose
+    And worshipped Christ, his God, and reaching forth
+    His right hand, cradled in his left, behold!
+    Therein was laid God's Mystery. He spake:
+    'Stand ye in flawless charity of God
+    T'ward me, my sons; or lives there in your hearts
+    Memory the least of wrong?' The monks replied:
+    'Father, within us lives nor wrong, nor wrath,
+    But love, and love alone.' And he: 'Not less
+    Am I in charity with you, my sons,
+    And all my sins of pride, and other sins,
+    Humbly I mourn.' Then, bending the old head
+    O'er the old hand, Ceadmon received his Lord
+    To be his soul's viaticum, in might
+    Leading from life that seems to life that is;
+    And long, unpropped by any, kneeling hung
+    And made thanksgiving prayer. Thanksgiving made,
+    He sat upon his bed, and spake: 'How long
+    Ere yet the monks begin their matin psalms?'
+    'That hour is nigh,' they answered; he replied,
+    'Then let us wait that hour,' and laid him down
+    With those kine-tending and harp-mastering hands
+    Crossed on his breast, and slept.
+                                        Meanwhile the monks,
+    The lights removed in reverence of his sleep,
+    Sat mute nor stirred such time as in the Mass
+    Between '_Orate Fratres_' glides away,
+    And '_Hoc est Corpus Meum_.' Northward far
+    The great deep, seldom heard so distant, roared
+    Round those wild rocks half way to Bamborough Head;
+    For now the mightiest spring-tide of the year,
+    Following the magic of a maiden moon,
+    Approached its height. Nearer, that sea which sobbed
+    In many a cave by Whitby's winding coast,
+    Or died in peace on many a sandy bar
+    From river-mouth to river-mouth outspread,
+    They heard, and mused upon eternity
+    That circles human life. Gradual arose
+    A softer strain and sweeter, making way
+    O'er that sea-murmur hoarse; and they were ware
+    That in the black far-shadowing church whose bulk
+    Up-towered between them and the moon, the monks
+    Their matins had begun. A little sigh
+    That moment reached them from the central gloom
+    Guarding the sleeper's bed; a second sigh
+    Succeeded: neither seemed the sigh of pain:
+    And some one said, 'He wakens.' Large and bright
+    Over the church-roof sudden rushed the moon,
+    And smote the cross above that sleeper's couch,
+    And smote that sleeper's face. The smile thereon
+    Was calmer than the smile of life. Thus died
+    Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song.
+
+
+
+
+_KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY_.
+
+     Oswy, King of Bernicia, being at war with his kinsman Oswin, slays
+     him unarmed. He refuses to repent of this sin; yet at last, subdued
+     by the penitence, humility, and charity of Eanfleda, his wife,
+     repents likewise, and builds a monastery over the grave of Oswin.
+     Afterwards he becomes a great warrior and dies a saint.
+
+
+    Young, beauteous, brave--the bravest of the brave--
+    Who loved not Oswin? All that saw him loved:
+    Aidan loved most, monk of Iona's Isle,
+    Northumbria's bishop next, from Lindisfarne
+    Ruling in things divine. One morn it chanced
+    That Oswin, noting how with staff in hand
+    Old Aidan roamed his spiritual realm, footbare,
+    Wading deep stream, and piercing thorny brake,
+    Sent him a horse--his best. The Saint was pleased;
+    But, onward while he rode, and, musing, smiled
+    To think of these his honours in old age,
+    A beggar claimed his alms. 'Gold have I none,'
+    Aidan replied; 'this horse be thine!' The King,
+    Hearing the tale, was grieved. 'Keep I, my lord,
+    No meaner horses fit for beggar's use
+    That thus my best should seem a thing of naught?'
+    The Saint made answer: 'Beggar's use, my King!
+    What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare!
+    The least of men--the sinner--is God's child!'
+    Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried:
+    'Father, forgive me!' As they sat at meat
+    Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale
+    His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow tears
+    In silence trickled down old Aidan's face:
+    These all men marked; yet no man question made.
+    At last to one beside him Aidan spake
+    In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them,
+    'God will not leave such meekness long on earth.'
+
+    Who loved not Oswin? Not alone his realm,
+    Dëira, loved him, but Bernician lords
+    Whose monarch, Oswy, was a man of storms,
+    Fierce King albeit in youth baptized to Christ;
+    At heart half pagan. Swift as northern cloud
+    Through summer skies, he swept with all his host
+    Down on the rival kingdom. Face to face
+    The armies stood. But Oswin, when he marked
+    His own a little flock 'mid countless wolves,
+    Addressed them thus: 'Why perish, friends, for me?
+    From exile came I: for my people's sake
+    To exile I return, or gladlier die:
+    Depart in peace.' He rode to Gilling Tower;
+    And waited there his fate. Thither next day
+    King Oswy marched, and slew him.
+                                    Twelve days passed;
+    Then Aidan, while through green Northumbria's woods
+    Pensive he paced, steadying his doubtful steps,
+    Felt death approaching. Giving thanks to God,
+    The old man laid him by a church half raised
+    Amid great oaks and yews, and, leaning there
+    His head against the buttress, passed to God.
+    They made their bishop's grave at Lindisfarne;
+    But Oswin rested at the mouth of Tyne
+    Within a wave-girt, granite promontory
+    Where sea and river meet. For many an age
+    The pilgrim from far countries came in faith
+    To that still shrine--they called it 'Oswin's Peace,'--
+    Thither the outcast fled for sanctuary:
+    The sick man there found health. Thus Oswin lived,
+    Though dead, a benediction in the land.
+
+    What gentlest form kneels on the rain-washed ground
+    From Gilling's keep a stone's-throw? Whose those hands
+    Now pressed in anguish on a bursting heart,
+    Now o'er a tearful countenance spread in shame?
+    What purest mouth, but roseless for great woe,
+    With zeal to youthful lovers never known
+    Presses a new-made grave, and through the blades
+    Of grass wind-shaken breathes her piteous prayer?
+    Save from remorse came ever grief like hers?
+    Yet how could ever sin, or sin's remorse,
+    Find such fair mansion? Oswin's grave it is;
+    And she that o'er it kneels is Eanfleda,
+    Kinswoman of the noble dead, and wife
+    To Oswin's murderer--Oswy.
+                                Saddest one
+    And sweetest! Lo, that cloud which overhung
+    Her cradle swathes once more in deeper gloom
+    Her throne late won, and new-decked bridal bed.
+    This was King Edwin's babe, whose natal star
+    Shone on her father's pathway doubtful long,
+    Shone there a line of light, from pagan snares
+    Leading to Christian baptism. Penda heard--
+    Penda, that drew his stock from Odin's loins,
+    Penda, that drank his wine from skulls of foes,
+    Penda, fierce Mercia's king. He heard, and fell
+    In ruin on the region. Edwin dead,
+    Paulinus led the widow and her babe
+    Back to that Kentish shore whereon had reigned
+    Its grandsire Ethelbert.
+                              The infant's feet
+    Pattered above the pavement of that church
+    In Canterbury by Augustine raised;
+    The child grew paler when Gregorian chants
+    Shook the dim roofs. Gladly the growing girl
+    Hearkened to stories of her ancestress
+    Clotilda, boast of France, but weeping turned
+    From legends whispered by her Saxon nurse
+    Of Loke, the Spirit accursed that slanders gods,
+    And Sinna, Queen of Hell. The years went by;
+    The last had brought King Oswy's embassage
+    With suit obsequious, 'Let the princess share
+    With me her father's crown.' To simple hearts
+    Changes come gently. Soon, all trust, she stood
+    Before God's altar with her destined lord:
+    Adown her finger while the bride-ring ran
+    So slid into her heart a true wife's love:
+    Rooted in faith, it ripened day by day--
+    And now the end was this!
+                                There as she knelt
+    A strong foot clanged behind her. 'Weeping still!
+    Up, wife of mine! If Oswin had not died
+    His gracious ways had filched from me my realm,
+    The base so loved his meekness!' Turning not
+    She answered low: 'He died an unarmed man:'
+    And Oswy: 'Fool that fought not when he might;
+    At least his slaughtered troop had decked his grave!
+    I scorned him for his grief that men should die;
+    And, scorning him, I hated; yea, for that
+    His blood is on my sword!'
+                                The priests of God
+    Had faced the monarch and denounced his crime:
+    They might as well have preached to ocean waves:
+    He felt no anger: he but deemed them mad,
+    And smiling went his way. Thus autumn passed:
+    The queen--he knew it--when alone wept on:
+    Near him the pale face smiled; the voice was sweet;
+    Loving the service; the obedience full:
+    Neither by words, by silence, nor by looks
+    She chid him. Like some penitent she walked
+    That mourns her own great sin.
+                                    Yet Oswy's heart,
+    Remorseless thus, had moods of passionate love:
+    A warrior of his host, Tosti by name,
+    Lay low, plague-stricken: kith and kin had fled:
+    Whole days the king sustained upon his knees
+    The sufferer's head, and cheered his heart with songs
+    Of Odin, strangely blent with Christian hymns,
+    While ofttimes stormy bursts of tears descended
+    Upon that face upturned. Ministering he sat
+    Till death the vigil closed.
+                                  One winter night
+    From distant chase belated he returned,
+    And passed by Oswin's grave. The snow, new-fallen,
+    Whitened the precinct. In the blast she knelt,
+    While coldly glared the broad and bitter moon
+    Upon those flying flakes that on her hair
+    Settled, or on her thin, light raiment clung.
+    She heard him not draw nigh. She only beat
+    Her breast, and, praying, wept: 'Our sin, our sin!'
+    There as the monarch stood a change came o'er him:
+    Old, exiled days in Alba as a dream
+    Redawned upon his spirit, and that look
+    In Aidan's eyes when, binding first that cross
+    Long by his pupil craved, around his neck,
+    He whispered: 'He who serveth Christ, his Lord,
+    Must love his fellow-man.' As when a stream,
+    The ice dissolved, grows audible once more,
+    So came to him those words. They dragged him down:
+    He knelt beside his wife, and beat his breast,
+    And said, 'My sin, my sin!' Till earliest morn
+    Glimmered through sleet that twain wept on, prayed on:--
+    Was it the rising sun that lit at last
+    The fair face upward lifted;--kindled there
+    A lovelier dawn than o'er it blushed when first
+    Dropped on her bridegroom's breast? Aloud she cried:
+    'Our prayer is heard: our penitence finds grace:'
+    Then added: 'Let it deepen till we die!
+    A monastery build we on this grave:
+    So from this grave, while fleet the years, that prayer
+    Shall rise both day and night, till Christ returns
+    To judge the world--a prayer for him who died;
+    A prayer for one who sinned, but sins no more.'
+
+    Where Gilling's long and lofty hill o'erlooks
+    For leagues the forest-girdled plain, ere long
+    A monastery stood. That self-same day
+    In tears the penitential work began;
+    In tears the sod was turned. The rugged brows
+    Of March relaxed 'neath April's flying kiss:
+    Again the violet rose, the thrush was loud;
+    Mayday had come. Around that hallowed spot
+    Full many a warrior met; some Christians vowed;
+    Some muttering low of Odin. Near to these
+    Stood one of lesser stature, keener eye,
+    More fiery gesture. Splenetic, he marked,
+    Christian albeit himself, those Christian walls
+    By Saxon converts raised:--he was a Briton.
+    Invisibly that morn a dusky crape
+    O'erstretched the sky; and slowly swayed the bough
+    Heavy with midnight rains. Through mist the woods
+    Let out the witchery of their young fresh green
+    Backed by the dusk of ruddy oaks that still
+    Reserved at heart the old year's stubbornness,
+    Yet blent it with that purple distance glimpsed
+    Beyond the forest alleys.
+                                In a tent
+    Finan sang Mass: his altar was that stone
+    Which told where Oswin died. Before it knelt
+    The king, the queen: alone their angels know
+    Their thoughts that hour! The sacred rite complete,
+    They raised their brows, and, hand-in-hand, made way
+    To where, beyond the portal, shone blue skies,
+    Nature's long-struggling smile at last divulged.
+    The throng--with passion it had prayed for each--
+    Divided as they passed. In either face
+    They saw the light of that conceded prayer,
+    The peace of souls forgiven.
+                                  From that day forth
+    Hourly in Oswy's spirit soared more high
+    The one true greatness. Flaming heats of soul,
+    Through faith subjected to a law divine,
+    Like fire, man's vassal, mastering iron ore,
+    Learned their true work. The immeasurable strength
+    Had found at once its master and its end,
+    And, balanced thus while weighted, soared to God.
+    In all his ways he prospered, work and word
+    Yoked to one end. Till then the Kingdoms Seven,
+    Opposed in interests as diverse in name,
+    Had looked on nothing like him. Now, despite
+    Mercia that frowned, they named him king of kings,
+    Bretwalda; and the standard of the Seven
+    In peace foreran his feet. The Spirits of might
+    Before his vanguard winged their way in war,
+    Scattering the foe; and in his peacefuller years
+    Upon the aerial hillside high and higher
+    The golden harvest clomb, waving delight
+    On eyes upraised from winding rivers clear
+    That shone with milky sails. His feet stood firm,
+    For with his growing greatness ever grew
+    His penitence. Still sang the cloistered choir,
+    Year after year pleading o'er Oswin's tomb,
+    'To him who perished grant thy Vision, Lord;
+    To him the slayer, penitence and peace;
+    Let Oswin pray for Oswy:' Oswin prayed.
+
+      What answered Penda when the tidings came
+    Of Oswy glorying in the yoke of Christ,
+    Of Oswy's victories next? Grinding his teeth,
+    He spake what no man heard. Then rumour rose
+    Of demon-magic making Oswy's tongue
+    Fell as his sword. 'Within the sorcerer's court,'
+    It babbled, 'stood the brave East Saxon king:
+    Upon his shoulder Oswy laid a hand
+    Accursed and whispered in his ear. The king,
+    Down sank, perforce, a Christian!' Lightning flashed
+    From under Penda's gray and shaggy brows;--
+    'Forth to Northumbria, son,' he cried, 'and back;
+    And learn if this be true.'
+                                That son obeyed,
+    Peada, to whose heart another's heart,
+    Alcfrid's, King Oswy's son, was knit long since
+    As David's unto Jonathan's. One time
+    A tenderer heart had leaned, or seemed to lean,
+    Motioning that way, Alfleda's, Alcfrid's sister,
+    Younger than he six years. 'Twas so no more:
+    No longer on Peada's eyes her eyes
+    Rested well-pleased: not now the fearless hand
+    Tarried in his contented. 'Sir and king,'
+    Peada thus to Oswy spake, 'of old
+    Thy child--then child indeed--would mount my knee;
+    Now, when I seek her, like a swan she fleets
+    That arches back its neck 'twixt snowy wings,
+    And, swerving, sideway drifts. My lord and king,
+    The child is maiden: give her me for wife!'
+    Oswy made answer: 'He that serves not Christ
+    Can wed no child of mine.' Alfleda then
+    Dropping her broidery lifted on her sire
+    Gently the dewy light of childlike eyes
+    And spake, 'But he in time will worship Christ!'
+    Then, without blush or tremor, to her work
+    Softly returned. Silent her mother smiled.
+    That moment, warned of God, from Lindisfarne
+    Finan, unlooked for, entered. Week by week
+    Reverend and mild he preached the Saviour-Lord:
+    Grave-eyed, with listening face and forehead bowed,
+    The prince gave ear, not like that trivial race
+    Who catch the sense ere spoken, smile assent,
+    And in a moment lose it. On his brow
+    At times the apprehension dawned, at times
+    Faded. Oft turned he to his Mercian lords:--
+    'How trow ye, friends? He speaks of what he knows!
+    Good tidings these! Each evening while I muse
+    Distinct they shine like yonder mountain range;
+    Each morning, mists conceal them.' Passed a month;
+    Then suddenly, as one that wakes from dream,
+    Peada rose: 'Far rather would I serve
+    Thy Christ,' he said, 'and thus Alfleda lose,
+    Than win Alfleda, and reject thy Christ.'
+    He spake: old Finan first gave thanks to God,
+    Who grants the pure heart valour to believe,
+    Then took his hand and led him to that Cross
+    On Heaven-Field raised beneath the Roman Wall,
+    That cross King Oswald's standard in the fight,
+    That cross Cadwallon's sentence as he fell,
+    'That cross which conquered;'--there to God baptized;
+    Likewise his thanes and earls.
+                                    Meantime, far off
+    In Penda's palace-keep the revel raged,
+    High feast of rites impure. At banquet sat
+    The monarch and his chiefs; chant followed chant
+    Bleeding with wars foregone. The day went by,
+    And, setting ere its time, a sanguine sun
+    Dipped into tumult vast of gathering storm
+    That soon incumbent leant from tower to tower
+    And shook them to their base. As high within
+    The gladness mounted, meeting storm with storm,
+    Till cried that sacrificial priest whose knife
+    Had pierced the warrior victim's willing throat
+    That morn, 'Already with the gods we feast!
+    Hark! round Valhalla swell the phantom wars!'
+    Ere ceased the shout applausive, from his seat
+    Uprose the warrior Saxo, in his hand
+    The goblet, in the other Alp, his sword,
+    Pointing to heaven. 'To Odin health!' he cried;
+    'Would that this hour he rode into this hall!
+    He should not hence depart till blood of his
+    Had reddened Sleipner's flank, his snow-white steed:
+    This sword would shed that blood!' Warriors sixteen
+    Leaped up in wrath, and for a moment rage
+    Rocked the huge hall. But Saxo waved his sword,
+    And, laughing, shouted, 'Odin's sons, be still!
+    Count it no sin to battle with high gods!
+    Great-hearted they! They give the blow and take!
+    To Odin who was ever leal as I?'
+    As sudden as it rose the tumult fell:
+    So ceased the storm without: but with it ceased
+    The rapture and the madness, and the shout:
+    The wine-cup still made circuit; but the song
+    Froze in mid-air. Strange shadow hung o'er all:
+    Neighbour to neighbour whispered: courtiers slid
+    Through doors scarce open. Rumour had arrived,
+    If true or false none knew.
+                                The morrow morn
+    From Penda's court the bravest fled in fear,
+    Questioning with white lips, 'Will he slay his son?'
+    Or skulked at distance. Penda by the throat
+    Catching a white-cheeked courtier, cried: 'The truth!
+    What whisper they in corners?' On his knees
+    That courtier made confession. Penda then,
+    'Live, since my son is yet a living man!
+    A Christian, say'st thou? Let him serve his Christ!
+    That man whom ever most I scorned is he
+    Who vows him to the service of some god,
+    Yet breaks his laws; for that man walks, a lie.
+    My son shall live, and after me shall reign:
+    Northumbrian realm shall die!'
+                                    Thus Penda spake
+    And sent command from tower and town to blow
+    Instant the trumpet of his last of wars,
+    Fanning from Odin's hall with airs ice-cold
+    Of doom the foes of Odin. 'Man nor child,'
+    He sware,'henceforth shall tread Northumbrian soil,
+    Nor hart nor hind: I spare the creeping worm:
+    My scavenger is he,' The Mercian realm
+    Rose at his call, innumerable mass
+    Of warriors iron-armed. East Anglia sent
+    Her hosts in aid. Apostate Ethelwald,
+    Though Oswy's nephew, joined the hostile league,
+    And thirty chiefs beside that ruled by right
+    Princedom or province. Mightier far than these
+    Old Cambria, brooding o'er the ancestral wrong,
+    The Saxon's sin original, met his call,
+    And vowed her to the vengeance.
+                                      Bravest hearts
+    Hate most the needless slaughter. Oswy mused:
+    'Long since too much of blood is on this hand:
+    Shall I for pride or passion risk once more
+    Northumbria, my mother;--rudely stain
+    Her pretty babes with blood?' To Penda then,
+    Camped on the confines of the adverse realms,
+    He sent an embassage of reverend men,
+    Warriors and priests. Before them, staff in hand,
+    Peaceful, with hoary brows and measured tread,
+    Twelve heralds paced. Twelve caskets bare they heaped
+    With gems and gold, and thus addressed the King:
+    'Lord of the Mercian realm, renowned in arms!
+    Our lord, Northumbria's monarch, bids thee hail:
+    He never yet in little thing or great
+    Hath wronged thy kingdom; yet thy peace he woos:
+    Accept the gifts he sends thee, and, thus crowned,
+    Depart content.' Penda with backward hand
+    Waved them far from him, and vouchsafed no word.
+    In sadness they returned: but Oswy smiled
+    Hearing their tale, and said: 'My part is done:
+    Let God decide the event,' He spake, and took
+    The caskets twelve, and placed them, side by side,
+    Before the altar of his chiefest church,
+    And vowed to raise to God twelve monasteries,
+    In honour of our Lord's Apostles Twelve,
+    On greenest upland, or in sylvan glade
+    Where purest stream kisses the richest mead.
+    His vow recorded, sudden through the church
+    Ran with fleet foot a lady mazed with joy,
+    Crying, 'A maiden babe! and lo, the queen
+    Late dying lives and thrives!' That eve the king
+    Bestowed on God the new-born maiden babe,
+    Laying her cradled 'mid those caskets twelve,
+    Six at each side; and said: 'For her nor throne
+    Nor marriage bower! She in some holy house
+    Shall dwell the Bride of Christ. But thou, just God,
+    This day avenge my people!'
+                                    Windwaed field
+    Heard, distant still, that multitudinous foe
+    Trampling the darksome ways. With pallid face
+    Morning beheld their standards, raven-black--
+    Penda had thus decreed, before him sending
+    Northumbria's sentence. On a hill, thick-set
+    Stood Oswy's army, small, yet strong in faith,
+    A wedge-like phalanx, fenced by rocks and woods;
+    A river in its front. His standards white
+    Sustained the Mother-Maid and Babe Divine:
+    From many a crag his altars rose, choir-girt,
+    And crowned by incense wreath.
+                                      An hour ere noon,
+    That river passed, in thunder met the hosts;
+    But Penda, straitened by that hilly tract,
+    Could wield not half his force. Sequent as waves
+    On rushed they: Oswy's phalanx like a cliff
+    Successively down dashed them. Day went by:
+    At last the clouds dispersed: the westering sun
+    Glared on the spent eyes of those Mercian ranks
+    Which in their blindness each the other smote,
+    Or, trapped by hidden pitfalls, fell on stakes,
+    And died blaspheming. Little help that day
+    Gat they from Cambria. She on Heaven-Field height
+    Had felt her death-wound, slow albeit to die.
+    The apostate Ethelwald in panic fled:
+    The East Anglians followed. Swollen by recent rains,
+    And choked with dead, the river burst its bound,
+    And raced along the devastated plain
+    Till cry of drowning horse and shriek of man
+    Rang far and farther o'er that sea of death,
+    A battle-field but late. This way and that
+    Briton or Mercian where he might escaped
+    Through flood or forest. Penda scorned to fly:
+    Thrice with extended arms he met and cursed
+    The fugitives on rushing. As they passed
+    He flung his crownèd helm into the wave,
+    And bit his brazen shield, above its rim
+    Levelling a look that smote with chill like death
+    Their hearts that saw it. Yet one moment more
+    He sat like statue on some sculptured horse
+    With upraised hand, close-clenched, denouncing Heaven:
+    Then burst his mighty heart. As stone he fell
+    Dead on the plain. Not less in after times
+    Mercian to Mercian said, 'Without a wound
+    King Penda died, although on battle-field,
+    Therefore with Odin Penda shares not feast.'
+    Thus pagan died old Penda as he lived:
+    Yet Penda's sons were Christian, kindlier none;
+    His daughters nuns; and lamb-like Mercia's House,
+    Lion one while, made end. King Oswy raised
+    His monasteries twelve: benigner life
+    Around them spread: wild waste, and robber bands
+    Vanished: the poor were housed, the hungry fed:
+    And Oswy sent his little new-born babe
+    Dewed with her mother's tear-drops, Eanfleda,
+    Like some young lamb with fillet decked and flower,
+    Yet dedicated not to death, but life,
+    To Hilda sent on Whitby's sea-washed hill,
+    Who made her Bride of Christ. The years went by,
+    And Oswy, now an old king, glory-crowned,
+    His country from the Mercian thraldom loosed
+    And free from north to south, in heart resolved
+    A pilgrim, Romeward faring with bare feet,
+    To make his rest by Peter's tomb and Paul's.
+    God willed not thus: within his native realm
+    The sickness unto death clasped him with hold
+    Gentle but firm. Long sleepless, t'ward the close
+    Amid his wanderings smiling, from the couch
+    He stretched a shrivelled hand, and pointing said,
+    'Who was it fabled she had died in age?
+    In all her youthful beauty holy and pure,
+    Lo, where she kneels upon the wintry ground,
+    The snow-flakes circling round her, yet with face
+    Bright as a star!' so spake the king, and taking
+    Into his heart that vision, slept in peace.
+    His daughter, abbess then on Whitby's height,
+    Within her church interred her father's bones
+    Beside her grandsire's, Edwin. Side by side
+    They rested, one Bernicia's king, and one
+    Dëira's--great Northumbrian sister realms;
+    Long foes, yet blended by that mingling dust.
+
+
+
+
+_THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF BARDENEY_.
+
+     Osthryda, Queen of Mercia, translates the relics of her uncle,
+     Oswald of Northumberland, to the Abbey of Bardeney. The monks
+     refuse them admittance because King Oswald had conquered and kept
+     for one year Lindsay, a province of Mercia. Though hourly expecting
+     the destruction of their Abbey, they will yield neither to threats
+     nor to supplications, nor even to celestial signs and wonders. At
+     last, being convinced by the reasoning of a devout man, they repent
+     of their anger.
+
+
+    Silent, with gloomy brows in conclave sat
+    The monks of Bardeney, nigh the eastern sea;--
+    Rumour, that still outruns the steps of ill,
+    Smote on their gates with news: 'Osthryda comes
+    To bury here her royal uncle's bones,
+    Northumbrian Oswald.' Oswald was a Saint;
+    Had loosed from Pagan bonds that Christian land
+    His own by right. But Oswald had subdued
+    Lindsay, a Mercian province; and the monks
+    Were sons of Mercia leal and true. Osthryda,
+    Northumbrian born, had wedded Mercia's King;
+    Therefore the monks of Bardeney pondered thus:
+    'This Mercian Queen spurns her adopted country!
+    Must Mercia therefore build her conqueror's tomb?
+    Though earth and hell cried "Ay," it should not be!'
+      Thus mused the brethren till the sun went down:
+    Then lo! beyond a vista in the woods
+    Drew nigh a Bier, black-plumed, with funeral train:
+    Thereon the stern monks gazed, and gave command
+    To close the Abbey's gate. Beside that gate
+    Tent-roofed that Bier remained.
+                                    Before them soon
+    Stood up the royal herald. Thus he spake:
+    'Ye sacred monks of Bardeney's Abbey, hail!
+    Osthryda, wife of Ethelred our King,
+    Prays that God's peace may keep this House forever.
+    The Queen has hither brought, by help of God,
+    King Oswald's bones, and sues for them a grave
+    Within this hallowed precinct.' Answer came:
+    'King Oswald, living, was Northumbria's King;
+    King Oswald, by the pride of life seduced,
+    Wrested from Mercia's sceptre Lindsay's soil;
+    Therefore in Lindsay's soil King Oswald, dead,
+    May never find repose.'
+                              Before them next
+    Three earls advanced full-armed, and spake loud-voiced:
+    'Our Queen is consort of the Mercian King;
+    Ye, monks, are Mercian subjects! Sirs, beware!
+    Our King and Queen have loved you well till now,
+    And ranked your abbey highest in their realm:
+    But hearts ingrate can sour the mood of love;
+    And Ethelred, though mild as summer skies
+    When mildly used, once angered'----Answer came:
+    'We know it, and await our doom, content:
+    If Mercia's King contemns his realm, more need
+    That Mercia's priests her confessors should die:
+    In Bardeney's church King Oswald ne'er shall rest:
+    Ye have your answer, Earls!'
+                                  Through that dim hall
+    Ere long a gentler embassage made way,
+    Three priests; arrived, they knelt, and, reverent, spake:
+    'Fathers and brethren, Oswald was a Saint!
+    He loosed his native land from pagan thrall:
+    Churches and convents everywhere he built:
+    His relics, year by year, grow glorious more
+    Through miracles and signs. Fathers revered,
+    Within this sanctuary beloved of God
+    Vouchsafe his dust interment!' They replied:
+    'We know that Oswald is a Saint with God:
+    We know he freed his realm from pagan thrall;
+    We know that churches everywhere he built;
+    We know that from his relics Grace proceeds
+    As light from sun and moon. In heaven a crown
+    Rests on Saint Oswald's head: yet here on earth
+    King Oswald's foot profaned our Mercian bound:
+    Therefore in Mercian earth he finds not grave.'
+      Silent those priests withdrew. An hour well-nigh
+    Went by in silence. Then with forehead crowned
+    And mourner's veil, and step of one that mourns,
+    The Queen advanced, a lady at each side,
+    And 'mid the circle stood, and thus implored:
+    'Not as your Sovereign come I, holy Sirs,
+    Since all are equal in the House of God;
+    Nor stand I here a stranger. Many a day
+    In this your church, I knelt, while yet a child;
+    Then too, as now, within my breast there lived
+    The tenderest of its ardours and the best,
+    Zeal for my kinsman's fame. That time how oft
+    I heard my Father, Oswy, cry aloud,
+    "O Brother, had I walked but in thy ways
+    My foot had never erred!" In maiden youth
+    I met with one who shared my loyal zeal,
+    Mercian himself: 'twas thus he won my heart:
+    My royal husband shared it; shares this hour
+    My trust that 'mid the altars reared by us
+    To grace this chiefest Minster of our realm
+    May rest the relics of our household Saint--
+    To spurn them from your threshold were to shame.'
+      She spake: benign and soft the answering voice:
+    'Entreat us not, thou mourner true and kind,
+    Lest we, by pity from the straight path drawn,
+    Sin more than thou. Thou know'st what thing love is,
+    Thus loving one who died before thy birth!
+    Up to the measure of high love and fit
+    Thou lov'st him for this cause, because thy heart
+    Hath never rested on base love and bad:
+    Lady, a sterner severance monks have made:
+    Not base and bad alone do they reject,
+    But lesser good for better and for best:
+    Therefore what yet remains they love indeed:
+    A single earthly love is theirs unblamed,
+    Their Country! Lo, the wild-bird loves her nest,
+    Lions their caves:--to us God gave a Country.
+    What heart of man but loves that mother-land
+    Whose omnipresent arms are round him still
+    In vale and plain; whose voice in every stream;
+    Whose breath his forehead cools; whose eyes with joy
+    Regard her offspring issuing forth each morn
+    On duteous tasks; to rest each eve returning?
+    And who that loves her but must hate her foes?
+    Lady, accept God's Will, nor strive by prayer
+    To change it. In our guest-house rest this night,
+    Thou, and thy train.'
+
+                             Severe the Queen replied:
+    'Yea, in thy guest-house I will lodge this night,
+    Unvanquished, undiscouraged, not to cease
+    From prayer: of that be sure. I make henceforth
+    My prayer to God, not man. To Him I pray,
+    That Lord of all, Who changes at His will
+    The stony heart to flesh.'
+                               She spake: then turned
+    On those old faces, keenlier than before,
+    Her large slow eyes; and instant in her face
+    The sadness deepened: but the wrath was gone.
+    That sadness said, 'Love then as deep as mine,
+    And grief like mine, in other breasts may spring
+    From source how different!' Long she gazed, like child
+    That knows not she is seen to gaze, with looks
+    As though she took that hoary-headed band
+    Into her sorrowing heart. Silent she sighed;
+    Then passed into the guest-house with her train:
+    There prayed all night for him, that Saint in heaven
+    Ill-honoured upon earth.
+                              Within their church
+    Meantime the monks the 'Dies Iræ' sang,
+    The yellow tapers ranged as round a corse,
+    And Penitential Psalms in order due.
+    Their rite was for the living: ere the time
+    They sang the obsequies of sentenced men,
+    Foreboding wrath to come. Sad Fancy heard
+    The flames up-rushing o'er their convent home,
+    The ruin of their church late-built, the wreck
+    It might be of their Order. Fierce they knew
+    That Mercian royal House! Against their King
+    They hurled no ban: venial they deemed his crime:
+    'He moves within the limits of his right,
+    Though wrongly measuring right. He sees but this,
+    His subjects break his laws. Some sin of youth
+    It may be hides from him a right more high:'--
+    Thus spake they in their hearts.
+                                      While rival thus
+    The brethren and the Queen sent up their prayer,
+    And sacred night hung midway in her course,
+    Behold, there fell from God tempest and storm
+    Buffeting that abbey's walls. The woods around,
+    Devastated by stress of blast on blast,
+    Howled like the howling of wild beasts when fire
+    Invests their ambush, and their cubs late-born
+    Blaze in red flame. Trembling, the strong-built towers
+    Echoed the woodland moans. All night the Queen,
+    Propped by those two fair Seraphs, Faith and Love,
+    Prayed on in hope, or hearing not that storm,
+    Or mindful that where danger most abounds
+    There God is nearest still. Meantime the Tent
+    Covering that royal Bier, unshaken stood
+    Beside the unyielding abbey-gates close-barred,
+    Like something shielded by a heavenly charm:
+    When morning came, shattered all round it lay
+    Both trunk and bough; but in the rising sun
+    The storm-drop shook not on that snowy shrine.
+
+      Things wondrous more that Legend old records:
+    An hour past sunrise from the meads and moors
+    Came wide-eyed herdsmen thronging, with demand,
+    'What means this marvel? All the long still night,
+    While heaven and earth were dark, and peaceful sleep
+    Closed in her arms the wearied race of men,
+    Keeping our herds on meads and moorlands chill,
+    We saw a glittering Tent beside your gates:
+    Above it, and not far, a pillar stood,
+    All light, and high as heaven!' The abbot answered,
+    'Fair Sirs, ye dreamed a dream; and sound your sleep
+    Untroubled by the terror of the storm
+    Whereof those woodland fragments witness still,
+    And many a forest patriarch prostrate laid:
+    There rose no pillar by our gates: yon Tent
+    Stood there, and stood alone.' In two hours' space
+    Shepherds arrived, from hills remoter sped,
+    Making the same demand. With eye ill pleased
+    Thus answered brief the prior: 'Friends, ye jest!'
+    And they in wrath departed. Once again
+    Came foresters from Lindsay's utmost bound,
+    On horses blown, and spake: 'O'er yonder Tent,
+    Through all the courses of the long still night,
+    Behold, a shining pillar hovering stood:
+    It rained a glory on your convent walls:
+    It flung a trail of splendour o'er your woods:
+    We watched it hour by hour. Like Oswald's Cross
+    On Heaven-Field planted in the days of old,
+    It waxed in height:--the stars were quenched.' Replied
+    With reddening brows the youngest of those monks,
+    'Sirs, ye have had your bribe, and told your tale:
+    Depart!' and they departed great in scorn.
+
+      Long time the brethren sat; discoursed long time
+    Each with his neighbour. 'Craft of man would force
+    Dishonest deed on this our holy House,
+    By miracles suborned;' thus spake the first:
+    The second answered, 'Ay, confederates they!
+    The good Queen knew not of it:' then the third,
+    'Not so! these men are simple folks, I ween:
+    Nor time for fraud had they. What sail is yon
+    So weather-worn that nears the headland?' Soon
+    A pilot stood before them; at his side
+    A priest, long years an inmate of their House,
+    But late a pilgrim in the Holy Land.
+    Their greetings over, greetings warm and kind,
+    Thus spake the Pilgrim: 'Brothers mine, rejoice;
+    Our God is with us! For our House I prayed
+    Three times with forehead on the Tomb of Christ;
+    Last night there came to me, in visible form,
+    An answer to that prayer. All day our ship,
+    Before a great wind rushed t'ward Mercian shores:
+    To them I turned not: on the East I gazed:
+    "O happy East," I mused, "O Land, true home
+    Of every Christian heart! The Saviour's feet
+    Thy streets, thy cornfields trod! With these compared
+    Our country's self seems nothing!" In my heart
+    Imaged successive, rose once more those sites
+    Capernaum, Nain, Bethsaida, Bethlehem--
+    Where'er my feet had strayed. At midnight, cries
+    Of wonder rang around me, and I turned:
+    I saw once more our convent on its hill:
+    I saw beside its gate a Tent snow-white;
+    I saw a glittering pillar o'er that Tent
+    'Twixt heaven and earth suspense! Serene it shone,
+    Such pillar as led forth the Chosen Race
+    By night from Egypt's coasts. From wave to wave
+    Moon-like it paved a path! I cried, "Thank God!
+    For who shall stay yon splendour till it reach
+    That Syrian shore? England," I said, "my country,
+    Shall lay upon Christ's Tomb a hand all light,
+    Whatever tempest shakes the world of men,
+    Thenceforth His servant vowed!"'
+                                  When ceased that voice
+    There fell upon the monks a crisis strange;
+    And where that Pilgrim looked for joy, behold,
+    Doubt, wrath, and anguish! Faces old long since
+    Grew older, stricken as by hectic spasm,
+    So fierce a pang had clutched them by the throat;
+    While drops of sweat on many a wrinkled brow
+    Hung large like dewy beads condensed from mist
+    On cliffs by torrents shaken. Mute they sat;
+    Then sudden rose, uplifting helpless hands,
+    As when from distant rock sore-wounded men,
+    Who all day long have watched some dreadful fight,
+    Behold it lost, or else foresee it lost,
+    And with it lost their country's hearths and homes,
+    And yet can bring no succour. Thus with them--
+    They knew themselves defeated; deemed the stars
+    Of heaven had fought against them in their course;
+    Yet still believed, and could not but believe
+    Their cause the cause of Justice, and its wreck
+    The wreck of priestly honour, patriot faith:
+    At last the youngest of the brethren spake:
+    'Come what come may, God's monks must guard the Right.'
+      Death-like a silence on that conclave fell--
+    Then rose a monk white-headed, well-nigh blind,
+    Esteemed a Saint, who had not uttered speech
+    Since came the tidings of the Queen's resolve:
+    Low-voiced he spake, with eyes upon the ground
+    And inward smile that dimly reached his lips:
+    'Brethren, be wary lest ye strive with God
+    Through wrath, that blind incontinence of age,
+    For what He wills He works. By passion warped
+    Ye deem this trial strange, this conflict new,
+    Yourselves doomed men that stand between two Fates,
+    On one side right, on one side miracles!
+    Brethren, the chief of miracles is this,
+    That knowing what ye know ye know no more:
+    Ye know long since that Oswald is a Saint:
+    Ye know the sins of Saints are sins forgiven:
+    What then? Shall man revenge where God forgives?
+    Be wroth with those He loves? Ye, seeing much,
+    See not the sun at noontide! God last night
+    Sent you in love a miracle of love
+    To quell in you a miracle of wrath:--
+    Discern its import true!
+                              Sum up the past!
+    Thus much is sure: we heard those thunder peals
+    Unheard by hind or shepherd, near or far:
+    'Tis sure not less that light the shepherds saw
+    We saw not; neither we nor yet the Queen
+    What then? Is God not potent to divulge
+    The thing He wills, or hide it? Brethren, God
+    Shrouding from us that beam far dwellers saw
+    Admonished us perchance that far is near;
+    That ofttimes distance makes intelligible
+    What, nigh at hand, is veiled. This too He taught,
+    That when Northumbrian foot our Mercia spurned
+    The men who saw that ruin saw not all:
+    The light of Christ drew near us in that hour;
+    His pillar o'er us stood, and in our midst:
+    The pang, the shame, were transient. See the whole!'
+      The old man paused a space, and then resumed:
+    'Brethren, that day our country suffered wrong:
+    One day she may inflict it. Years may bring
+    The aggressor of past time a penitent grief;
+    The wronged may meet her penitence with scorn
+    Guiltier through malice than her foe's worst rage:
+    Were it not well to leave that time unborn
+    Magnanimous ensample? Hard it were
+    To lay in Mercian earth the unforgiven:
+    _Wholly_ to pardon--that I deem not hard.
+    My voice is this: forgive we Oswald's sin,
+    And lay his relics in our costliest shrine!'
+      Thus spake the aged man. That self-same eve,
+    The western sun descending, while the church,
+    Grey shaft transfigured by the glow divine,
+    Grey wall in flame of light pacific washed,
+    Shone out all golden like that flower all gold
+    Which shoots through sunset airs an arrowy beam,
+    In charity perfected moved the monks,
+    No longer sad, a long procession forth,
+    With foreheads smoothed as by the kiss of death
+    And eyes like eyes of Saints from death new risen,
+    Bearing the relics of Northumbria's King,
+    Oswald, the man of God. Behind them paced
+    Warriors and chiefs; Osthryda last, the Queen,
+    With face whereon that great miraculous light,
+    By her all night unseen, appeared to rest,
+    And foot that might have trod the ocean waves
+    Unwetted save its palm. A shrine gem-wrought
+    Received the royal relics. O'er them drooped
+    Northumbria's standard, guest of Mercian airs
+    Through which it once had sailed, a portent dire:
+    And whosoe'er in after centuries knelt
+    On Oswald's grave, and, praying, wooed his prayer,
+    Departed, in his heart the peace of God,
+    Passions corrupt expelled, and demon snares,
+    Irreverent love, and anger past its bound.
+
+
+
+
+_HOW SAINT CUTHBERT KEPT HIS PENTECOST AT CARLISLE._
+
+     Saint Cuthbert while a boy wanders among the woods of Northumbria,
+     bringing solace to all. Later he lives alone in the island of
+     Farne. Being made bishop, many predict that he will be able neither
+     to teach his people nor to rule his diocese. His people flock to
+     him gladly, but require that he should teach them by parable and
+     tale. This he does, and likewise rules his diocese with might. He
+     discourses concerning common life. Keeping his Pentecost at
+     Carlisle, he preaches on that Feast and the Resurrection from the
+     Dead. Herbert, an eremite, beseeching him that the two may die the
+     same day, he prays accordingly, and they die the same hour.
+
+
+    Saint Cuthbert, yet a youth, for many a year
+    Walked up and down the green Northumbrian vales
+    Well loving God and man. The rockiest glens
+    And promontories shadowing loneliest seas,
+    Where lived the men least cared for, most forlorn,
+    He sought, and brought to each the words of peace.
+    Where'er he went he preached that God all Love;
+    For, as the sun in heaven, so flamed in him
+    That love which later fired Assisi's Saint:
+    Yea, rumour ran that every mountain beast
+    Obeyed his loving call; that when all night
+    He knelt upon the frosty hills in prayer,
+    The hare would couch her by his naked feet
+    And warm them with her fur. To manhood grown,
+    He dwelt in Lindisfarne; there, year by year,
+    Prospering yet more in vigil and in fast;
+    And paced its shores by night, and blent his hymns
+    With din of waves. Yet ofttimes o'er the strait
+    He passed, once more in search of suffering men,
+    Wafting them solace still. Where'er he went,
+    Those loved as children first, again he loved
+    As youth and maid, and in them nursed that Faith
+    Through which pure youth passes o'er passion's waves,
+    Like Him Who trod that Galilean sea:
+    He clasped the grey-grown sinner in his arms,
+    And won from him repentance long delayed,
+    Then with him shared the penance he enjoined.
+    O heart both strong and tender! offering Mass,
+    Awe-struck he stood as though on Calvary's height:
+    The men who marked him shook.
+                                  Twelve winters passed:
+    Then mandate fell upon the Saint from God,
+    Or breathed upon him from the heavenly height,
+    Or haply from within. It drave him forth
+    A hermit into solitudes more stern.
+    'Farewell,' he said, 'my brethren and my friends!
+    No holier life than yours, pure Coenobites
+    Pacing one cloister, sharing one spare meal,
+    Chanting to God one hymn! yet I must forth--
+    Farewell, my friends, farewell!' On him they gazed,
+    And knew that God had spoken to his soul,
+    And silent stood, though sorrowing.
+                                          Long that eve,
+    The brethren grieved, noting his vacant stall,
+    Yet thus excused their sadness: 'Well for him,
+    And high his place in heaven; but woe to those
+    Henceforth of services like his amerced!
+    Here lived he in the world; here many throng;--
+    To him in time some lesser bishopric
+    Might well have fallen, behoof of countless souls!
+    Such dream is past forever!'
+                                    Forth he fared
+    To Farne, a little rocky islet nigh,
+    Where man till then had never dared to dwell,
+    By dreadful rumours scared. In narrow cave
+    Worn from the rock, and roughly walled around,
+    The anchoret made abode, with lonely hands
+    Raising from one poor strip his daily food,
+    Barley thin-grown, and coarse. He saw by day
+    The clouds on-sailing, and by night the stars;
+    And heard the eternal waters. Thus recluse
+    The man lived on in vision still of God
+    Through contemplation known: and as the shades,
+    Each other chase all day o'er steadfast hills,
+    Even so, athwart that Vision unremoved,
+    Forever rushed the tumults of this world,
+    Man's fleeting life, the rise and fall of states,
+    While changeless measured change; the spirit of prayer
+    Fanning that wondrous picture oft to flame
+    Until the glory grew insufferable.
+    Long years thus lived he. As the Apostle Paul,
+    Though raised in raptures to the heaven of heavens,
+    Not therefore loved his brethren less, but longed
+    To give his life--his all--for Israel's sake,
+    So Cuthbert, loving God, loved man the more,
+    His wont of old. To him the mourners came,
+    And sinners bound by Satan. At his touch
+    Their chains fell from them light as summer dust:
+    Each word he spake was as a Sacrament
+    Clothed with God's grace; beside his feet they sat,
+    And in their perfect mind; thence through the world
+    Bare their deliverer's name.
+                                  So passed his life:
+    There old he grew, and older yet appeared,
+    By fasts outworn, though ever young at heart;
+    When lo! before that isle a barge there drew
+    Bearing the royal banner. Egfrid there
+    With regal sceptre sat, and many an earl,
+    And many a mitred bishop at his side.
+    Northumbria's see was void: a council's voice
+    Joined with a monarch's called him to its throne:
+    In vain he wept, and knelt, and sued for grace:
+    Six months' reprieve alone he won; then ruled
+    In Lindisfarne, chief Bishop of the North.
+      But certain spake who deemed that they were wise,
+    Fools all beside: 'Shall Cuthbert crosier lift?
+    A child, 'tis known he herded flocks for hire,
+    Housed in old Renspid's hut, his Irish nurse,
+    Who told him tales of Leinster Kings, his sires,
+    And how her hands, their palace wrecked in war,
+    Had snatched him from its embers. Yet a boy
+    He rode to Melrose and its wondering monks,
+    A mimic warrior, in his hand a lance,
+    With shepherd youth for page, and spake: "'Tis known
+    Christ's kingdom is a kingdom militant:
+    A son of Kings I come to guard His right
+    And battle 'gainst his foes!" For lance and sword
+    A book they gave him; and they made him monk:
+    Savage since then he couches on a rock,
+    As fame reports, with birds' nests in his beard!
+    Can dreamers change to Bishops? Vision-dazed,
+    Move where he may, that slowly wandering eye
+    Will see in man no more than kites or hawks;
+    Men, if they note, will flee him.' Thus they buzzed,
+    Self-praised, and knowing not that simpleness
+    Is sacred soil, and sown with royal seed,
+    The heroic seed and saintly.
+                                  Mitred once
+    Such gibes no more assailed him: one short month
+    Sufficed the petty cavil to confute;
+    One month well chronicled in book which verse
+    Late born, alas, in vain would emulate.
+    At once he called to mind the days that were;
+    His wanderings in Northumbrian glens; the hearths
+    That welcomed him so joyously; at once
+    Within his breast the heart parental yearned;
+    He longed to see his children, scattered wide
+    From Humber's bank to Tweed, from sea to sea,
+    And cried to those around him: 'Let us forth,
+    And visit all my charge; and since Carlisle
+    Remotest sits upon its western bound,
+    Keep there this year our Pentecost!' Next day
+    He passed the sands, left hard by ebbing tide,
+    His cross-bearer and brethren six in front,
+    And trod the mainland. Reverent, first he sought
+    His childhood's nurse, and 'neath her humble roof
+    Abode one night. To Melrose next he fared
+    Honouring his master old.
+                              Southward once more
+    Returning, scarce a bow-shot from the woods
+    There rode to him a mighty thane, one-eyed,
+    With warriors circled, on a jet-black horse,
+    Barbaric shape and huge, yet frank as fierce,
+    Who thus made boast: 'A Jute devout am I!
+    What raised that convent-pile on yonder rock?
+    This hand! I wrenched the hillside from a foe
+    By force, and gave it to thy Christian monks
+    To spite yet more those Angles! Island Saint,
+    Unprofitable have I found thy Faith!
+    Behold, those priests, thy thralls, are savage men,
+    Unrighteous, ruthless! For a sin of mine
+    They laid on me a hundred days of fast!
+    A man am I keen-witted: friend and liege
+    I summoned, shewed my wrong, and ended thus:
+    "Sirs, ye are ninety-nine, the hundredth I;
+    I counsel that we share this fast among us!
+    To-morrow from the dawn to evening's star
+    No food as bulky as a spider's tongue
+    Shall pass our lips; and thus in one day's time
+    My hundred days of fast shall stand fulfilled."
+    Wrathful they rose, and sware by Peter's keys
+    That fight they would, albeit 'gainst Peter's self;
+    But fast they would not save for personal sins.
+    Signal I made: then backward rolled the gates,
+    And, captured thus, they fasted without thanks,
+    Cancelling my debt--a hundred days in one!
+    Beseech you, Father, chide your priests who breed
+    Contention thus 'mid friends!' The Saint replied,
+    'Penance is irksome, Thane: to 'scape its scourge
+    Ways are there various; and the easiest this,
+    Keep far from mortal sin.'
+                                Where'er he faced,
+    The people round him pressed--the sick, the blind,
+    Young mothers sad because a babe was pale;
+    Likewise the wives of fishers, praying loud
+    Their husbands' safe return. Rejoiced he was
+    To see them, hear them, touch them; wearied never:
+    Whate'er they said delighted still he heard:
+    The rise and fall of empires touched him less,
+    The book rich-blazoned, or the high-towered church:
+    'We have,' he said, 'God's children, and their God:
+    The rest is fancy's work.' Him too they loved;
+    Loved him the more because, so great and wise,
+    He stumbled oft in trifles. Once he said,
+    'How well those pine-trees shield the lamb from wind!'
+    A smile ran round; at last the boldest spake,
+    'Father, these are not pine-trees--these are oaks.'
+    And Cuthbert answered, 'Oaks, good sooth, they are!
+    In youth I knew the twain apart: the pine
+    Wears on his head the Cross.' Instruction next
+    He gave them, how the Cross had vanquished sin:
+    Then first abstruse to some appeared his words.
+    'Father,' they answered, 'speak in parables!
+    For pleasant is the tale, and, onward passed,
+    Keeps in our hearts thy lesson.'
+                                      While they spake,
+    A youth rich-vested tossed his head and cried:
+    'Father, why thus converse with untaught hinds?
+    Their life is but the life of gnats and flies:
+    They think but of the hour. Behold yon church!
+    I reared it both for reverence of thy Christ,
+    And likewise that through ages yet to come
+    My name might live in honour!' At that word
+    Cuthbert made answer: 'Hear the parable!
+    My people craved for such.
+                                A monk there lived
+    Holiest of men reputed. He was first
+    On winter mornings in the freezing stall;
+    Meekest when chidden; fervent most in prayer:
+    And, late in life, when heresies arose,
+    That book he wrote, like tempest winged from God,
+    Drave them to darkness back. Grey-haired he died;
+    With honour was interred. The years went by;
+    His grave they opened. Peacefully he slept,
+    Unchanged, the smile of death upon his lips:
+    O'er the right hand alone, for so it seemed,
+    Had Death retained his power: five little lines,
+    White ashes, showed where once the fingers lay.
+    All saw it--simple, learned, rich and poor:
+    None might divine the cause. That night, behold!
+    A Saintly Shape beside the abbot stood,
+    Bright like the sun except one lifted palm--
+    Thereon there lay a stain. 'Behold that hand!'
+    The Spirit spake, 'that, toiling twenty years,
+    Sent forth that book which pacified the world;
+    For it the world would canonise me Saint!
+    See that ye do it not! Inferior tasks
+    I wrought for God alone. Building that book
+    Too oft I mused, "Far years will give thee praise."
+    I expiate that offence.'
+                              Another day
+    A sweet-faced woman raised her voice, and cried,
+    'Father! those sins denounced by God I flee;
+    Yet tasks imposed by God too oft neglect:
+    Stands thus a soul imperilled?' Cuthbert spake:
+    'Ye sued for parables; I speak in such,
+    Though ill, a language strange to me, and new.
+    There lived a man who shunned committed sin,
+    Yet daily by omission sinned and knew it:
+    In his own way, not God's, he served his God;
+    And there was with him peace; yet not God's peace.
+    So passed his youth. In age he dreamed a dream:
+    He dreamed that, being dead, he raised his eyes,
+    And saw a mountain range of frozen snows,
+    And heard, "Committed sins innumerable
+    Though each one small--so small thou knew'st them not--
+    Uplifted, flake by flake as sin by sin,
+    Yon barrier 'twixt thy God and thee! Arise,
+    Remembering that of sins despair is worst:
+    Be strong, and scale it!" Fifty years he scaled
+    Those hills; so long it seemed. A cavern next
+    Entering, with mole-like hands he scooped his way,
+    And reached at last the gates of morn. Ah me!
+    A stone's cast from him rose the Tree of Life:
+    He heard its sighs ecstatic: Full in view
+    The Beatific River rolled; beyond
+    All-glorious shone the City of the Saints
+    Clothed with God's light! And yet from him that realm
+    Was severed by a gulf! Not wide that strait;
+    It seemed a strong man's leap twice told--no more;
+    But, as insuperably soared that cliff,
+    Unfathomably thus its sheer descent
+    Walled the abyss. Again he heard that Voice:
+    "Henceforth no place remains for active toils,
+    Penance for acts perverse. Inactive sloth
+    Through passive suffering meets its due. On earth
+    That sloth a nothing seemed; a nothing now
+    That chasm whose hollow bars thee from the Blest,
+    Poor slender film of insubstantial air.
+    Self-help is here denied thee; for that cause
+    A twofold term thou need'st of pain love-taught
+    To expiate Love that lacked." That term complete
+    An angel caught him o'er that severing gulf:--
+    Thenceforth he saw his God.'
+                                 With such discourse
+    Progress, though slow and interrupted oft,
+    The Saint of God, by no delay perturbed,
+    Made daily through his sacred charge. One eve
+    He walked by pastures arched along the sea,
+    With many companied. The on-flowing breeze
+    Glazed the green hill-tops, bending still one way
+    The glossy grasses: limitless below
+    The ocean mirror, clipped by cape or point
+    With low trees inland leaning, lay like lakes
+    Flooding rich lowlands. Southward far, a rock
+    Touched by a rainy beam, emerged from mist,
+    And shone, half green, half gold. That rock was Farne:
+    Though strangers, those that kenned it guessed its name:
+    'Doubtless 'twas there,' they said, 'our Saint abode!'
+    Then pressed around him, questioning: 'Rumour goes,
+    Father beloved, that in thine island home
+    Thou sat'st all day with hammer small in hand,
+    Shaping, from pebbles veined, miraculous beads
+    That save their wearers still from sword and lance:--
+    Are these things true? 'Smiling the Saint replied:
+    'True, and not true! That isle in part is spread
+    With pebbles divers-fashioned, some like beads:
+    I gathered such, and gave to many a guest,
+    Adding, "Such beads shall count thy nightly prayers;
+    Pray well; then fear no peril!"'
+                                    Others came
+    And thus demanded: 'Rumour fills the world,
+    Father, that birds miraculous crowned thine isle,
+    And awe-struck let thee lift them in thy hand,
+    Though scared by all beside.' Smiling once more
+    The Saint made answer, 'True, and yet not true!
+    Sea-birds elsewhere beheld not throng that isle;
+    A breed so loving and so firm in trust
+    That, yet unharmed by man, they flee not man;
+    Wondering they gaze; who wills may close upon them!
+    I signed a league betwixt that race and man,
+    Pledging the mariners who sought my cell
+    To reverence still that trust.' He ended thus:
+    'My friends, ye seek me still for parables;
+    Seek them from Nature rather:--here are two!
+    Those pebble-beads are words from Nature's lips
+    Exhorting man to pray; those fearless birds
+    Teach him that trust to innocence belongs
+    By right divine, and more avails than craft
+    To shield us from the aggressor.' Some were glad
+    Hearing that doctrine; others cried, 'Not so!
+    Our Saint--all know it--makes miraculous beads;
+    But, being humble, he conceals his might:'
+    And many an age, when slept that Saint in death,
+    Passing his isle by night the sailor heard
+    Saint Cuthbert's hammer clinking on the rock;
+    And age by age men cried, 'Our Cuthbert's birds
+    Revere the Saint's command.'
+                                While thus they spake
+    A horseman over moorlands near the Tweed
+    Made hasty way, and thus addressed the Saint:
+    'Father, Queen Ermenburga greets thee well,
+    And this her message:--"Queen am I forlorn,
+    Long buffeted by many a storm of state,
+    And worn at heart besides; for in our house
+    Peace lived not inmate, but a summer guest;
+    And now, my lord, the King is slain in fight;
+    And changed the aspect now things wore of old:
+    Thou therefore, man of God, approach my gates
+    With counsel sage. This further I require;
+    Thy counsel must be worthy of a Queen,
+    Nor aught contain displeasing."' Cuthbert spake:
+    'My charge requires my presence at Carlisle;
+    Beseech the Queen to meet me near its wall
+    On this day fortnight.'
+                            Thitherwards thenceforth
+    Swiftlier he passed, while daily from the woods
+    The woodmen flocked, and shepherds from the hills,
+    Concourse still widening. These among there moved
+    A hermit meek as childhood, calm as eld,
+    Long years Saint Cuthbert's friend. Recluse he lived
+    Within a woody isle of that fair lake
+    By Derwent lulled and Greta. Others thronged
+    Round Cuthbert's steps; that hermit stood apart
+    With large dark eyes upon his countenance fixed,
+    And pale cheek dewed with tears. The name he bore
+    Was 'Herbert of the Lake.'
+                                Two weeks went by,
+    And Cuthbert reached his journey's end. Next day
+    God sent once more His Feast of Pentecost
+    To gladden men; and all His Church on earth
+    Shone out, irradiate as by silver gleams
+    Flashed from her whiter Sister in the skies;
+    And every altar laughed, and every hearth;
+    And many a simple hind in spirit heard
+    The wind which through that 'upper chamber' swept
+    Careering through the universe of God,
+    New life through all things poured. Cuthbert that day,
+    Borne on by wingèd winds of rapturous thought,
+    Forth from Carlisle had fared alone, and reached
+    Ere long a mead tree-girded;--in its midst
+    Swift-flowing Eden raced from fall to fall,
+    Showering at times her spray on flowers as fair
+    As graced that earlier Eden; flowers so light
+    Each feeblest breath impalpable to man
+    Now shook them and now swayed. Delighted eye
+    The Saint upon them fixed. Ere long he gazed
+    As glad on crowds thronging the river's marge,
+    For now the high-walled city poured abroad
+    Her children rich and poor. At last he spake:
+    'Glory to Him Who made both flowers and souls!
+    He doeth all things well! A few weeks past
+    Yon river rushed by wintry banks forlorn;
+    What decks it thus to-day? The voice of Spring!
+    She called those flowers from darkness forth: she flashed
+    Her life into the snowy breast of each:
+    This day she sits enthroned on each and all:
+    The thrones are myriad; but the Enthroned is One!'
+    He paused; then, kindling, added thus: 'O friends!
+    'Tis thus with human souls through faith re-born:
+    One Spirit calls them forth from darkness; shapes
+    One Christ, in each conceived, its life of life;
+    One God finds rest enthroned on all. Once more
+    The thrones are many; but the Enthroned is One!'
+    Again he paused, and mused: again he spake:
+    'Yea, and in heaven itself, a hierarchy
+    There is that glories in the name of "Thrones:"
+    The high cherubic knowledge is not theirs;
+    Not theirs the fiery flight of Seraph's love,
+    But all their restful beings they dilate
+    To make a single, myriad throne for God--
+    Children, abide in unity and love!
+    So shall your lives be one long Pentecost,
+    Your hearts one throne for God!'
+                                      As thus he spake
+    A breeze, wide-wandering through the woodlands near,
+    Illumed their golden roofs, while louder sang
+    The birds on every bough. Then horns were heard
+    Resonant from stem to stem, from rock to rock,
+    While moved in sight a stately cavalcade
+    Flushing the river's crystal. Of that host
+    Foremost and saddest Ermenburga rode,
+    A Queen sad-eyed, with large imperial front
+    By sorrow seamed: a lady rode close by;
+    Behind her earls and priests. Though proud to man
+    Her inborn greatness made her meek to God:
+    She signed the Saint to stay not his discourse,
+    And placed her at his feet.
+                                His words were great:
+    He spake of Pentecost; no transient grace,
+    No fugitive act, consummated, then gone,
+    But God's perpetual presence in that Church
+    O'er-shadowed still, like Mary, by His Spirit,
+    Fecundated in splendour by His Truth,
+    Made loving through His Love. The reign of Love
+    He showed, though perfected in Christ alone,
+    Not less co-eval with the race of man:
+    For what is man? Not mind: the beasts can think:
+    Not passions; appetites: the beasts have these:
+    Nay, but Affections ruled by Laws Divine:
+    These make the life of man. Of these he spake;
+    Proclaimed of these the glory. These to man
+    Are countless loves revealing Love Supreme:
+    These and the Virtues, warp and woof, enweave
+    A single robe--that sacrificial garb
+    Worn from the first by man, whose every act
+    Of love in spirit was self-sacrifice,
+    And prophesied the Sacrifice Eterne:
+    Through these the world becomes one household vast;
+    Through these each hut swells to a universe
+    Traversed by stateliest energies wind-swift,
+    And planet-crowned, beneath their Maker's eye.
+    All hail, Affections, angels of the earth!
+    Woe to that man who boasts of love to God,
+    And yet his neighbour scorns! While Cuthbert spake
+    A young man whispered to a priest, 'Is yon
+    That Anchoret of the rock? Where learned he then
+    This loving reverence for the hearth and home?
+    Mark too that glittering brow!' The priest replied:
+    'What! shall a bridegroom's face alone be bright?
+    He knows a better mystery! This he knows,
+    That, come what may, all o'er the earth forever
+    God keeps His blissful Bridal-feast with man:
+    Each true heart there is guest!'
+                                      Once more the Saint
+    Arose and spake: 'O loving friends, my children,
+    Christ's sons, His flock committed to my charge!
+    I spake to you but now of humbler ties,
+    Not highest, with intent that ye might know
+    How pierced are earthly bonds by heavenly beam;
+    Yet, speaking with lame tongue in parables,
+    I shewed you but similitudes of things--
+    Twilight, not day. Make question then who will;
+    So shall I mend my teaching.'
+                                    Prompt and bright
+    As children issuing forth to holyday,
+    Then flocked to Cuthbert's school full many a man
+    Successive: each with simpleness of heart
+    His doubt propounded; each his question asked,
+    Or, careless who might hear, confessed his sins,
+    And absolution won. Among the rest,
+    A little seven years' boy, with sweet, still face,
+    Yet strong not less, and sage, drew softly near,
+    His great calm eyes upon the patriarch fixed,
+    And silent stood. From Wessex came that boy:
+    By chance Northumbria's guest. Meantime a chief
+    Demanded thus: 'Of all the works of might,
+    What task is worthiest?' Cuthbert made reply:
+    'His who to land barbaric fearless fares,
+    And open flings God's palace gate to all,
+    And cries "Come in!"' That concourse thrilled for joy:
+    Alone that seven years' child retained the word:
+    The rest forgat it. 'Winifrede' that day
+    Men called him; later centuries, 'Boniface,'
+    Because he shunned the ill, and wrought the good:
+    In time the Teuton warriors knew that brow--
+    Their great Apostle he: they knew that voice:
+    And happy Fulda venerates this day
+    Her martyr's gravestone.
+                              Next, to Cuthbert drew
+    Three maidens hand in hand, lovely as Truth,
+    Trustful, though shy: their thoughts, when hidden most,
+    Wore but a semilucid veil, as when
+    Through gold-touched crystal of the lime new-leaved
+    On April morns the symmetry looks forth
+    Of branch and bough distinct. Smiling, they put
+    At last their question: 'Tell us, man of God,
+    What life, of lives that women lead, is best;
+    Then show us forth in parables that life!'
+      He answered: 'Three; for each of these is best:
+    First comes the Maiden's: she who lives it well
+    Serves God in marble chapel white as snow,
+    His priestess--His alone. Cold flowers each morn
+    She culls ere sunrise by the stainless stream,
+    And lays them on that chapel's altar-stone,
+    And sings her matins there. Her feet are swift
+    All day in labours 'mid the vales below,
+    Cheering sad hearts: each evening she returns
+    To that high fane, and there her vespers sings;
+    Then sleeps, and dreams of heaven.'
+                                        With witching smile
+    The youngest of that beauteous triad cried:
+    'That life is sweetest! I would be that maid!'
+    Cuthbert resumed: 'The Christian Wife comes next:
+    She drinks a deeper draught of life: round her
+    In ampler sweep its sympathies extend:
+    An infant's cry has knocked against her heart,
+    Evoking thence that human love wherein
+    Self-love hath least. Through infant eyes a spirit
+    Hath looked upon her, crying, "I am thine!
+    Creature from God--dependent yet on thee!"
+    Thenceforth she knows how greatness blends with weakness;
+    Reverence, thenceforth, with pity linked, reveals
+    To her the pathos of the life of man,
+    A thing divine, and yet at every pore
+    Bleeding from crownèd brows. A heart thus large
+    Hath room for many sorrows. What of that?
+    Its sorrow is its dowry's noblest part.
+    She bears it not alone. Such griefs, so shared--
+    Sickness, and fear, and vigils lone and long,
+    Waken her heart to love sublimer far
+    Than ecstasies of youth could comprehend;
+    Lift her perchance to heights serene as those
+    The Ascetic treadeth.'
+                            'I would be that wife!'
+    Thus cried the second of those maidens three:
+    Yet who that gazed upon her could have guessed
+    Creature so soft could bear a heart so brave?
+    She seemed that goodness which was beauteous too;
+    Virtue at once, and Virtue's bright reward;
+    Delight that lifts, not lowers us; made for heaven;--
+    Made too to change to heaven some brave man's hearth.
+    She added thus: 'Of lives that women lead
+    Tell us the third!'
+                        Gently the Saint replied:
+    'The third is Widowhood--a wintry sound;
+    And yet, for her who widow is indeed,
+    That winter something keeps of autumn's gold,
+    Something regains of Spring's first flower snow-white,
+    Snow-cold, and colder for its rim of green.
+    She feels no more the warmly-greeting hand;
+    The eyes she brightened rest on her no more;
+    Her full-orbed being now is cleft in twain:
+    Her past is dead: daily from memory's self
+    Dear things depart; yet still she is a wife,
+    A wife the more because of bridal bonds
+    Lives but their essence, waiting wings in heaven;--
+    More wife; and yet, in that great loneliness,
+    More maiden too than when first maidenhood
+    Lacked what it missed not. Like that other maid
+    She too a lonely Priestess serves her God;
+    Yea, though her chapel be a funeral vault,
+    Its altar black like Death;--the flowers thereon,
+    Tinct with the Blood Divine. Above that vault
+    She hears the anthems of the Spouse of Christ,
+    Widowed, like her, though Bride.'
+                                        'O fair, O sweet,
+    O beauteous lives all three; fair lot of women!'
+    Thus cried again the youngest of those Three,
+    Too young to know the touch of grief--or cause it--
+    A plant too lightly leaved to cast a shade.
+    The eldest with pale cheek, and lids tear-wet,
+    Made answer sad: 'I would not be a widow.'
+      Then Cuthbert spake once more with smile benign:
+    'I said that each of these three lives is best:--
+    There are who live those three conjoined in one:
+    The nun thus lives! What maid is maid like her
+    Who, free to choose, has vowed a maidenhood
+    Secure 'gainst chance or choice? What bride like her
+    Whose Bridegroom is the spouse of vestal souls?
+    What widow lives in such austere retreat,
+    Such hourly thought of him she ne'er can join
+    Save through the gate of death? If those three lives
+    In separation lived are fair and sweet,
+    How show they, blent in one?'
+                                    Of those who heard
+    The most part gladdened; those who knew how high
+    Virtue, renouncing all besides for God,
+    Hath leave to soar on earth. Yet many sighed,
+    Jealous for happy homesteads. Cuthbert marked
+    That shame-faced sadness, and continued thus:
+    'To praise the nun reproaches not, O friends,
+    But praises best that life of hearth and home
+    At Cana blessed by Him who shared it not.
+    The uncloistered life is holy too, and oft
+    Through changeful years in soft succession links
+    Those three fair types of woman; holds, diffused,
+    That excellence severe which life detached
+    Sustains in concentration.' Long he mused;
+    Then added thus: 'When last I roved these vales
+    There lived, not distant far, a blessed one
+    Revered by all: her name was Ethelreda:
+    I knew her long, and much from her I learned.
+    Beneath her Pagan father's roof there sat
+    Ofttimes a Christian youth. With him the child
+    Walked, calling him "her friend." He loved the maid:
+    Still young, he drew her to the fold of Christ;
+    Espoused her three years later; died in war
+    Ere three months passed. For her he never died!
+    Immortalised by faith that bond lived on;
+    And now close by, and now 'mid Saints of heaven
+    She saw her husband walk. She never wept;
+    That fire which lit her eye and flushed her cheek
+    Dried up, it seemed, her tears: the neighbours round
+    Called her "the lady of the happy marriage."
+    She died long since, I doubt not.' Forward stepped
+    A slight, pale maid, the daughter of a bard,
+    And answered thus: 'Two months ago she died.'
+    Then Cuthbert: 'Tell me, maiden, of her death;
+    And see you be not chary of your words,
+    For well I loved that woman.' Tears unfelt
+    Fast streaming down her pallid cheek, the maid
+    Replied--yet often paused: 'A sad, sweet end!
+    A long night's pain had left her living still:
+    I found her on the threshold of her door:--
+    Her cheek was white; but, trembling round her lips,
+    And dimly o'er her countenance spread, there lay
+    Something that, held in check by feebleness,
+    Yet tended to a smile. A cloak tight-drawn
+    From the cold March wind screened her, save one hand
+    Stretched on her knee, that reached to where a beam,
+    Thin slip of watery sunshine, sunset's last,
+    Slid through the branches. On that beam, methought,
+    Rested her eyes half-closed. It was not so:
+    For when I knelt, and kissed that hand ill-warmed,
+    Smiling she said: "The small, unwedded maid
+    Has missed her mark! You should have kissed the ring!
+    Full forty years upon a widowed hand
+    It holds its own. It takes its latest sunshine."
+    She lived through all that night, and died while dawned
+    Through snows Saint Joseph's morn.'
+                                    The Queen, with hand
+    Sudden and swift, brushed from her cheek a tear;
+    And many a sob from that thick-crowding host
+    Confessed what tenderest love can live in hearts
+    Defamed by fools as barbarous. Cuthbert sat
+    In silence long. Before his eyes she passed,
+    The maid, the wife, the widow, all in one;
+    With these,--through these--he saw once more the child,
+    Yea, saw the child's smile on the lips of death,
+    That magic, mystic, smile! O heart of man,
+    What strange capacities of grief and joy
+    Are thine! How vain, how ruthless such, if given
+    For transient things alone! O life of man!
+    What wert thou but some laughing demon's scoff,
+    If prelude only to the eternal grave!
+    'Deep cries to deep'--ay, but the deepest deep
+    Crying to summits of the mount of God
+    Drags forth for echo, 'Immortality.'
+    It was the Death Divine that vanquished death!
+    Shorn of that Death Divine the Life Divine,
+    Albeit its feeblest tear had cleansed all worlds,
+    Cancelled all guilt, had failed to reach and sound
+    The deepest in man's nature, Love and Grief,
+    Profoundest each when joined in penitent woe;
+    Failed thence to wake man's hope. The loftiest light
+    Flashed from God's Face on Reason's orient verge
+    Answers that bird-cry from the _Heart_ of man--
+    Poor Heart that, darkling, kept so long its watch--
+    The auspice of the dawn.
+                              Like one inspired
+    The Saint arose, and raised his hands to God;
+    Then to his people turned with such discourse
+    As mocks the hand of scribe. No more he spake
+    In parables; adumbrated no more
+    'Dimly as in a glass' his doctrine high,
+    But placed it face to face before men's eyes,
+    Essential Truth, God's image, meet for man,
+    Himself God's image. Worlds he showed them new,
+    Worlds countless as the stars that roof our night,
+    Fair fruitage of illimitable boughs,
+    Pushed from that Tree of Life from Calvary sprung
+    That over-tops and crowns the earth and man;
+    Preached the Resurgent, the Ascended God
+    Dispensing 'gifts to men.' The tongue he spake
+    Seemed Pentecostal--grace of that high Feast--
+    For all who heard, the simple and the sage,
+    Heard still a single language sounding forth
+    To all one Promise. From that careworn Queen,
+    Who doffed her crown, and placed it on the rock,
+    Murmuring, 'Farewell forever, foolish gaud,'
+    To him the humblest hearer, all made vow
+    To live thenceforth for God. The form itself
+    Of each was changed to saintly and to sweet;
+    Each countenance beamed as though with rays cast down
+    From fiery tongues, or angel choirs unseen.
+      Thus like high gods on mountain-tops of joy
+    Those happy listeners sat. The body quelled--
+    With all that body's might usurped to cramp
+    Through ceaseless, yet unconscious, weight of sense
+    Conceptions spiritual, might more subtly skilled
+    Than lusts avowed, to sap the spirit's life--
+    In every soul its nobler Powers released
+    Stood up, no more a jarring crowd confused
+    Each trampling each and oft the worst supreme,
+    Not thus, but grade o'er grade, in order due,
+    And pomp hierarchical. Yet hand in hand,
+    Not severed, stood those Powers. To every Mind
+    That truth new learned was palpable and dear,
+    Not abstract nor remote, with cordial strength
+    Enclasped as by a heart; through every Heart
+    Serene affections swam 'mid seas of light,
+    Reason's translucent empire without bound,
+    Fountained from God. Silent those listeners sat
+    Parleying in wordless thought. For them the world
+    Was lost--and won; its sensuous aspects quenched;
+    Its heavenly import grasped. The erroneous Past
+    Lay like a shrivelled scroll before their feet;
+    And sweet as some immeasurable rose,
+    Expanding leaf on leaf, varying yet one,
+    The Everlasting Present round them glowed.
+    Dead was desire, and dead not less was fear--
+    The fear of change--of death.
+                                    An hour went by;
+    The sun declined: then rising from his seat,
+    Herbert, the anchoret of the lonely lake,
+    Made humble way to Cuthbert's feet with suit:
+    'O Father, and O friend, thou saw'st me not;
+    Yet day by day thus far I tracked thy steps
+    At distance, for my betters leaving place,
+    The great and wise that round thee thronged; the young
+    Who ne'er till then had seen thy face; the old
+    Who saw it then, yet scarce again may see.
+    Father, a happier lot was mine, thou know'st,
+    Or had been save for sin of mine: each year
+    I sought thy cell, thy words of wisdom heard;
+    Yet still, alas! lived on like sensual men
+    Who yield their hearts to creatures--fixing long
+    A foolish eye on gold-touched leaf, or flower--
+    Not Him, the great Creator. Father and Friend,
+    The years run past. I crave one latest boon:
+    Grant that we two may die the self-same day!'
+    Then Cuthbert knelt, and prayed. At last he spake:
+    'Thy prayer is heard; the self-same day and hour
+    We two shall die.'
+                        That promise was fulfilled;
+    For two years only on exterior tasks
+    God set His servant's hands--the man who 'sought
+    In all things rest,' nor e'er had ceased from rest
+    Then when his task was heaviest. Two brief years
+    He roamed on foot his spiritual realm:
+    The simple still he taught: the sad he cheered:
+    Where'er he went he founded churches still,
+    And convents; yea, and, effort costlier far,
+    Spared not to scan defect with vigilant eye:
+    That eye the boldest called not 'vision-dazed';
+    That Saint he found no 'dreamer:' sloth or greed
+    'Scaped not his vengeance: scandals hid he not,
+    But dragged them into day, and smote them down:
+    Before his face he drave the hireling priest,
+    The bandit thane: unceasing cried, 'Ye kings,
+    Cease from your wars! Ye masters, loose your slaves!'
+    Two years sufficed; for all that earlier life
+    Had trained the Ascetic for those works of might
+    Beyond the attempt of all but boundless love,
+    And in him kept unspent the fire divine.
+    Never such Bishop walked till then the North,
+    Nor ever since, nor ever, centuries fled,
+    So lived in hearts of men. Two years gone by,
+    His strength decayed. He sought once more his cell
+    Sea-lulled; and lived alone with God; and saw
+    Once more, like lights that sweep the unmoving hills,
+    God's providences girdling all the world,
+    With glory following glory. Tenderer-souled
+    Herbert meantime within his isle abode,
+    At midnight listening Derwent's gladsome voice
+    Mingling with deep-toned Greta's, 'Mourner' named;
+    Pacing, each day, the shore; now gazing glad
+    On gold-touched leaf, or bird that cut the mere,
+    Now grieved at wandering thoughts. For men he prayed;
+    And ever strove to raise his soul to God;
+    And God, Who venerates still the pure intent,
+    Forgat not his; and since his spirit and heart
+    Holy albeit, were in the Eyes Divine
+    Less ripe than Cuthbert's for the Vision Blest,
+    Least faults perforce swelling where gifts are vast,
+    That God vouchsafed His servant sickness-pains
+    Virtue to perfect in a little space,
+    That both might pass to heaven the self-same hour.
+      It came: that sun which flushed the spray up-hurled
+    In cloud round Cuthbert's eastern rock, while he
+    Within it dying chanted psalm on psalm,
+    Ere long enkindled Herbert's western lake:
+    The splendour waxed; mountain to mountain laughed,
+    And, brightening, nearer drew, and, nearing, clasped
+    That heaven-dropp'd beauty in more strict embrace:
+    The cliffs successive caught their crowns of fire;
+    Blencathara last. Slowly that splendour waned;
+    And from the glooming gorge of Borrodale,
+    Her purple cowl shadowing her holy head
+    O'er the dim lake twilight with silent foot
+    Stepped like a spirit. Herbert from his bed
+    Of shingles watched that sunset till it died;
+    And at one moment from their distant isles
+    Those friends, by death united, passed to God.
+
+
+
+
+_SAINT FRIDESWIDA, OR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OXFORD_.
+
+     Frideswida flies from the pursuit of a wicked king, invoking the
+     Divine aid and the prayers of St. Catherine and St. Cecilia. She
+     escapes; and at the hour of her death those Saints reveal to her
+     that in that place, near the Isis, where she has successively
+     opened a blind man's eyes and healed a leper, God will one day
+     raise up a seat of Learning, the light and the health of the realm.
+
+
+    'One love I; One: within His bridal bower
+    My feet shall tread: One love I, One alone:
+    His Mother is a Virgin, and His Sire
+    The unfathomed fount of pureness undefiled:
+    Him love I Whom to love is to be chaste:
+    Him love I touched by Whom my forehead shines:
+    Whom she that clasps grows spotless more and more:
+    Behold, to mine His spirit He hath joined:
+    And His the blood that mantles in my cheek:
+    His ring is on my finger.'
+                              Thus she sang;
+    Then walked and plucked a flower: she sang again:
+    'That which I longed for, lo, the same I see:
+    That which I hoped for, lo, my hand doth hold:
+    At last in heaven I walk with Him conjoined
+    Whom, yet on earth, I loved with heart entire.'
+      Thus carolled Frideswida all alone,
+    Treading the opens of a wood far spread
+    Around the upper waters of the Thames.
+    Christian almost by instinct, earth to her
+    Was shaped but to sustain the Cross of Christ.
+    Her mother lived a saint: she taught her child,
+    From reason's dawn, to note in all things fair
+    Their sacred undermeanings. 'Mark, my child,
+    In lamb and dove, not fleshly shapes,' she said,
+    'But heavenly types: upon the robin's breast
+    Revere that red which bathed her from the Cross
+    With slender bill striving to loose those Nails!'
+    Dying, that mother placed within her hand
+    A book of saintly legends. Thus the maid
+    Grew up with mysteries clothed, with marvels fed,
+    A fearless creature swift as wind or fire:
+    But fires of hers were spirit-fires alone,
+    All else like winter moon. The Wessex King
+    Had gazed upon the glory of her face,
+    And deemed that face a spirit's. He had heard
+    Her voice; it sounded like an angel's song;
+    But wonder by degrees declined to love,
+    Such love as Pagans know. The unworthy suit,
+    She scorned, from childhood spoused in heart to Christ:
+    She fled: upon the river lay a boat:
+    She rowed it on through forests many a mile;
+    A month had passed since then.
+                                    Midsummer blazed
+    On all things round: the vast, unmoving groves
+    Stretched silent forth their immemorial arms
+    Arching a sultry gloom. Within it buzzed
+    Feebly the insect swarm: the dragon-fly
+    Stayed soon his flight: the streamlet scarce made way:
+    In shrunken pools, panting, the cattle stood,
+    Languidly browsing on the dried-up sprays:
+    No bird-song shook the bower. Alone that maid
+    Glided light-limbed, as though some Eden breeze,
+    Hers only, charioted the songstress on,
+    Like those that serve the May. Beneath a tree
+    Low-roofed at last she sank, with eyes up-raised
+    On boughs that, ivy-twined and creeper-trailed,
+    Darkened the shining splendour of the sky:--
+    Between their interspaces, here and there,
+    It flashed in purple stars.
+                                Enraptured long,
+    For admiration was to her as love,
+    The maiden raised at last her mother's book,
+    And lit upon her childhood's favourite tale,
+    Catherine in vision wed to Bethlehem's Babe
+    Who from His Virgin-Mother leaning, dropped
+    His ring adown her finger. Princely pride,
+    And pride not less of soaring intellect,
+    At once in her were changed to pride of love:
+    In vain her country's princes sued her grace;
+    Kingdoms of earth she spurned. Around her seat
+    The far-famed Alexandrian Sages thronged,
+    Branding her Faith as novel. Slight and tall,
+    'Mid them, keen-eyed the wingless creature stood
+    Like daughter of the sun on earth new-lit:--
+    That Faith she shewed of all things first and last;
+    All lesser truths its prophets. Swift as beams
+    Forth flashed such shafts of high intelligence
+    That straight their lore sophistic shrivelled up,
+    And Christians they arose. The martyr's wheel
+    Was pictured in the margin, dyed with red,
+    And likewise, azure-tinct on golden ground,
+    Her queenly throne in heaven. 'Ah shining Saint!'
+    Half weeping, smiling half, the virgin cried;
+    'Yet dear not less thy sister of the West;
+    For never gaze I on that lifted face,
+    Or mark that sailing angel near her stayed,
+    But straight her solemn organs round me swell;
+    All discords cease.' Then with low voice she read
+    Of Rome's Cecilia, her who won to Christ,
+    (That earlier troth inviolably preserved)
+    Her Roman bridegroom, wondering at that crown
+    Invisible itself, that round her breathed
+    Rose-breath celestial; her that to the Church
+    Gave her ancestral house; and, happier gift,
+    Devotion's heavenliest instrument of praise;
+    Her that, unfearing, dared that Roman sword;
+    And when its work was done, for centuries lay
+    Like marble, 'mid the catacombs, unchanged,
+    In sleep-resembling death.
+                                From earliest dawn
+    That maiden's eyes had watched: wearied at noon
+    Their silver curtains closed. Huge mossy roots
+    Pillowed her head, that slender book wide-leaved
+    In stillness, like some brooding, white-winged dove,
+    Spread on her bosom: 'gainst its golden edge
+    Rested, gold-tinged, the dimpled ivory chin--
+    Loud thunders broke that sleep; the tempest blast
+    Came up against the woods, while bolt on bolt
+    Ran through them sheer. She started up: she saw
+    That Pagan prince and many a sworded serf
+    Rushing towards her. Fleeter still she fled;
+    But, as some mountain beast tender and slight,
+    That, pasturing spring-fed lilies of Cashmere,
+    Or slumbering where its rock-nursed torrents fall,
+    Sudden not distant hears the hunter's cry
+    And mocks pursuit at first, but slackens soon
+    Breathless and spent, so failed her limbs ere long;
+    A horror of great faintness o'er her crept;
+    More near she heard their shout. She staggered on:
+    To threat'ning phantoms all things round were changed;
+    About her towered in ruin hollow trunks
+    Of spiked and branchless trees, survivors sole
+    Of woods that, summer-scorched, then lightning-struck
+    A century past, for one short week had blazed
+    And blackened ever since. She knelt: she raised
+    Her hands to God: she sued for holier prayer
+    Saint Catherine, Saint Cecilia. At that word
+    Behind her close a cry of anguish rang:
+    Silence succeeded. As by angels' help
+    She reached a river's bank: sun-hardened clay
+    Retained the hoof-prints of the drinking herd;
+    And, shallower for long heats, the oxen's ford
+    Challenged her bleeding feet. She crossed unharmed,
+    And soon in green-gold pastures girt by woods
+    Stood up secure. Then forth she stretched her hands,
+    Like Agnes praising God amid the flame:
+    'Omnipotent, Eternal, Worshipful,
+    One God, Immense, and All-compassionate,
+    Thou from the sinner's snare hast snatched the feet
+    Of her that loved Thee. Glory to Thy name.'
+      Thenceforth secure she roamed those woods and meads;
+    The dwellers in that region brought her bread,
+    Upon that countenance gazing, some with awe
+    But all with love. To her the maidens came:
+    'Tell us,' they said, 'what mystery hast thou learned
+    So sweet and good;--thy Teacher, who was he;
+    Grey-haired, or warrior young?' To them in turn
+    Ceaseless she sang the praises of her Christ,
+    His Virgin Mother and His heavenly court,
+    Warriors on earth for justice. They for her
+    Renounced all else, the banquet and the dance,
+    And nuptial rites revered. A low-roofed house
+    Inwoven of branches 'mid the woods they raised;
+    There dwelt, and sang her hymn, and prayed her prayer,
+    And loved her Saviour-Sovereign. Year by year
+    More high her bright feet scaled the heavenly mount
+    Of lore divine and knowledge of her God,
+    And with sublimer chant she hymned His praise;
+    While oft some bishop, tracking those great woods
+    In progress to his charge, beneath their roof
+    Baptizing or confirming made abode,
+    And all which lacked supplied, nor discipline
+    Withheld, nor doctrine high. The outward world
+    To them a nothing, made of them its boast:
+    A Saint, it said, within that forest dwelt,
+    A Saint that helped their people. Saint she was,
+    And therefore wrought for heaven her holy deeds;
+    Immortal stand they on the heavenly roll;
+    Yet fewest acts suffice for heavenly crown;
+    And two of hers had consequence on earth,
+    Like water circles widening limitless,
+    For man still helpful. Hourly acts of hers,
+    Interior acts invisible to men,
+    Perchance were worthier. Humblest faith and prayer
+    Are oft than miracle miraculous more:--
+    To us the exterior marks the interior might:
+    These two alone record we.
+                                Years had passed:
+    One day when all the streams were dried by heat
+    And rainless fields had changed from green to brown,
+    T'wards her there drew, by others led, a man
+    Old, worn, and blind. He knelt, and wept his prayer:
+    'Help, Saint of God! That impious King am I,
+    That King abhorred, his people's curse and bane,
+    Who chased thee through these woods with fell resolve,
+    Worst vengeance seeking for insulted pride:--
+    Rememberest thou that, near thee as I closed,
+    Kneeling thou mad'st thy prayer? Instant from God
+    Blindness fell on me. Forward still I rushed,
+    Ere long amid those spiked and branded trunks
+    To lie as lie the dead. If hope remains,
+    For me if any hope survives on earth,
+    It rests with thee; thee only!' On her knees
+    She sank in prayer; her fingers in the fount
+    She dipped; then o'er him signed the Saviour's cross,
+    And thrice invoked that Saviour. At her word
+    Behold, that sightless King arose, and saw,
+    And rendered thanks to God.
+                                The legend saith
+    Saint Catherine by her stood that night, and spake:
+    'Once more I greet thee on thy dying day.'
+
+    Again the years went by. That sylvan lodge
+    Had changed to convent. Beautiful it stood
+    Not far from Isis, though on loftier ground:
+    Sad outcasts knew it well: whate'er their need
+    There found they solace. One day toward it moved,
+    Dread apparition and till then unknown,
+    Like one constrained, with self-abhorrent steps,
+    A leper, long in forest caverns hid.
+    Back to their cells the nuns had shrunk, o'erawed:
+    Remained but Frideswida. Thus that wretch
+    With scarce organic voice, and aiding sign,
+    Wailed out the supplication of despair:
+    'Fly not, O saintly virgin! Yet, ah me!
+    What help though thou remainest? Warned from heaven,
+    I know that not thy fountain's healing wave
+    Could heal my sorrow: not those spotless hands:
+    Not even thy prayer. To me the one sole aid
+    Were aid impossible--a kiss of thine.'
+    A moment stood she: not in doubt she stood:
+    First slowly, swiftly then to where he knelt
+    She moved: with steadfast hand she raised that cloth
+    Which veiled what once had been a human face:
+    O'er it she signed in faith the cross of Christ:
+    She wept aloud, 'My brother!' Folding then
+    Stainless to stained, with arms about him wound,
+    In sacred silence mouth to mouth she pressed,
+    A long, long sister's kiss. Like infant's flesh
+    The blighted and the blasted back returned:
+    That leper rose restored.
+                              The legend saith
+    That Saint Cecilia by her stood that night:
+    'Once more I greet thee on thy dying day.'
+
+      It came at last, that day. Her convent grew
+    In grace with God and man: the pilgrim old
+    Sought it from far; the gifts of kings enlarged:--
+    It came at last, that day. There are who vouch
+    The splendour of that countenance never waned:
+    Thus much is sure; it waxed to angels' eyes:--
+    Welcomed it came, that day desired, not feared.
+    By humbleness like hers those two fair deeds
+    Were long forgotten: each day had its task:
+    Not hardest that of dying. Why should sobs
+    Trouble the quiet of a holy house
+    Because its holiest passes? Others wept;
+    The sufferer smiled: 'Ah, little novices,
+    How little of the everlasting lore
+    Your foolish mother taught you if ye shrink
+    From trial light as this!' She spake; then sank
+    In what to those around her seemed but sleep,
+    The midnoon August sunshine on her hair
+    In ampler radiance lying than that hour
+    When, danger near her yet to her unknown,
+    Beneath that forest tree her eyelids closed--
+    Her book upon her bosom.
+                              Near her bed
+    Not danger now but heralds ever young,
+    Saint Catherine, Saint Cecilia, stood once more,
+    Linked hand in hand, with aureoles interwreathed:
+    One gazing stood as though on radiance far
+    With widening eyes: a listener's look intent
+    The other's, soft with pathos more profound.
+    The Roman sister spake: 'Rejoice, my child,
+    Rejoice, thus near the immeasurable embrace
+    And breast expectant of the unnumbered Blest
+    That swells to meet thee! Yea, and on the earth
+    For thee reward remaineth. Happy thou
+    Through prayer his sight restoring to thy foe,
+    Sole foe that e'er thou knew'st though more his own!
+    Child! darkness is there worse than blindness far,
+    Wherein erroneous wanders human Pride;
+    That prayer of thine from age to age shall guard
+    A realm against such darkness. Where yon kine
+    Stand in mid ford, quenching their noontide thirst,
+    Thy footsteps crossed of old the waters. God
+    In the unerasing current sees them still!
+    Close by, a nation from a purer flood
+    Shall quench a thirst more holy, quaffing streams
+    Of Knowledge loved as Truth. Majestic piles
+    Shall rise by yonder Isis, honouring, each,
+    My clear-eyed sister of the sacred East
+    That won to Christ the Alexandrian seers,
+    Winning, herself, from chastity her lore:
+    Upon their fronts, aloft in glory ranged
+    With face to East, and cincture never loosed,
+    All Sciences shall stand, daughters divine
+    Of Him that Truth eterne and boon to man,
+    Holding in spotless hand, not lamp alone,
+    But lamp and censer both, and both alike
+    From God's great Altar lighted.'
+                                      Spake in turn
+    That Alexandrian with the sunlike eyes:
+    'Beside those Sciences shall stand a choir
+    As fair as they; as tall; those sister Arts,
+    High daughters of celestial Harmony,
+    Diverse yet one, that bind the hearts of men
+    To steadfast Truth by Beauty's sinuous cords;
+    She that to marble changes mortal thought;
+    She that with rainbow girds the cloud of life;
+    She that above the streaming mist exalts
+    Rock-rooted domes of prayer; and she that rears
+    With words auguster temples. Happy thou
+    Healing that leper with thy virgin kiss!
+    A leprosy there is more direful, child!--
+    Therein the nations rot when flesh is lord
+    And spirit dies. Such ruin Arts debased
+    Gender, or, gendered long, exasperate more.
+    But thou, rejoice! From this pure centre Arts
+    Unfallen shall breathe their freshness through the land,
+    With kiss like thine healing a nation's wound
+    Year after year successive; listening, each,
+    My sister's organ music in the skies,
+    Prime Art that, challenging not eye but ear,
+    To Faith is nearest, and of Arts on earth
+    For that cause, living soul.'
+                                  That prophecy
+    Found its accomplishment. In later years,
+    There where of old the Oxen had their Ford,
+    The goodliest city England boasts arose,
+    Mirrored in sacred Isis; like that flood
+    Its youth for aye renewing. Convents first
+    Through stately groves levelled their placid gleam,
+    With cloisters opening dim on garden gay
+    Or moonlit lawn dappled by shadowing deer:
+    Above them soared the chapel's reverent bulk
+    With storied window whence, in hues of heaven,
+    Martyrs looked down, or Confessor, or Saint
+    On tomb of Founder with its legend meek
+    'Pro animâ orate.' Night and day
+    Mounted the Church's ever-varying song
+    Sustained on organ harmonies that well
+    Might draw once more to earth, with wings outspread
+    And heavenly face made heavenlier by that strain,
+    Cecilia's Angel. Of those convents first
+    Was Frideswida's, ruled in later years
+    By Canons Regular, later yet rebuilt
+    By him of York, that dying wept, alas,
+    'Had I but served my Maker as my king!'
+    To colleges those convents turned; yet still
+    The earlier inspiration knew not change:
+    The great tradition died not: near the bridge
+    From Magdalen's tower still rang the lark-like hymn
+    On May-day morn: high ranged in airy cells,
+    Facing the East, all Sciences, all Arts,
+    Yea, and with these all Virtues, imaged stood,
+    Best imaged stood in no ideal forms,
+    Craft unhistoric of some dreamer's brain,
+    But life-like shapes of plain heroic men
+    Who in their day had fought the fight of Faith,
+    Warriors and sages, poets, saints, and kings,
+    And earned their rest: the long procession paced,
+    Up winding slow the college-girded street
+    To where in high cathedral slept the Saint,
+    Singing its 'Alma Redemptoris Mater,'
+    On August noons, what time the Assumption Feast
+    From purple zenith of the Christian heaven
+    Brightened the earth. That hour not bells alone
+    Chiming from countless steeples made reply:
+    Laughed out that hour high-gabled roof and spire;
+    Kindling shone out those Sciences, those Arts
+    Pagan one time, now confessors white-robed;
+    And all the holy City gave response,
+    'Deus illuminatio mea est.'[24]
+
+
+
+
+
+_THE BANQUET HALL OF WESSEX, OR THE KING WHO COULD SEE._
+
+     Kenwalk, King of Wessex, is a Pagan, but refuses to persecute
+     Christians. He is dethroned by the Mercian King, and lives an exile
+     in a Christian land. There he boasts that he never accords faith to
+     what he hears, and believes only what he sees; yet, his eye being
+     single, he sees daily more of the Truth. Wessex is delivered, and a
+     great feast held at which the Pagan nobles, priests, and bards all
+     conspire for the destruction of the Faith. Birinus, the bishop,
+     having withstood them valiantly, Kenwalk declares himself a
+     Christian. Birinus prophesies of England's greatest King.
+
+
+    King Cynegils lay dead, who long and well
+    Had judged the realm of Essex. By his bier
+    The Christians standing smote their breasts, and said,
+    'Ill day for us:' but all about the house
+    Clustering in smiling knots of twos and threes,
+    The sons of Odin whispered, or with nods
+    Gave glad assent. Christ's bishop sent from Rome,
+    Birinus, to the king had preached for years
+    The Joyous Tidings. Cynegils believed,
+    And with him many; but the most refrained:
+    With these was Kenwalk; and, his father dead,
+    Kenwalk was king.
+                          A valiant man was he,
+    A man of stubborn will, but yet at heart
+    Magnanimous and just. To one who said,
+    'Strike, for thine hour is come!' the king new-crowned
+    Made answer, 'Never! Each man choose his path!
+    My father chose the Christian--Odin's I.
+    I crossed my father oft a living man;
+    I war not on him dead.'
+                             That giant hand
+    Which spared Religion ruled in all beside:
+    He harried forth the robbers from the woods,
+    And wrecked the pirates' ships. He burned with fire
+    A judge unjust, and thrice o'er Severn drave
+    The invading Briton. Lastly, when he found
+    That woman in his house intolerable,
+    From bed and realm he hurled her forth, though crowned,
+    Ensuing thence great peace.
+                           Not long that peace:
+    The Mercian king, her brother, heard her tale
+    With blackening brow. The shrill voice stayed at last,
+    Doubly incensed the monarch made reply:
+    'Sister, I never loved you;--who could love?
+    But him who spurned you from his realm I hate:
+    Fear nought! your feast of vengeance shall be full!'
+    He spake; then cried, 'To arms!'
+                                         In either land,
+    Like thunders low and far, or windless plunge
+    Of waves on coasts long silent that proclaim,
+    Though calm the sea for leagues, tempest far off
+    That shoreward swells, thus day by day was heard
+    The direful preparation for a war
+    Destined no gladsome tournament to prove,
+    But battle meet for ancient foes resolved
+    To clear old debts; make needless wars to come.
+    Not long that strife endured; on either side
+    Valour was equal; but on one, conjoined,
+    The skill most practised, and the heavier bones:
+    The many fought the few. On that last field
+    'Twas but the fury of a fell despair,
+    Not hope, that held the balance straight so long:
+    Ere sunset all was over. From the field
+    A wounded remnant dragged their king, half dead:
+    The Mercian host pursued not.
+                                      Many a week
+    Low lay the broken giant nigh to death:
+    At last, like creeping plant down-dragged, not crushed,
+    That, washed by rains, and sunshine-warmed, once more
+    Its length uplifting, feels along the air,
+    And gradual finds its 'customed prop, so he,
+    Strengthening each day, with dubious eyes at first
+    Around him peered, but raised at length his head,
+    And, later, question made. His health restored,
+    He sought East Anglia, where King Anna reigned,
+    His chief of friends in boyhood. Day by day
+    A spirit more buoyant to the exile came
+    And winged him on his way: his country's bound
+    Once passed, his darker memories with it sank:
+    Through Essex hastening, stronger grew his step;
+    East Anglian breezes from the morning sea
+    Fanned him to livelier pulse: wild April growths
+    Gladdened his spirit with glittering green. More fresh
+    He walked because the sun outfaced him not,
+    Veiled, though not far. That shrouded sun had ta'en
+    Its passion from the wild-bird's song, but left
+    Quiet felicities of notes low-toned
+    That kept in tune with streams too amply brimmed
+    To chatter o'er their pebbles. Kenwalk's soul
+    Partook not with the poet's. Loveliest sights,
+    Like music brightening those it fails to charm,
+    Roused but his mirthful mood. To each that passed
+    He tossed his jest: he scanned the labourer's task;
+    Reviled the luckless boor that ploughed awry,
+    And beat the smith that marred the horse's hoof:
+    At times his fortunes thus he moralised:
+    'Here walk I, crownless king, and exiled man:
+    My Mercian brother lists his sister's tongue:
+    Say, lark! which lot is happiest?'
+                                     Festive streets,
+    Tapestries from windows waving, banners borne
+    By white-clad children chanting anthems blithe;
+    With these East Anglia's king received his friend
+    Entering the city gate. In joyous sports
+    That day was passed. At banquet Christian priests
+    Sat with his thanes commingled. Anna's court
+    Was Christian, and, for many a league around,
+    His kingdom likewise. As the earth in May
+    Glistens with vernal flowers, or as the face
+    Of one whose love at last has found return
+    Irradiate shines, so shone King Anna's house,
+    A home of Christian peace. Fair sight it was--
+    Justice and Love, the only rivals there,
+    O'er-ruled it, and attuned. Majestic strength
+    Looked forth in every glance of Anna's eye,
+    Too great for pride to dwell there. Tender-souled
+    As that first streak, the harbinger of dawn
+    Revealed through cloudless ether, such the queen,
+    All charity, all humbleness, all grace,
+    All womanhood. Harmonious was her voice,
+    Dulcet her movements, undisguised her thoughts,
+    As though they trod an Eden land unfallen,
+    And needed raiment none. Some heavenly birth
+    Their children seemed, blameless in word and act,
+    The sisters as their brothers frank, and they,
+    Though bolder, not less modest. Kenwalk marked,
+    And marking, mused in silence, 'Contrast strange
+    These Christians with the pagan races round!
+    Something those pagans see not these have seen:
+    Something those pagans hear not these have heard:
+    Doubtless there's much in common. What of that?
+    'Tis thus 'twixt man and dog; yet knows the dog
+    His master walks in worlds by him not shared--
+    Perchance for me too there are worlds unknown!'
+
+        Thus God to Kenwalk shewed the things that bear
+    Of God true witness, seeing in his soul
+    Justice and Judgment, and, with these conjoined,
+    Valour and Truth: for as the architect
+    On tower four-square and solid plants his spire,
+    And not on meads below, though gay with flowers,
+    On those four virtues God the fabric rears
+    Of virtues loftier yet--those three, heaven-born,
+    And pointing heavenward.
+                                 To those worlds unknown
+    Kenwalk ere long stood nigh. In three short months
+    The loveliest of those children, and last born,
+    Lay cold in death. Old nurses round her wailed:
+    The mighty heart of Kenwalk shook for dread
+    Entering the dim death-chamber. On a bier
+    The maiden lay, the cross upon her breast:
+    Beside her sat her mother, pale as she,
+    Yet calm as pale. When Kenwalk near her drew
+    She lifted from that bier a slender book
+    And read that record of the three days' dead
+    Raised by the Saviour from that death-cave sealed,
+    A living man. Once more she read those words,
+    'I am the Resurrection and the Life,'
+    Then added, low, with eyes up cast to heaven,
+    'With Him my child awaits me.' Kenwalk saw;
+    And, what he saw, believing, half believed--
+    Not more--the things he heard.
+                                    Yes, half believed;
+    Yet, call it obduracy, call it pride,
+    Call it self-fear, or fear of priestly craft,
+    He closed his ear against the Word Divine:
+    The thing he saw he trusted; nought beyond.
+    Three years went by. Once, when his friend had named
+    The Name all-blessed, Kenwalk frowned. Since then
+    That Name was named no more. O'er hill and dale
+    They chased the wild deer; on the billow breathed
+    Inspiring airs; in hall of joyance trod
+    The mazes of the dance. Then war broke out:
+    Reluctant long King Anna sought the field;
+    Hurled back aggression. Kenwalk, near him still,
+    Watched him with insight keener than his wont,
+    And, wondering, marked him least to pagans like
+    Inly, when like perforce in outward deed.
+    The battle frenzy took on him no hold:
+    Severe his countenance grew; austere and sad;
+    Fatal, not wrathful. Vicar stern he seemed
+    Of some dread, judgment-executing Power,
+    Against his yearnings; not despite his will.
+    Once, when above the faithless town far off
+    The retributive smoke leaped up to heaven,
+    He closed with iron hand on Kenwalk's arm
+    And slowly spake--a whisper heard afar--
+    'See you that town? Its judgment is upon it!
+    I gave it respite twice. This day its doom
+    Is irreversible.'
+                      The invader quelled,
+    Anna and Kenwalk on their homeward way
+    Rode by the grave of saintly Sigebert,
+    King Anna's predecessor. Kenwalk spake:
+    'Some say the people keep but memory scant
+    Of benefits: I trust the things I see:
+    I never passed that tomb but round it knelt
+    A throng of supplicants! King Sigebert
+    Conversed, men say, with prophet and with seer:
+    I never loved that sort:--who wills can dream--
+    Yet what I see I see.'
+                          'They pray for him,'
+    Anna replied, 'who perished for their sake:
+    Long years he lived recluse at Edmondsbury,
+    A tonsured monk: around its walls one day
+    Arose that cry, "The Mercian, and his host!
+    Forth, holy King, and lead, as thou wert wont,
+    Thy people to the battle, lest they die!"
+    Again I see him riding at their head,
+    Lifting a cross, not sword. The battle lost,
+    Again I see him fall.' With rein drawn tight
+    King Kenwalk mused; then smote his hands, and cried
+    'My father would have died like Sigebert!
+    He lacked but the occasion!' After pause,
+    Sad-faced, with bitter voice he spake once more:
+    'Such things as these I might have learned at home!
+    I shunned my father's house lest fools might say,
+    'He thinks not his own thoughts.'
+                                      Thus month by month,
+    Though Faith which 'comes by hearing' had not come
+    To Kenwalk yet, not less since sight he used
+    In honest sort, and resolute to learn,
+    God shewed him memorable things and great
+    Which sight unblest discerns not, tutoring thus
+    A kingly spirit to a kingly part:
+    Before him near it lay.
+                            The morrow morn
+    Great tidings came: in Wessex war was raised:
+    Kenwalk, departing thus to Anna spake,
+    To Anna, and his consort: 'Well I know
+    What thanks are those the sole your hearts could prize:'
+    With voice that shook he added: 'Man am I
+    That make not pledge: yet, if my father's God
+    Sets free my father's realm----' again he paused;
+    Then westward rode alone.
+                              Well planned, fought well
+    (For Kenwalk, of the few reverse makes wise,
+    From him had put his youth's precipitance)
+    That virtuous warfare triumphed. Swift as fire
+    The news from Sherburne and from Winbourne flashed
+    To Sarum, Chertsey, Malmsbury. That delight
+    On earth the nearest to religious joy,
+    The rapture of a trampled land set free,
+    Swelled every breast: the wounded in their wounds
+    Rejoiced, not grieved: the sick forgat their pains:
+    The mourner dashed away her tear and cried,
+    'Wessex is free!' Remained a single doubt:
+    Christians crept forth from cave and hollow tree:
+    Once more the exiled monk was seen; and one
+    Who long in minstrel's garb, with harp in hand,
+    Old, poor, half blind, had sat beside a bridge,
+    And, charming first the wayfarer with song,
+    Had won him next with legends of the Cross,
+    Stood up before his altar. Rumour ran
+    'Once more Birinus lifts his crosier-staff!'
+    Then muttered priests of Odin, 'Cynegils
+    We know was Christian. Kenwalk holds--or held,
+    Ancestral Faith, yet warred not on the new:
+    Tolerance means still connivance.'
+                                      Peace restored,
+    Within King Kenwalk's echoing palace hall,
+    The hall alike of council and of feast,
+    The Great Ones of the Wessex realm were met:
+    Birinus sat among them, eyed from far
+    With anger and with hatred. Council o'er,
+    Banquet succeeded, and to banquet song,
+    The Saxon's after-banquet. Many a harp
+    That day by flying hand entreated well
+    Divulged its secret, amorous, or of war;
+    And many a warrior sang his own great deeds
+    Or dirge of ancient friend Valhalla's guest;
+    Nor stinted foeman's praise. Silent meanwhile
+    Far down the board a son of Norway sat,
+    Ungenial guest with clouded brows and stern,
+    And eyes that flashed beneath them: bard was he,
+    Warrior and bard. Not his the song for gold!
+    He sang but of the war-fields and the gods;
+    He lays of love despised. 'Thy turn is come,
+    Son of the ice-bound North,' thus spake a thane:
+    'Sing thou! The man who sees that face, already
+    Half hears the tempest singing through the pines
+    That shade thy gulfs hill-girt.' The stranger guest
+    Answered, not rising: 'Yea, from lands of storm
+    And seas cut through by fiery lava floods
+    I come, a wanderer. Ye, meantime, in climes
+    Balm-breathing, gorge the fat, and smell the sweet:
+    Ye wed the maid whose sire ye never slew,
+    And bask in unearned triumph. Feeble spirits!
+    Endless ye deem the splendours of this hour,
+    And call defeat opprobrious! Sirs, our life
+    Is trial. Victory and Defeat are Gods
+    That toss man's heart, their plaything, each to each:
+    Great Mercia knows that truth--of all your realms
+    Faithfullest to Odin far!'
+                                'Nay, minstrel, sing,'
+    Once more, not wroth, they clamoured. He replied:
+    'Hear then my song; but not those songs ye sing:
+    I have against you somewhat, Wessex men!
+    Ye are not as your fathers, when, in youth,
+    I trod your coasts. That time ye sang of Gods,
+    Sole theme for manlike song. On Iceland's shores
+    We keep our music's virtue undefiled:
+    While summer lasts we fight; by winter hearths,
+    Or ranged in sunny coves by winter seas,
+    Betwixt the snow-plains and the hills of fire,
+    Singing we feed on legends of the Gods:
+    Ye sing but triumphs of the hour that fleets;
+    Ye build you kingdoms: next ye dash them down:
+    Ye bow to idols! O that song of mine
+    Might heal this people's wound!'
+                                      Then rose the bard
+    And took his harp, and smote it like a man;
+    And sang full-blooded songs of Gods who spurn
+    Their heaven to war against that giant race
+    Throned 'mid the mountains of old Jötunheim
+    That girdle still the unmeasured seas of ice
+    With horror and strange dread. Innumerable,
+    In ever-winding labyrinths, glacier-thronged,
+    Those mountains raise their heads among the stars,
+    That palsied glimmer 'twixt their sunless bulks,
+    O'er-shadowing seas and lands. O'er Jötunheim
+    The glittering car of day hath never shone:
+    There endless twilight broods. Beneath it sit
+    The huge Frost-Giants, sons of Örgelmir,
+    Themselves like mountains, solitary now,
+    Now grouped, with knees drawn up, and heads low bent
+    Plotting new wars. Those wars the Northman sang;
+    And thunder-like rang out the vast applause.
+    That hour Birinus whispered one close by:
+    'Not casual this! Ill spirits, be sure, this day,
+    And impious men will launch their fiercest bolts
+    To crush Christ's Faith for ever!'
+                                      Jocund songs
+    The bard sang next: how Thor had roamed disguised
+    Through Jötunheim, and found the giant-brood
+    Feasting; and how their king gave challenge thus:
+    'Sir, since you deign us visit, show us feats!
+    Behold yon drinking horn! with us a child
+    Drains it at draught.' The God inclined his head
+    And swelled his lips; and three times drank: yet lo!
+    Nigh full that horn remained, the dusky mead
+    In mockery winking! Spake once more the king:
+    'Behold my youngest daughter's chief delight,
+    Yon wild-cat grey! She lifts it: lift it thou!'
+    The God beneath it slipped his arm and tugged,
+    And tugging, ever higher rose and higher;
+    The wild cat arched her back and with him rose;--
+    But one foot left the ground! Last, forward stept
+    A haggard, lame, decrepid, toothless crone,
+    And cried, 'Canst wrestle, friend?' He closed upon her:
+    Firm stood she as a mountain: she in turn
+    Closed upon Thor, and brought him to one knee:
+    Lower she could not bend him. Thor for rage
+    Clenched both his fists until his finger-joints
+    Grew white as snow late fallen!
+                                    Loud and long
+    The laughter rose: the minstrel frowned dislike:
+    'I have against you somewhat, Wessex men!
+    In laughter spasms ye reel, or shout applause,
+    Music surceased. Like rocks your fathers sat;
+    In every song they knew some mystery lay,
+    Mystery of man or nature. Greater God
+    Is none than Thor, whom, witless, thus ye flout.
+    That giant knew his greatness, and, at morn,
+    While vexed at failure through the gates he passed,
+    Addressed him reverent: 'Lift thy head, great Thor!
+    Disguised thou cam'st; not less we knew thee well:
+    Brave battle fought'st thou, seeming still to fail:
+    Thy foes were phantoms! Phantasies I wove
+    To snare thine eyes because I feared thy hand,
+    And pledged thy strength to tasks impossible.
+    That horn thou could'st not empty was the sea!
+    At that third draught such ebb-tide stripp'd the shore
+    As left whole navies stranded! What to thee
+    Wild-cat appeared was Midgard's endless snake
+    Whose infinite circle clasps the ocean round:
+    Then when her foot thou liftedst, tremour went
+    From iron vale to vale of Jötunheim:
+    Hadst thou but higher raised it one short span,
+    The sea had drowned the land! That toothless crone
+    Was Age, that drags the loftiest head to earth:
+    She bent thy knee alone. Come here no more!
+    On equal ground thou fight'st us in the light:
+    In this, our native land, the stronger we,
+    And mock thee by Illusions!'
+                                  After pause,
+    With haughty eye cast round, the minstrel spake:
+    'Now hear ye mysteries of the antique song,
+    Though few shall guess their import!' Then he sang
+    Legends primeval of that Northern race,
+    And dread beginnings of the heavens and earth,
+    When, save the shapeless chaos, nothing was:
+    Of Ymer first, by some named Örgelmir,
+    The giant sire of all the giant brood:--
+    Him for his sins the sons of Bör destroyed;
+    Then fashioned of his blood the seas and streams,
+    And of his bones the mountains; of his teeth
+    The cliffs firm set against the aggressive waves;
+    Last, of his skull the vast, o'er-hanging heaven;
+    And of his brain the clouds.
+                                  'Sing on,' they cried:
+    Next sang he of that mystic shape, earth-born,
+    The wondrous cow, Auhumla. Herb that hour
+    Was none, nor forest growth; yet on and on
+    She wandered by the vapour-belted seas,
+    And, wandering, from the stones and icebergs cold
+    That creaked forlorn against the grey sea-crags,
+    She licked salt spray, and hoary frost, and lived;
+    And ever where she licked sprang up, full-armed,
+    Men fair and strong!
+                          Once more they cried, 'Sing on!'
+    Last sang the minstrel of the Night and Day:
+    Car-borne they sweep successive through the heaven:
+    First rides the dusky maid by men called Night;
+    Sleep-bringing, pain-assuaging, kind to man;
+    With dream-like speed cleaving the starry sphere:
+    Hrimfaxi is her horse: his round complete
+    Foam from his silver bit bespangles earth,
+    And mortals call it 'Morn.' Day follows fast,
+    Her brother white: Skinfaxi is his horse:
+    When forth he flings the splendours from his mane
+    Both Gods and men rejoice.
+                                Thus legends old
+    The Northman sang, till, fleeting from men's eyes,
+    The present lived no longer. In its place
+    He fixed that vision of the world new formed,
+    Which on the childhood of the Northern mind
+    Like endless twilight lay;--spaces immense;
+    Unmeasured energies of fire and flood;
+    Great Nature's forces, terrible yet blind,
+    In ceaseless strife alternately supreme,
+    Or breast to breast with dreadful equipoise
+    In conflict pressed. Once more o'er those that heard
+    He hung that old world's low, funereal sky:
+    Before their eyes he caused its cloud to stream
+    Shadowing infinitude. He spake no word
+    Like Heida of that war 'twixt Good and Ill;
+    That peace which crowns the just; that God unknown:
+    Enough to him his Faith without its soul!
+    With glorying eye he marked that panting throng;
+    Then, sudden, changed his note. Again of war
+    He sang, but war no more of Gods on Gods;
+    He sang the honest wars of man on man;
+    Of Odin, king of men, ere yet, death past,
+    He flamed abroad in godhead. Field on field
+    He sang his battles; traced from realm to realm
+    His conquering pilgrimage: then ended, fierce:
+    'What God was this--that God ye honoured once?
+    What man was this--your half-forgotten king?
+    Your law-giver he was! he framed your laws!
+    Your poet he: he shaped your earliest song!
+    Your teacher he: he taught you first your runes!
+    Your warrior--yours! His warfare consummate,
+    For you he died! Old age at last, sole foe
+    Unvanquished, found him throned in Gylfi's land:
+    Summoning his race around him thus he spake:
+    "My sons, I scorn that age should cumber youth!
+    Ye have your lesson--see ye keep it well!
+    I taught you how to conquer; how to live;
+    Now learn to die!" His dagger high he raised;
+    Nine times he plunged it through his bleeding breast,
+    Then sheathed it in his heart. Ere from his lips
+    The kingly smile had vanished, he was dead!'
+
+    So sang the bard and ceased; his work was done:
+    Abroad the tempest burst. 'Twas not his songs
+    Alone that raised it! Memories which they waked,
+    Memories of childhood, fainter year by year,
+    Tripled his might. Meantime a Saxon priest
+    Potential there, bent low, with eye-brow arched,
+    O'er Eardulf's ear, Eardulf old warrior famed,
+    And whispered long, and as he whispered glanced
+    Oft at Birinus. Keen of eye the King,
+    The action noting well, the aim divined,
+    And thus to Offa near him spake, low-toned:
+    'The full-fed priest of Odin sends a sword
+    To slay that naked babe he hates so sore,
+    The Faith of Christ!'
+                          Rising with fiery face
+    And thundering hand that shook the banquet board
+    Eardulf began: '"Ye are not what ye were!"
+    So saith our stranger kinsman from the north,
+    A man plain-tongued; I would that all were such!
+    Lords, and my King, this stranger speaks the truth!
+    I tell you too, we are not what we were:
+    Nor lengthened trail he hunts who seeks the cause.
+    Lo, there the cause among us! Man from Rome!
+    I ask who sent thee hither? From the first
+    Rome and our native races stand at war;
+    Her hope was this, to make our sons like hers
+    Liars and slaves, our daughters false and vile,
+    And, thus subverted, rule our land and us.
+    Frustrate in war, now sends she forth her priests
+    In peaceful gown to sap the manly hearts
+    Her sword but manlier made. Ho, Wessex men!
+    Ye see your foe! My counsel, Lords, is this:
+    The worm that stings us tread we to the earth,
+    Then spurn it from our coasts!'
+                                    Ere ceased the acclaim
+    Subdued and soft the Pagan pontiff rose,
+    And three times half retired, as one who yields
+    His betters place; and thrice, answering the call,
+    Advanced, and leaning stood: at last he spake,
+    Sweet-voiced, not loud; 'Ye Wessex Earls and Thanes,
+    I stand here but as witness, not as judge;
+    Ye are the judges. Late ye heard--yea, twice--
+    Words strange and new; "Ye are not what ye were!"
+    I witness this; things are not what they were;
+    For round me as I roll these sorrowing eyes,
+    Now old and dim--perchance the fault is theirs--
+    They find no longer, ranged along your walls
+    Amid the deep-dyed trophies of old time,
+    That chiefest of your Standards, lost, men say,
+    In that ill-omened battle lost which wrecked
+    But late our Wessex kingdom. Odin's wrath--
+    I spare to task your time and patience, Lords,
+    Enforcing truth which every urchin knows--
+    'Twas Odin shamed his foe! Ah Cynegils!
+    What made thee Odin's foe? Our friend was he!
+    Base tolerance first, connivance next, then worse,
+    Favoured that Faith perfidious! Stood and stands
+    A bow-shot hence that church the strangers built;
+    Their church, their font! The strangers, who are they?
+    Snake-like and supple, winding on and on
+    Through courtly chambers darkling still they creep,
+    Nor dare to face a people front to front;
+    Let them stand up in light, and all is well!
+    And who their converts? Late, to please a king,
+    They donned his novel worship like a robe;
+    When dead he lay they doffed it! Earls and Thanes,
+    A nobler day is come; a sager king;
+    In him I trust; in you; in Odin most,
+    Our nation's strength, the bulwark of our throne.
+    I proffer nought of counsel. Ye have eyes:
+    The opprobrium sits among you!'
+                                        From the floor
+    The storm of iron feet rang loud, and swords
+    Leaped flashing from their sheaths. In silence some
+    Waited the event: the larger part by far
+    Clamoured for vengeance on the outlandish Faith,
+    The loudest they, the apostates of past time.
+    Then stately from his seat Birinus rose,
+    And stood in calm marmorean. Long he stood,
+    Not eager, though expectant. By degrees
+    That tumult lessening, with a quiet smile
+    And hand extended, noticing for peace,
+    Thus he addressed that concourse.
+                                      'Earls and Thanes,
+    Among so many here I stand alone,
+    Why peaceful? why untroubled? In your hands
+    I see a hundred swords against me bent:
+    Sirs, should they slay me, Truth remains unpierced.
+    A thousand wheat ears swayed by summer gust
+    Affront one oak; it slights the mimic threat:
+    So slight I, strong in faith, those swords that err--
+    Your ignorance, not your sin. The truth of God,
+    The heart of man against you fight this day,
+    And, with his heart, his hope. In every land,
+    Through all the unnumbered centuries yet to come,
+    The cry of women wailing for their babes
+    Restored through Christ alone, the cry of men
+    Who know that all is lost if earth is all,
+    The cry of children still unstained by sin,
+    The sinner's cry redeemed from yoke of sin,
+    Thunder against you. Pass to lesser themes.
+
+      'Eardulf, that raged against me, told you, Lords,
+    That Rome was still the hater of your race,
+    And warred thereon. She warred much more on mine,
+    Roman but Christian likewise! Ye were foes;
+    Warring on you she warred on hostile tribes:
+    In us she tore her proper flesh and blood:
+    Mailed men were you that gave her blow for blow;
+    We were her tender children; on her hearths
+    We dwelt, or delved her fields and dressed her vines.
+    What moved her hatred? that we loved a God
+    All love to man. With every God beside
+    Rome made her traffic: fellowship with such
+    Unclean we deemed: thenceforth Rome saw in us
+    Her destined foe.
+                      Three centuries, Earls and Thanes,
+    Her hand was red against us. Vengeance came:
+    Who wrought it? Who avenged our martyred Saints
+    That, resting 'neath God's altar, cried, "How long?"
+    Alaric, and his, the Goths! And who were they?
+    Your blood, your bone, your spirit, and your soul!
+    They with your fathers roamed four hundred years
+    The Teuton waste; they swam the Teuton floods,
+    They pointed with the self-same hand of scorn
+    At Rome, their common foe! In Odin's loins
+    Together came ye from the shining East:--
+    True man was he: ye changed him to false god!
+    That Odin, when the destined hour had pealed,
+    Beckoned to Alaric, marched by Alaric's side
+    Invisibly to Rome!
+                        Ye know the tale:
+    Her senate-kings their portals barred; they deemed
+    That awe of Rome would drive him back amazed;
+    And sat secure at feast. But he that slew
+    Remus, his brother, on the unfinished wall,
+    A bitter expiation paid that night!
+    The wail went up: the Goths were lords of Rome!--
+    Alaric alone in that dread hour was just,
+    And with his mercy tempered justice. Why?
+    Alaric that day was Christian: of his host
+    The best and bravest Christian. Senators
+    In purple nursed lived on, 'tis true, in rags;
+    To Asian galleys and Egyptian marts
+    The rich were driven; the mighty. Gold in streams
+    Ran molten from the Capitolian roofs:
+    The idol statues choked old Tyber's wave:
+    But life and household honour Alaric spared;
+    And round the fanes of Peter and of Paul
+    His soldiers stood on guard. Upon the grave
+    Of that bad Empire sentenced, nay of all
+    The Empires of this world absorbed in one,
+    In one condemned, they throned the Church of Christ;
+    His Kingdom's seat established.
+                                    Since that hour
+    That Kingdom spreads o'er earth. In Eastern Gaul
+    Long since your brave Burgundians kneel to Christ;
+    Pannonia gave Him to the Ostro-Goths,
+    Barbaric named; and to the Suevi Spain:
+    The Vandals o'er the Mauritanian shores
+    Exalt His Cross with joy. Your pardon, sirs:
+    These lands to you are names; but Odin knew them;
+    A living man he trod them in his youth;
+    Hated their vices; bound his race to spurn
+    Their bait, their bond! That day he saw hath dawned;
+    O'er half a world the vivifying airs
+    Launched from your northern forests chaste and cold
+    Have blown, and blow this hour! The Saxon race
+    Alone its destiny knows not. Ye have won
+    Here in this Isle the old Roman heritage:
+    Perfect your victory o'er that Pagan Rome
+    With Christian Rome partaking!
+                                    Earls and Thanes,
+    But one word more. Your pontiff late averred
+    That kings to us are gods; through them we conquer:
+    I answer thus: That Kingdom God hath raised
+    Is sovereign and is one; kingdoms of earth,
+    How great soe'er, to it are provinces
+    In spiritual things. If princes turn to God
+    They save their souls. If kingdoms war on God
+    Their choice is narrow, and their choice is this:
+    To break, like that which falleth on a stone;
+    Or else, like that whereon that stone doth fall,
+    To crumble into dust.'
+                            The Pagan priest
+    Whispered again to Eardulf, 'Praise to Thor!
+    He flouts our king! The boaster's chance is gone!'
+    Then rose that king and spake in careless sort:
+    'Earls and my Thanes, I came from exile late:
+    It may be that to exile I return:
+    Not less my arm is long; my sword is sharp:
+    Let him that hates me fear me!
+                                    Earls and Thanes,
+    I passed that exile in a Christian realm:
+    There of the Christian greatness, Christian right,
+    I somewhat heard, and hearing, disbelieved;
+    Saw likewise somewhat, and believed in part:
+    Saw more, till nigh that part had grown to whole:
+    I saw that war itself might be a thing
+    Though stern, yet stern in mercy; saw that peace
+    Might wear a shape dearest to manliest heart,
+    Peace based on fearless justice militant
+    'Gainst wrong alone and riot. Earls and Thanes,
+    Returned, this day and in this regal hall
+    A spectacle I saw, if grateful less,
+    Not therefore less note-worthy--countless swords
+    In judgment drawn against a man unarmed;
+    Yea, and a man unarmed with brow unmoved
+    Confronting countless swords. These things I saw;
+    Fair sight that tells me how to act, and when;
+    For I was minded to protract the time,
+    Which strangles oft best purpose. At the font
+    Of Christ--it stands a bow-shot from this spot,
+    As late we learned--at daybreak I and mine
+    Become henceforth Christ's lieges.
+                                        Earls and Thanes,
+    I heard but late a railer who affirmed
+    That kings were tyrants o'er the faiths of men
+    Flexile to please them: thus I make reply;
+    The meanest of my subjects, like his king,
+    Shall serve his God in freedom: if the chief
+    Questions the equal freedom of his king
+    That man shall die the death! Through Christian Faith--
+    I hide not this--one danger threats the land:
+    It threats as much, nay more, my royal House:
+    That danger must be dared since truth is truth:
+    That danger ye shall learn tomorrow noon:
+    Till comes that hour, farewell!'
+                                    The matin beam,
+    God's wingèd messenger from loftier worlds,
+    Through the deep window of the baptistery
+    Glittered on eddies of the bath-like font
+    Not yet quiescent since its latest guest
+    Had thence arisen; beside its marge the king
+    In snowy raiment stood; upon his right,
+    Alfred, his first-born, boy of seven years old,
+    And, close beside, in wonder not in dread,
+    Mildrede, his sister, younger by one year,
+    Holding her brother's hand. From either waist
+    Flowed a white kirtle to the small snow feet
+    With roses tinged. Above it all was bare,
+    And with the fontal dew-drops sparkling still;
+    While from each head with sacred unction sealed
+    Floated the chrismal veil. That eye is blind
+    Which sees not beauty save on female brows:
+    On either face that hour the lustre lay;
+    But hers was lustre passive, lustre pale;
+    The boy's was active, daring, penetrating--
+    The lily she; but he the Morning Star,
+    Beaming thereon from heaven! With dewy eyes
+    The strong king on them gazed, and inly mused,
+    'To God I gave them up: yet ne'er till now
+    Seemed they so wholly mine!'
+                                  Birinus spake:
+    'Ye have been washed in baptism, though no sin
+    Hath yet been yours save Adam's, and confirmed;
+    And houselled ye shall be at Mass seven days,
+    Since Christ in infant bosoms loves to dwell.
+    Pray, day by day, that Christ would keep you pure:
+    Pray for your Father: likewise pray for me,
+    Old sinner soon to die.' Then raised those babes
+    Their baptism tapers high, and fixing eyes
+    That moved not on their backward-fluttering flames,
+    Led the procession to their palace home,
+    Their father pacing last.
+                              That day at noon
+    The monarch sat upon his royal throne,
+    Birinus near him standing: at his feet
+    His children played; while round him silent thronged
+    Warriors and chiefs. The king addressed them thus:
+    'Birinus, and the rest, I hold it meet
+    A king should hide his secret from his foes,
+    But with his friends be open. Yestereve
+    I, Christian now, unfalteringly avouched
+    That in the victory of the Christian Faith,
+    True though it be, one danger I discerned:
+    That danger, and its root, I now divulge.
+    Saw ye the scorn within that Northman's eye
+    Last eve, when, praising Thor, in balance stern
+    He weighed what now we are with what we were
+    When first he trod our shores! He spake the truth:
+    His race and ours are kin; but his retain
+    Stronglier their manly virtue, frost and snow
+    Like whetstones sharpening still that virtue's edge.
+    We soften with the years. Beggars this day
+    Sue us for bread! Sirs, in a famine once
+    I saw, then young, a hundred at a time
+    That, linking hand in hand, loud singing rushed,
+    Like hunters chasing hart, to sea-beat cliffs,
+    And o'er them plunged! Now comes this Faith of Christ;
+    That Faith to which, because that Faith is true,
+    I pledged this morn my word, my seal, my soul,
+    The fate and fortunes of our native land
+    And all my royal House, well knowing this,
+    The king who loves his kingdom more than God,
+    Better than both loves self--no king at heart.
+    Now comes this Christian Faith! That Faith, be sure,
+    Is not a hardening faith: gentle it makes:--
+    I told you, Lords, we soften day by day;
+    I might have added that with growing years
+    Hardness we doubly need. When Rome was great
+    Our race, however far diffused, was one,
+    Blended by hate of Rome. When Rome declined
+    That bond dissolved. A second bond remained
+    In Odin's Faith:--Northmen alone retain it
+    In them a new Rome rises! Earls and Thanes!
+    The truth be ours though for that truth we die!
+    Hold fast that truth; yet hide not what it costs.
+    Through fog and sea-mist of the days to come
+    I see huge navies with the raven flag
+    Steering to milder borders Christian half,
+    Brother 'gainst brother ranging. Kingdoms Seven
+    Of this still fair and once heroic land,
+    I say, beware that hour! If come it must,
+    Then fall the thunder while I walk this earth,
+    Not when I skulk in crypts!'
+                                  The others mute,
+    From joy malicious some, some vexed with doubt,
+    Birinus made reply: 'My Lord and King,
+    Inly this day I gladden, certain now
+    That neither fancy-drawn, nor anger-spurred,
+    Nor seeking crowns, for others or thyself,
+    Nor shunning woes, the worst that earth can know,
+    For others or thyself, but urged by faith,
+    God's greatest gift to man, thou mad'st this day
+    Submission true to Christ. So be it, King!
+    So rest content! God with a finger's touch
+    Could melt that cloud which threats thy realm well-loved;
+    (That threat I deem nor trivial nor obscure)
+    Not thus He wills. Danger, distress, reverse,
+    Are heralds sent from God, like peace and joy,
+    To nations as to men. Happy that land
+    Which worketh darkling; worketh without wage;
+    And worketh still for God! If God desired
+    A people for His sacrificial lamb,
+    Happiest of nations should that nation be
+    Which died His willing victim!'
+                                    'King, and Son,'
+    With voice a moment troubled he resumed,
+    'Thy future rests with God! Yet shake, Oh shake
+    One boding grief--'tis causeless--from thy breast,
+    Deeming thy race less valiant than the North:
+    Faithfuller they stand and nearer to their sires!
+    Remorseless less to others and to self
+    I grant them; that implies not valiant less:
+    The brave are still in spirit the merciful;
+    Far down within their being stirs a sense
+    Of more than race or realm. Some claim world-wide,
+    Whereof the prophet is the wailing babe,
+    Smites on their hearts--a cradle decks therein
+    For Him they know not yet, the Bethlehem Babe.
+    That claim thy fathers felt! Through Teuton woods
+    (Dead Rome's historian saw what he records[25]),
+    Moved forth of old in cyclic pilgrimage
+    Thick-veiled, the sacred image of the Earth,
+    All reverend Mother, crowned Humanity!
+    Not war-steeds haled her car, but oxen meek;
+    And, as it passed oppugnant bounds, the trump
+    Ceased from its blare; the lance, the war-axe fell;
+    Grey foes shook hands; their children played together:
+    Beyond the limit line of dateless wars
+    Looked forth the vision thus of endless peace.
+    Think'st thou that here was lack of manly heart?
+    King, this was manhood's self!'
+                                    While thus he spake,
+    Alfred, and Mildrede, children of the King,
+    That long time, by that voice majestic charmed,
+    Had turned from distant sports, upon their knees
+    Softly and slowly to Birinus crept,
+    Their wide eyes from his countenance moving not,
+    And so knelt on; Alfred, the star-eyed boy
+    Supported by his father's sceptre-staff,
+    His plaything late, now clasped in hands high-held.
+    Him with a casual eye Birinus marked
+    At first; then stood, with upward brow, in trance--
+    Sudden, as though with Pentecostal flame,
+    His whole face brightened; on him fell from God
+    Spirit Divine; and thus the prophet cried:
+
+      'Who speaks of danger when the Lord of all
+    Decrees high triumph? Victory's chariot winged
+    Up-climbs the frowning mountains of Dismay,
+    As when above the sea's nocturnal verge
+    Twin beams, divergent horns of orient light,
+    Announce the ascending sun. Whatever cloud
+    Protracts the conflict, victory comes at last.
+
+      'What ho! ye sons of Odin and the north!
+    Far off your galleys tarry! English air
+    Reafen, your raven standard, darkened long,
+    Woven of enchantments in the moon's eclipse:
+    It rains its plague no more! The Kingdoms Seven
+    Ye came to set a ravening each on each:
+    Lo, ye have pressed and soldered them in one!
+
+      'Behold, a Sceptre rises--not o'er Kent
+    The first-born of the Faith; nor o'er those vales
+    Northumbrian, trod so long by crownèd saints;
+    Nor Mercia's plains invincible in war:
+    O'er Wessex, barbarous late, and waste, and small,
+    The Hand that made the worlds that Sceptre lifts;
+    Hail tribe elect, the Judah of the Seven!
+
+      'Piercing the darkness of an age unborn,
+    I see a King that hides his royal robe;
+    Assumes the minstrel's garb. Where meet the floods
+    That King abides his time. I see him sweep,
+    Disguised, his harp within the Northmen's camp;
+    In fifty fights I see him victory-crowned;
+    I see the mighty and the proud laid low,
+    The humble lifted. God is over all.
+
+      'The ruined cities 'mid their embers thrill:
+    A voice went forth: they heard it. They shall rise,
+    Their penance done, and cities worthier far
+    With Roman vices ne'er contaminate.
+    These shall not boast mosaic floor gem-wrought,
+    And trod by sinners. In the face of heaven
+    Their minster turrets these shall lift on high,
+    Inviting God's great angels to descend
+    And chaunt with them God's City here on earth.
+
+      'Who through the lethal forest cleaves a road
+    Healthful and fresh? Who bridges stream high-swollen?
+    Who spreads the harvest round the poor man's cot;
+    Sets free the slave? On justice realms are built:
+    Who makes his kingdom great through equal laws
+    Not based on Pagan right, but rights in Christ,
+    First just, then free? Who from her starry gates
+    Beckons to Heavenly Wisdom--her who played
+    Ere worlds were shaped, before the eyes of God?
+    Who bids her walk the peopled fields of men,
+    The reverend street with college graced and church?
+    Who sings the latest of the Saxon songs?
+    Who tunes to Saxon speech the Tome Divine?
+
+      'Sing, happy land! The Isle that, prescient long,
+    Long waiting, hid her monarch in her heart,
+    Shall look on him and cry, "My flesh, my bone,
+    My son, my king!" To him shall Cambria bow,
+    And Alba's self. His strength is in his God;
+    The third part of his time he gives to prayer,
+    And God shall hear his vows! Hail, mighty King!
+    For aye thine England's glory! As I gaze,
+    Methinks I see a likeness on thy brow,
+    Likeness to one who kneels beside my feet!
+    The sceptre comes to him who sceptre spurned;
+    Through him it comes who sceptre clasped in sport;
+    From Wessex' soil shall England's hope be born
+    Two centuries hence; and Alfred is his name!'
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+
+
+
+_BEDE'S LAST MAY._
+
+     Bede issues forth from Jarrow, and visiting certain villagers in a
+     wood, expounds to them the Beatitudes of Our Lord. Wherever he goes
+     he seeks records of past times, and promises in return that he will
+     bequeath to his fellow-countrymen translations from divers Sacred
+     Scriptures, and likewise a history of God's Church in their land.
+     Having returned to his monastery, he dies a most happy death on the
+     feast of the Ascension, while finishing his translation of St.
+     John's gospel.
+
+
+    The ending of the Book of Saxon Saints.
+    With one lay-brother only blessed Bede,
+    In after times 'The Venerable' named,
+    Passed from his convent, Jarrow. Where the Tyne
+    Blends with the sea, all beautiful it stood,
+    Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of Wear
+    A second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hour
+    The self-same matin splendour gilt them both;
+    And in some speech of mingling lights, not words,
+    Both sisters praised their God.
+                                    'Apart, yet joined'--
+    So mused the old man gazing on the twain:
+    Then onward paced, with head above his book,
+    Murmuring his office. Algar walked behind,
+    A youth of twenty years, with tonsured head,
+    And face, though young, forlorn. An hour had passed;
+    They reached a craggy height; and looking back,
+    Beheld once more beyond the forest roof
+    Those two fair convents glittering--at their feet
+    Those two clear rivers winding! Bound by rule,
+    Again the monk addressed him to his book;
+    Lection and psalm recited, thus he spake:
+
+      'Why placed our holy Founder thus so near
+    His convents? Why, albeit a single rule,
+    At last a single hand, had sway o'er both,
+    Placed them at distance? Hard it were to guess:
+    I know but this, that severance here on earth
+    Is strangely linked with union of the heart,
+    Union with severance. Thou hast lost, young friend,
+    But lately lost thy boyhood's dearest mate,
+    Thine earliest friend, a brother of thy heart,
+    True Christian soul though dwelling in the world;
+    Fear not such severance can extinguish love
+    Here, or hereafter! He whom most I loved
+    Was severed from me by the tract of years:
+    A child of nine years old was I, when first
+    Jarrow received me: pestilence ere long
+    Swept from that house her monks, save one alone,
+    Ceolfrid, then its abbot. Man and child,
+    We two the lonely cloisters paced; we two
+    Together chaunted in the desolate church:
+    I could not guess his thoughts; to him my ways
+    Were doubtless as the ways of some sick bird
+    Watched by a child. Not less I loved him well:
+    Me too he somewhat loved. Beneath one roof
+    We dwelt--and yet how severed! Save in God,
+    What know men, one of other? Here on earth,
+    Perhaps 'tis wiser to be kind to all
+    In large goodwill of helpful love, yet free,
+    Than link to one our heart--
+    Poor youth! that love which walks in narrow ways
+    Is tragic love, be sure.'
+                              With gentle face
+    The novice spake his gratitude. Once more,
+    His hand upon the shoulder of the youth,
+    (For now they mounted slow a bosky dell)
+    The old man spake--yet not to him--in voice
+    Scarce louder than the murmuring pines close by;
+    For, by his being's law he seemed, like them,
+    At times when pensive memories in him stirred,
+    Vocal not less than visible: 'How great
+    Was he, our Founder! In that ample brow,
+    What brooding weight of genius! In his eye,
+    How strangely was the pathos edged with light!
+    How oft, his churches roaming, flashed its beam
+    From pillar on to pillar, resting long
+    On carven imagery of flower or fruit,
+    Or deep-dyed window whence the heavenly choirs
+    Gave joy to men below! With what a zeal
+    He drew the cunningest craftsmen from all climes
+    To express his thoughts in form; while yet his hand,
+    Like meanest hand among us, patient toiled
+    In garden and in bakehouse, threshed the corn,
+    Or drave the calves to milk-pail! Earthly rule
+    Had proved to him a weight intolerable;
+    In spiritual beauty, there and there alone,
+    Our Bennett Biscop found his native haunt,
+    The lucent planet of his soul's repose:
+    And yet--O wondrous might of human love--
+    One was there, one, to whom his heart was knit,
+    Siegfried, in all unlike him save in worth.
+    His was plain purpose, rectitude unwarped,
+    Industry, foresight. On his friend's behalf
+    He ruled long years those beauteous convents twain,
+    Yet knew not they were beauteous! An abyss
+    Severed in spirit those in heart so near:
+    More late exterior severance came: three years
+    In cells remote they dwelt, by sickness chained:
+    But once they met--to die. I see them still:
+    The monks had laid them on a single bed;
+    Weeping, they turned them later each to each:
+    I saw the snowy tresses softly mix;
+    I saw the faded lips draw near and meet;
+    Thus gently interwreathed I saw them die--
+    Strange strength of human love!'
+                                      Still walked they on:
+    As high the sun ascended, woodlands green
+    Shivered all golden; and the old man's heart
+    Brightened like them. His ever active mind
+    Inquisitive took note of all it saw;
+    And as some youth enamoured lifts a tress
+    Of her he loves, and wonders, so the monk,
+    Well loving Nature, loved her in detail,
+    Now pleased with nestling bird, anon with flower,
+    Now noting how the beech from dewy sheath
+    Pushed forth its silken leaflets fringed with down,
+    Exulting next because from sprays of lime
+    The little fledgeling leaves, like creatures winged,
+    Brake from their ruddy shells. Jesting, he cried:
+    'Algar! but hear those birds! Men say they sing
+    To fire their young, night-bound, with gladsome news,
+    And bid them seek the sun!' Sadly the youth
+    With downward front, replied: 'My friend is dead;
+    For me to gladden were to break a troth.'
+    Upon the brow of Bede a shadow fell;
+    Silent he paced, then stopped: 'Forgive me, Algar!
+    Old men grow hard. Yet boys and girls salute
+    The May: like them the old must have their maying;
+    This is perchance my last.'
+                                As thus he spake
+    They reached the summit of a grassy hill;
+    Beneath there wound a stream, upon its marge
+    A hamlet nestling lonely in the woods:
+    Its inmates saw the Saint, and t'wards him sped
+    Eager as birds that, when the grain is flung
+    In fountained cloister-court of Eastern church,
+    From all sides flock, with sudden rush of wings,
+    Darkening the pavement. Youths and maids came first;
+    Their elders followed: some his garments kissed,
+    And some his hands. The venerable man
+    Stretched forth his arms, as though to clasp them all:
+    Above them next he signed his Master's cross;
+    Then, while the tears ran down his aged face,
+    Brake forth in grateful joy; 'To God the praise!
+    When, forty years ago, I roamed this vale
+    A haunt it was of rapine and of wars;
+    Now see I pleasant pastures, peaceful homes,
+    And faces peacefuller yet. That God Who walked
+    With His disciples 'mid the sabbath fields
+    While they the wheat-ears bruised, His sabbath keeps
+    Within your hearts this day! His harvest ye!
+    Once more a-hungered are His holy priests;
+    They hunger for your souls; with reverent palms
+    Daily the chaff they separate from the grain;
+    Daily His Church within her heart receives you,
+    Yea, with her heavenly substance makes you one;
+    Ye grow to be her eyes that see His truth;
+    Her ears that hear His voice; her hands that pluck
+    His tree of life; her feet that walk His ways.
+    Honouring God's priests ye err not, O my friends,
+    Since thus ye honour God. In Him rejoice!'
+
+      So spake he, and his gladness kindled theirs;
+    With it their courage. One her infant brought
+    And sued for him a blessing. One, bereaved,
+    Cried out: 'Your promised peace has come at last;
+    No more I wish him back to earth!' Again
+    Old foes shook hands; while now, their fears forgot,
+    Children that lately nestled at his feet
+    Clomb to his knees. Then called from out that crowd
+    A blind man; 'Read once more that Book of God!
+    For, after you had left us, many a month
+    I, who can neither see the sun nor moon,
+    Saw oft the God-Man walking farms and fields
+    Of that fair Eastern land!' He spake, and lo!
+    All those around that heard him clamoured, 'Read!'
+
+      Then Bede, the Sacred Scriptures opening, lit
+    Upon the 'Sermon on the Mount,' and read:
+    'The Saviour lifted up His holy eyes
+    On His disciples, saying, Blessed they;'
+    Expounding next the sense. 'Why fixed the Lord
+    His eyes on them that listened? Friends, His eyes
+    Go down through all things, searching out the heart;
+    He sees if heart be sound to hold His Word
+    And bring forth fruit in season, or as rock
+    Naked to bird that plucks the random seed.
+    Friends, with the heart alone we understand;
+    Who doth His will shall of the doctrine know
+    If His it be indeed. When Jesus speaks
+    Fix first your eyes upon His eyes divine,
+    There reading what He sees within your heart:
+    If sin He sees, repent!'
+                              With hands upheld
+    A woman raised her voice, and cried aloud,
+    'Could we but look into the eyes of Christ
+    Nought should we see but love!' And Bede replied:
+    'From babe and suckling God shall perfect praise!
+    Yea, from His eyes looks forth the Eternal Love,
+    Though oft, through sin of ours, in sadness veiled;
+    But when He rests them on disciples true,
+    Not on the stranger, love is love alone!
+    O great, true hearts that love so well your Lord!
+    That heard so trustingly His tidings good,
+    So long, by trial proved, have kept His Faith,
+    To you He cometh--cometh with reward
+    In heaven, and here on earth.'
+                                    With brightening face,
+    As one who flingeth largess far abroad,
+    Once more he raised the sacred tome, and read,
+    Read loud the Eight Beatitudes of Christ;
+    Then ceased, but later spake: 'In ampler phrase
+    Those Blessings ye shall hear once more rehearsed,
+    And deeplier understand them. Blessed they
+    The poor in spirit; for to humble hearts
+    Belongs the kingdom of their God in heaven;
+    Blessed the meek--nor gold they boast, nor power;
+    Yet theirs alone the sweetness of this earth;
+    Blessed are they who mourn, for on their hearts
+    The consolation of their God shall fall;
+    Blessed are they who hunger and who thirst
+    For righteousness; they shall be satisfied;
+    Blessed the merciful, for unto them
+    The God of mercy mercy shall accord;
+    Blessed are they, the pure in heart; their eyes
+    Shall see their God: Blessed the peacemakers;
+    This title man shall give them--Sons of God;
+    Blessed are they who suffer for the cause
+    Righteous and just: a throne is theirs on high:
+    Blessed are ye when sinners cast you forth,
+    And brand your name with falsehood for my sake;
+    Rejoice, for great is your reward in heaven.'
+
+      Once more the venerable man made pause,
+    Giving his Master's Blessings time to sink
+    Through hearts of those who heard. Anon with speech
+    Though fervent, grave, he shewed the glory and grace
+    Of those majestic Virtues crowned by Christ,
+    While virtues praised by worldlings passed unnamed;
+    How wondrously consentient each with each,
+    Like flowers well sorted, or like notes well joined:
+    Then changed the man to deeper theme; he shewed
+    How these high virtues, ere to man consigned,
+    Were warmed and moulded in the God-Man's heart;
+    Thence born, and in its sacred blood baptized.
+    'What are these virtues but the life of Christ?
+    The poor in spirit; must not they be lowly
+    Whose God is One that stooped to wear our flesh?
+    The meek; was He not meek Whom sinners mocked?
+    The mourners; sent not He the Comforter?
+    Zeal for the good; was He not militant?
+    The merciful; He came to bring us mercy;
+    The pure in heart; was He not virgin-born?
+    Peacemakers; is not He the Prince of Peace?
+    Sufferers for God; He suffered first for man.
+    O Virtues blest by Christ, high doctrines ye!
+    Dread mysteries; royal records; standards red
+    Wrapped by the warrior King, His warfare past,
+    Around His soldiers' bosoms! Recognise,
+    O man, that majesty in lowness hid!
+    Put on Christ's garments. Fools shall call them rags--
+    Heed not their scoff! A prince's child is man,
+    Born in the purple; but his royal robes
+    None other are than those the Saviour dyed,
+    Treading His Passion's wine-press all alone:
+    Of such alone be proud!'
+                               The old man paused;
+    Then stretched his arms abroad, and said: 'This day,
+    Like eight great angels making way from Heaven,
+    Each following each, those Eight Beatitudes,
+    Missioned to earth by Him who made the earth,
+    Have sought you out! What welcome shall be theirs?'
+    In silence long he stood; in silence watched,
+    With faded cheek now flushed and widening eyes,
+    The advance of those high tidings. As a man
+    Who, when the sluice is cut, with beaming gaze
+    Pursues the on-rolling flood from fall to fall,
+    Green branch adown it swept, and showery spray
+    Silvering the berried copse, so followed Bede
+    The progress of those high Beatitudes
+    Brightening, with visible beams of faith and love,
+    That host in ampler circles, speechless some
+    And some in passionate converse. Saddest brows
+    Most quickly caught, that hour, the glory-touch,
+    Reflected it the best.
+                            In such discourse,
+    Peaceful and glad the hours went by, though Bede
+    Had sought that valley less to preach the Word
+    Than see once more his children. Evening nigh
+    He shared their feast; and heard with joy like theirs
+    Their village harp; and smote that harp himself.
+    In turn become their scholar, hour by hour
+    Forth dragged he records of their chiefs and kings,
+    Untangling ravelled evidence, and still
+    Tracking traditions upward to their source,
+    Like him, that Halicarnassean sage,
+    Of antique history sire. 'I trust, my friends,
+    To leave your sons, for lore by you bestowed
+    Fair recompense, large measure well pressed down,
+    Recording still God's kingdom in this land,
+    History which all may read, and gentle hearts
+    Loving, may grow in grace. Long centuries passed,
+    If wealth should make this nation's heart too fat,
+    And things of earth obscure the things of heaven,
+    Haply such chronicle may prompt high hearts
+    Wearied with shining nothings, back to cast
+    Remorseful gaze through mists of time, and note
+    That rock whence they were hewn. From youth to age
+    Inmate of yonder convent on the Tyne,
+    I question every pilgrim, priest, or prince,
+    Or peasant grey, and glean from each his sheaf:
+    Likewise the Bishops here and Abbots there
+    Still send me deed of gift, or chronicle
+    Or missive from the Apostolic See:
+    Praise be to God Who fitteth for his place
+    Not only high but mean! With wisdom's strength
+    He filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule;
+    To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer;
+    On me, as one late born, He lays a charge
+    Slender, yet helpful still.'
+                                Then spake a man
+    Burly and big, that last at banquet sat,
+    'Father, is history true?' and Bede replied;
+    'The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold,
+    And shrinks from falsehood as a leper's touch
+    Shall write true history; not the truth unmixed
+    With fancies, base or high; not truth entire;
+    Yet truth beneficent to man below.
+    One Book there is that errs not: ye this day
+    Have learned therefrom your Lord's Beatitudes:
+    That Book contains its histories--like them none,
+    Since written none from standing point so high,
+    With insight so inspired, such measure just
+    Of good and ill; high fruit of aid divine.
+    The slothful spurn that Book; the erroneous warp:
+    But they who read its page, or hear it read,
+    Their guide, God's Spirit, and the Church of God,
+    Shall hear the voice of Truth for ever nigh,
+    Shall see the Truth, now sunlike, and anon
+    Like dagger-point of light from dewy grass
+    Flashed up, a word that yet confutes a life,
+    Pierces, perchance a nation's heart: shall see
+    Far more--the Truth Himself in human form,
+    Walking not farms and fields of Eastern lands
+    Alone, but these our English fields and farms;
+    Shall see Him on the dusky mount at prayer;
+    Shall see Him in the street and by the bier;
+    Shall see Him at the feast, and at the grave;
+    Now from the boat discoursing, and anon
+    Staying the storm, or walking on its waves;
+    Thus shall our land become a holy land
+    And holy those who tread her!' Lifting then
+    Heavenward that tome, he said, 'The Book of God!
+    As stands God's Church, 'mid kingdoms of this world
+    Holy alone, so stands, 'mid books, this Book!
+    Within the "Upper Chamber" once that Church
+    Lived in small space; to-day she fills the world:--
+    This Book which seems so narrow is a world:
+    It is an Eden of mankind restored;
+    It is a heavenly city lit with God:
+    From it the Spirit and the Bride say "Come:"
+    Blessed who reads this Book!'
+                                   Above the woods
+    Meantime the stars shone forth; and came that hour
+    When to the wanderer and the toiling man
+    Repose is sweet. Upon a leaf-strewn bed
+    The venerable man slept well that night:
+    Next morning young and old pursued his steps
+    As southward he departed. From a hill
+    O'er-looking far that sea-like forest tract
+    And many a church far-kenned through smokeless air,
+    He blessed that kneeling concourse, adding thus,
+    'Pray still, O friends, for me, since spiritual foes
+    Threat most the priesthood:--pray that holy death,
+    Due warning given, may close a life too blest!
+    Pray well, since I for you have laboured well,
+    Yea, and will labour till my latest sigh;
+    Not only seeking you in wilds and woods
+    Year after year, but in my cell at night
+    Changing to accents of your native tongue
+    God's Book Divine. Farewell, my friends, farewell!'
+    He left them; in his heart this thought, 'How like
+    The great death-parting every parting seems!'
+    But deathless hopes were with him; and the May;
+    His grief went by.
+                       So passed a day of Bede's;
+    And many a studious year were stored with such;
+    Enough but one for sample. Two glad weeks
+    He and his comrade onward roved. At eve
+    Convent or hamlet, known long since and loved,
+    Gladly received them. Bede with heart as glad
+    Renewed with them the memory of old times,
+    Recounted benefits by him received,
+    Then strong in youth, from just men passed away,
+    And preached his Master still with power so sweet
+    The listeners ne'er forgat him. Evermore,
+    Parting, he planted in the ground a cross,
+    And bade the neighbours till their church was built
+    Round it to pray. Meanwhile his youthful mate
+    Changed by degrees. The ever varying scene,
+    The biting breath and balmy breast of spring,
+    And most of all that old man's valiant heart
+    Triumphed above his sadness, fancies gay
+    Pushing beyond it like those sunnier shoots
+    That gild the dark vest of the vernal pine.
+    He took account of all things as they passed;
+    He laughed; he told his tale. With quiet joy
+    His friend remarked that change. The second week
+    They passed to Durham; next to Walsingham;
+    To Gilling then; to stately Richmond soon
+    High throned above her Ouse; to Ripon last:
+    Then Bede made pause, and spake; 'Not far is York;
+    Egbert who fills Paulinus' saintly seat
+    Would see me gladly: such was mine intent,
+    But something in my bosom whispers, "Nay,
+    Return to that fair river crossed by night,
+    The Tees, the fairest in this Northern land:
+    Beside its restless wave thine eye shall rest
+    On vision lovelier far and more benign
+    Than all it yet hath seen."' Northward once more
+    They faced, and, three days travelling, reached at eve
+    Again those ivied cliffs that guard the Tees:
+    There as they stood a homeward dove, with flight
+    Softer for contrast with that turbulent stream,
+    Sailed through the crimson eve. 'No sight like that!'
+    Thus murmured Bede; 'ever to me it seems
+    A Christian soul returning to its rest.'
+    A shade came o'er his countenance as he mused;
+    Algar remarked that shade, though what it meant
+    He knew not yet. The old man from that hour
+    Seemed mirthful less, less buoyant, beaming less,
+    Yet not less glad.
+                        At dead of night, while hung
+    The sacred stars upon their course half way,
+    He left his couch, and thus to Egbert wrote,
+    Meek man--too meek--the brother of the king,
+    With brow low bent, and onward sweeping hand,
+    Great words, world-famed: 'Remember thine account!
+    The Lord's Apostles are the salt of earth;
+    Let salt not lose its savour! Flail and fan
+    Are given thee. Purge thou well thy threshing floor!
+    Repel the tyrant; hurl the hireling forth;
+    That so from thy true priests true hearts may learn
+    True faith, true love, and nothing but the truth!'
+
+      Before the lark he rose the morrow morn,
+    And stood by Algar's bed, and spake: 'Arise!
+    Playtime is past; the great, good work returns;
+    To Jarrow speed we!' Homeward, day by day,
+    Thenceforth they sped with foot that lagged no more,
+    That youth, at first so mournful, joyous now,
+    That old man oft in thought. Next day, while eve
+    Descended dim, and clung to Hexham's groves,
+    He passed its abbey, silent. Wonder-struck
+    Algar demanded, 'Father, pass you thus
+    That church where holy John[26] ordained you priest?
+    Pass you its Bishop, Acca, long your friend?
+    Yearly he woos your visit; tells you tales
+    Of Hexham's saintly Wilfred; shows you still
+    Chalice or cross new-won from distant shores:
+    Nor these alone:--glancing from such last year
+    A page he read you of some Pagan bard
+    With smiles; yet ended with a sigh, and said:
+    "Where is he now?"' The man of God replied:
+    'Desire was mine to see mine ancient friend;
+    For that cause came I hither:--time runs short':--
+    Then, Algar sighing, thus he added mild,
+    'Let go that theme; thy mourning time is past:
+    Thy gladsome time is now.' As on they walked,
+    Later he spake: 'It may be I was wrong;
+    Old friends should part in hope.'
+                                       On Jarrow's towers,
+    Bright as that sunrise while that pair went forth
+    The sunset glittered when, their wanderings past,
+    Bede and his comrade by the bank of Tyne
+    Once more approached the gates. Six hundred monks
+    Flocked forth to meet them. 'They had grieved, I know,'
+    Thus spake, low-voiced, the venerable man,
+    'If I had died remote. To spare that grief
+    Before the time intended I returned.'
+    Sadly that comrade looked upon his face,
+    Yet saw there nought of sadness. Silent each
+    Advanced they till they met that cowlèd host:
+    But three weeks later on his bed the boy
+    Remembered well those words.
+                                    Within a cell
+    To Algar's near that later night a youth
+    Wrote thus to one far off, his earliest friend:
+    'O blessed man! was e'er a death so sweet!
+    He sang that verse, "A dreadful thing it is
+    To fall into the hands of God, All-Just;"
+    Yet awe in him seemed swallowed up by love;
+    And ofttimes with the Prophets and the Psalms
+    He mixed glad minstrelsies of English speech,
+    Songs to his childhood dear!
+                                  'O blessed man!
+    The Ascension Feast of Christ our Lord drew nigh;
+    He watched that splendour's advent; sang its hymn:
+    "All-glorious King, Who, triumphing this day,
+    Into the heaven of heavens didst make ascent,
+    Forsake us not, poor orphans! Send Thy Spirit,
+    The Spirit of Truth, the Father's promised Gift,
+    To comfort us, His children: Hallelujah."
+    And when he reached that word, "Forsake us not,"
+    He wept--not tears of grief. With him we wept;
+    Alternate wept; alternate read our rite;
+    Yea, while we wept we read. So passed that day,
+    The sufferer thanking God with labouring breath,
+    "God scourges still the son whom He receives."
+      'Undaunted, unamazed, daily he wrought
+    His daily task; instruction daily gave
+    To us his scholars round him ranged, and said,
+    "I will not have my pupils learn a lie,
+    Nor, fruitless, toil therein when I am gone."
+    Full well he kept an earlier promise, made
+    Ofttimes to humble folk, in English tongue
+    Rendering the Gospels of the Lord. On these,
+    The last of these, the Gospel of Saint John,
+    He laboured till the close. The days went by,
+    And still he toiled, and panted, and gave thanks
+    To God with hands uplifted; yea, in sleep
+    He made thanksgiving still. When Tuesday came
+    Suffering increased; he said, "My time is short;
+    How short it is I know not." Yet we deemed
+    He knew the time of his departure well.
+
+      'On Wednesday morn once more he bade us write:
+    We wrote till the third hour, and left him then
+    To pace, in reverence of that Feast all-blest,
+    Our cloister court with hymns. Meantime a youth,
+    Algar by name, there was who left him never;
+    The same that hour beside him sat and wrote:
+    More late he questioned: "Father well-beloved,
+    One chapter yet remaineth; have you strength
+    To dictate more?" He answered: "I have strength;
+    Make ready, son, thy pen, and swiftly write."
+    When noon had come he turned him round and said,
+    "I have some little gifts for those I love;
+    Call in the Brethren;" adding with a smile,
+    "The rich man makes bequests, and why not I?"
+    Then gifts he gave, incense or altar-cloth,
+    To each, commanding, "Pray ye for my soul;
+    Be strong in prayer and offering of the Mass,
+    For ye shall see my face no more on earth:
+    Blessed hath been my life; and time it is
+    That unto God God's creature should return;
+    Yea, I desire to die, and be with Christ."
+    Thus speaking, he rejoiced till evening's shades
+    Darkened around us. That disciple young
+    Once more addressed him, "Still one verse remains;"
+    The master answered, "Write, and write with speed;"
+    And dictated. The young man wrote; then said,
+    "'Tis finished now." The man of God replied:
+    "Well say'st thou, son, ''tis finished.' In thy hands
+    Receive my head, and move it gently round,
+    For comfort great it is, and joy in death,
+    Thus, on this pavement of my little cell,
+    Facing that happy spot whereon so oft
+    In prayer I knelt, to sit once more in prayer,
+    Thanking my Father." "Glory," then he sang,
+    "To God, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;"
+    And with that latest Name upon his lips
+    Passed to the Heavenly Kingdom.'
+                                      Thus with joy
+    Died holy Bede upon Ascension Day
+    In Jarrow Convent. May he pray for us,
+    And all who read his annals of God's Church
+    In England housed, his great bequest to man!
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[1] See Montalembert's 'Moines de l'Occident,' vol. iii. p. 343; and
+also Burke: 'On the Continent the Christian religion, after the northern
+irruptions, not only remained but flourished.... In England it was so
+entirely extinguished that when Augustine undertook his mission, it does
+not appear that among all the Saxons there was a single person
+professing Christianity.'
+
+[2] Tacitus. The German's wife might well be called his 'helpmate.' His
+wedding gift to his bride consisted of a horse, a yoke of oxen, a lance
+and a sword.
+
+[3] Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, pp. 79, 80. (Bell and Daldy, 1873.)
+Burke records this tradition with an entire credence. See note in p.
+288.
+
+[4] _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, chap. x.
+
+[5] Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, pp. 88, 89.
+
+[6] P. 89.
+
+[7] P. 100.
+
+[8] Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, p. 103.
+
+[9] _The Prose Edda._
+
+[10] _Northern Antiquities_: the Editor, T. A. Blackwell.
+
+[11] P. 474.
+
+[12] P. 475.
+
+[13] T. A. Blackwell. See Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_, p. 476.
+
+[14] 'This (Christianity), as it introduced great mildness into the
+tempers of the people, made them less warlike, and consequently prepared
+the way to their forming one body.'--Burke, _An Abridgment of English
+History_, book ii. chap. iii.
+
+[15] _Saxons in England_, vol. i. p. 330.
+
+[16] _Saxons in England_, vol. i. p. 335.
+
+[17] _History of the Anglo-Saxons_, vol. i. p. 241.
+
+[18] 'In process of time, Britain, besides the Britons and Picts,
+received a third nation, the Scots, who migrating from Ireland, under
+their leader Reuda, either by fair means or by force of arms secured to
+themselves those settlements among the Picts which they still
+possess.'--Bede's _Ecclesiastical Hist._, book i. cap. i.
+
+[19] 'In the fifth century there appear in North Britain two powerful
+and distinct tribes, who are not before named in history. These are the
+Picts and the Scots.... The Scots, on the other hand, were of Irish
+origin; for, to the great confusion of ancient history, the inhabitants
+of Ireland, those at least of the conquering and predominating caste,
+were called Scots. A colony of these Irish Scots, distinguished by the
+name of Dalriads, or Dalreudini, natives of Ulster, had early attempted
+a settlement on the coast of Argyleshire; they finally established
+themselves there under Fergus, the son of Eric, about the year 503, and,
+recruited by colonies from Ulster, continued to multiply and increase
+until they formed a nation which occupied the western side of
+Scotland.'--Sir Walter Scott's _History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 7.
+Scott proceeds to record the eventual triumph of the Irish or Scotic
+race over the Pictish in the ninth century. 'So complete must have been
+the revolution that the very language of the Picts is lost.... The
+country united under his sway (that of Kenneth Mac Alpine) was then
+called for the first time Scotland.' The same statement is made by
+Burke: 'The principal of these were the Scots, a people of ancient
+settlement in Ireland, and who had thence been transplanted into the
+northern part of Britain, which afterwards derived its name from that
+colony.'--Burke, _Abridgment of English History_, book i. cap. iv.
+
+[20] _Moines d'Occident_, vol. iv. pp. 127-8. Par le Comte de
+Montalembert.
+
+[21] Cardinal Newman's _Historical Sketches_, vol. i. p. 266: _The
+Northmen and Normans in England and Ireland_.
+
+[22] Sara Coleridge.
+
+[23] As the illustration of an Age, Bede's _History_ has been well
+compared by Cardinal Manning with the _Fioretti di S. Francesco_, that
+exquisite illustration of the thirteenth century.
+
+[24] The motto of the University of Oxford.
+
+[25] Tacitus.
+
+[26] St. John of Beverley.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+Page xxxvi. _The Irish Mission in England during the seventh century was
+one of the great things of history._
+
+The following expressions of Dr. von Döllinger respecting the Irish
+Church are more ardent than any I have ventured to use:--
+
+'During the sixth and seventh centuries the Church of Ireland stood in
+the full beauty of its bloom. The spirit of the Gospel operated amongst
+the people with a vigorous and vivifying power: troops of holy men, from
+the highest to the lowest ranks of society, obeyed the counsel of
+Christ, and forsook all things that they might follow Him. There was not
+a country in the world, during this period, which could boast of pious
+foundations or of religious communities equal to those that adorned this
+far distant island. Among the Irish the doctrines of the Christian
+religion were preserved pure and entire; the names of heresy or of
+schism were not known to them; and in the Bishop of Rome they
+acknowledged and venerated the Supreme Head of the Church on earth, and
+continued with him, and through him with the whole Church, in a never
+interrupted communion. The schools in the Irish cloisters were at this
+time the most celebrated in all the West.... The strangers who visited
+the island, not only from the neighbouring shores of Britain, but also
+from the most remote nations of the Continent, received from the Irish
+people the most hospitable reception, a gratuitous entertainment, free
+instruction, and even the books that were necessary for the studies....
+On the other hand, many holy and learned Irishmen left their own
+country to proclaim the Faith, to establish or to reform monasteries in
+distant lands, and thus to become the benefactors of almost every
+country in Europe.... The foundation of many of the English Sees is due
+to Irishmen.... These holy men served God, and not the world; they
+possessed neither gold nor silver, and all that they received from the
+rich passed through their hands into the hands of the poor. Kings and
+nobles visited them from time to time only to pray in their churches, or
+to listen to their sermons; and as long as they remained in the
+cloisters they were content with the humble food of the brethren.
+Wherever one of these ecclesiastics or monks came, he was received by
+all with joy; and whenever he was seen journeying across the country,
+the people streamed around him to implore his benediction, and to
+hearken to his words. The priests entered the villages only to preach or
+to administer the Sacraments; and so free were they from avarice, that
+it was only when compelled by the rich and noble that they would accept
+lands for the erection of monasteries.'
+
+
+Page xliii. _For both countries that early time was a period of
+wonderful spiritual greatness._
+
+I cannot deny myself the pleasure of quoting the following passage
+illustrating the religious greatness both of the Irish and the English
+at the period referred to:--
+
+'The seventh and eighth centuries are the glory of the Anglo-Saxon
+Church, as the sixth and seventh are of the Irish. As the Irish
+missionaries travelled down through England, France, and Switzerland, to
+Lower Italy, and attempted Germany at the peril of their lives,
+converting the barbarian, restoring the lapsed, encouraging the
+desolate, collecting the scattered, and founding churches, schools, and
+monasteries as they went along; so amid the deep pagan woods of Germany,
+and round about, the English Benedictine plied his axe, and drove his
+plough, planted his rude dwelling, and raised his rustic altar upon the
+ruins of idolatry; and then, settling down as a colonist upon the soil,
+began to sing his chants and to copy his old volumes, and thus to lay
+the slow but sure foundations of the new civilisation. Distinct, nay
+antagonistic, in character and talents, the one nation and the other,
+Irish and English--the one more resembling the Greek, the other the
+Roman--open from the first perhaps to jealousies as well as rivalries,
+they consecrated their respective gifts to the Almighty Giver, and,
+labouring together for the same great end, they obliterated whatever
+there was of human infirmity in their mutual intercourse by the merit of
+their common achievements. Each by turn could claim pre-eminence in the
+contest of sanctity and learning. In the schools of science England has
+no name to rival Erigena in originality, or St. Virgil in freedom of
+thought; nor (among its canonised women) any saintly virgin to compare
+with St. Bridget; nor, although it has 150 saints in its calendar, can
+it pretend to equal that Irish multitude which the Book of Life alone is
+large enough to contain. Nor can Ireland, on the other hand, boast of a
+doctor such as St. Bede, or of an apostle equal to St. Boniface, or of a
+martyr like St. Thomas; or of so long a catalogue of royal devotees as
+that of the thirty male or female Saxons who, in the course of two
+centuries, resigned their crowns; or as the roll of twenty-three kings,
+and sixty queens and princes, who, between the seventh and the eleventh
+centuries, gained a place among the saints.'--Cardinal Newman, _Historic
+Sketches_, 'The Isles of the North,' pp. 128-9.
+
+
+Page 16.
+
+    _Instant each navy at the other dashed
+    Like wild beast, instinct-taught._
+
+This image will be found in the description of a Scandinavian sea-fight
+in a remarkable book less known than it deserves to be, _The Invasion_,
+by Gerald Griffin, author of _The Collegians_.
+
+The Saxons were, however, in early times as much pirates as the Danes
+were at a later.
+
+
+Page 18. The achievement of Hastings had been rehearsed at a much
+earlier period by Harald.
+
+
+Page 39. _At Ely, Elmham, and beside the Cam._
+
+In the reign of Sigebert, Felix, Bishop of East Anglia, founded schools
+respecting which Montalembert remarks: 'Plusieurs ont fait remonter à
+ces écoles monastiques l'origine de la célèbre université de Cambridge.'
+
+
+Page 44. _How beautiful, O Sion, are thy courts!_
+
+The following hymns are from the Office for the Consecration of a
+Church.
+
+
+St. Fursey. Page 67.
+
+                     _How one with brow
+    Lordlier than man's, and visionary eyes._
+
+'Whilst Sigebert still governed the kingdom there came out of Ireland a
+holy man named Fursey, renowned both for his words and actions, and
+remarkable for singular virtues, being desirous to live a stranger for
+Our Lord, wherever an opportunity should offer.... He built himself the
+monastery (Burghcastle in Suffolk) wherein he might with more freedom
+indulge his heavenly studies. There falling sick, as the book about his
+life informs us, he fell into a trance, and, quitting his body from the
+evening till the cockcrow, he was found worthy to behold the choirs of
+angels, and hear the praises which are sung in heaven.... He not only
+saw the greater joys of the Blessed, but also extraordinary combats of
+Evil Spirits.'--Bede, _Hist._ book iii. cap. xix. 'C'était un moine
+irlandais nommé Fursey, de très-noble naissance et célèbre depuis sa
+jeunesse dans son pays par sa science et ses visions.... Dans la
+principale de ses visions Ampère et Ozanam se sont accordés à
+reconnaître une des sources poétiques de la _Divine
+Comédie_.'--Montalembert, _Les Moines d'Occident_, tome iv. pp. 93-4.
+
+
+Page 116. _'None loveth Song that loves not Light and Truth.'_
+
+This is one of the poetic aphorisms of Cadoc, a Cambrian prince and
+saint, educated in the Irish monastery of Lismore, and afterwards the
+founder of the great Welsh monastery of Llancarvan, in which he gave
+religious instruction to the sons of the neighbouring princes and
+chiefs.
+
+
+Page 120.
+
+                      _True life of man
+    Is life within._
+
+This thought is taken from one of St. Teresa's beautiful works.
+
+
+Page 141. _Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song._
+
+'A part of one of Ceadmon's poems is preserved in King Alfred's Saxon
+version of Bede's _History_.' (Note to Bede's _Ecclesiastical History_,
+edited by Dr. Giles, p. 218.)
+
+
+Page 180. _Who told him tales of Leinster Kings, his sires._
+
+'L'origine irlandaise de Cuthbert est affirmé sans réserve par Reeves
+dans ses _Notes sur Wattenbach_, p. 5. Lanigan (c. iii. p. 88) constate
+qu'Usher, Ware, Colgan, en ont eu la même opinion.... Beaucoup d'autres
+anciens auteurs irlandais et anglais en font un natif de
+l'Irlande.'--Montalembert, _Les Moines d'Occident_, tome ii. pp. 391-2.
+
+
+Page 191. _The thrones are myriad, but the Enthroned is One._
+
+                                   Oft as Spring
+    Decks on thy sinuous banks her thousand thrones,
+    Seats of glad instinct, and love's carolling.'
+
+  Wordsworth (addressed to the river Greta).
+
+
+Page 208. _Saint Frideswida, or the Foundations of Oxford._
+
+Saint Frideswida died in the same year as the venerable Bede, viz. A.D.
+735. Her story is related by Montalembert, _Les Moines d'Occident_, vol.
+v. pp. 298-302, with the following references, viz. Leland,
+_Collectanea_, ap. Dugdale, t. I. p. 173; cf. Bolland, t. viii. October,
+p. 535 à 568. I learn from a Catholic prayer book published in 1720 that
+the Saint's Feast used to be kept on the 19th of October. Her remains,
+as is commonly believed, still exist in the Cathedral of Oxford.
+
+
+Page 240. _Your teacher he: he taught you first your Runes._
+
+'The Icelandic chronicles point out Odin as the most persuasive of men.
+They tell us that nothing could resist the force of his words; that he
+sometimes enlivened his harangues with verses, which he composed
+extempore; and that he was not only a great poet, but that it was he who
+first taught the art of poesy to the Scandinavians. He was also the
+inventor of the Runic characters.'--_Northern Antiquities_, p. 83.
+Mallet asserts that it was to Christianity that the Scandinavians owed
+the practical use of those Runes which they had possessed for
+centuries:--'nor did they during so many years ever think of committing
+to writing those verses with which their memories were loaded; and it is
+probable that they only wrote down a small quantity of them at last....
+Among the innumerable advantages which accrued to the Northern nations
+from the introduction of the Christian religion, that of teaching them
+to apply the knowledge of letters to useful purposes is not the least
+valuable. Nor could a motive less sacred have eradicated that habitual
+and barbarous prejudice which caused them to neglect so admirable a
+secret.'--P. 234. Mallet's statement respecting the Greek emigration of
+the Northern 'Barbarians' from the East is thus confirmed by Burke.
+'There is an unquestioned tradition among the Northern nations of Europe
+importing that all that part of the world had suffered a great and
+general revolution by a migration from Asiatic Tartary of a people whom
+they call Asers. These everywhere expelled or subdued the ancient
+inhabitants of the Celtick or Cimbrick original. The leader of this
+Asiatic army was called Odin, or Wodin; first their general, afterwards
+their tutelar deity.... The Saxon nation believed themselves the
+descendants of those conquerors.' Burke, _Abridgment of English
+History_, book ii. cap. i.
+
+
+Page 252. _Like hunters chasing hart, to sea-beat cliffs._
+
+This is recorded by Lingard and Burke.
+
+
+Page 259. _Bede's Last May._
+
+This narrative of the death of Bede is closely taken from a letter
+written by Cuthbert, a pupil of his, then residing in Jarrow, to a
+fellow-pupil at a distance. An English version of that letter is
+prefixed to Dr. Giles's translation of _Bede's Ecclesiastical History_.
+(Henry G. Bohn.) The death of Bede took place on Wednesday, May 26, A.D.
+735, being Ascension Day.
+
+
+Page 265. _They hunger for your souls; with reverent palms._
+
+'But in a mystical sense the disciples pass through the cornfields when
+the holy Doctors look with the care of a pious solicitude upon those
+whom they have initiated in the Faith, and who, it is implied, are
+hungering for the best of all things--the salvation of men. But to pluck
+the ears of corn means to snatch men away from the eager desire of
+earthly things. And to rub with the hands is, by examples of virtue, to
+put from the purity of their minds the concupiscence of the flesh, as
+men do husks. To eat the grains is when a man, cleansed from the filth
+of vice by the mouths of preachers, is incorporated amongst the members
+of the Church.'--Bede, quoted in the _Catena Aurea_. _Commentary on St.
+Mark_, cap. ii. v. 23.
+
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+CRAUFURD (A. H.).
+
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+
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+
+     History of the Conflict between Religion and Science. Eleventh
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+     Volume XIII. of The International Scientific Series.
+
+DREW (Rev. G. S.), M.A.
+
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+
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+
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+
+     Poems. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+FINN (the late James), M.R.A.S.
+
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+     the Viscountess STRANGFORD. 2 vols. Demy 8vo. Price 30_s._
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+
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+
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+FOWLE (Rev. Edmund).
+
+     Latin Primer Rules made Easy. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 3_s._
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+FOWLE (Rev. T. W.), M.A.
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+
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+GAMBIER (Capt. J. W.), R.N.
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+
+     Sunflowers. A Book of Verses. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
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+
+     Longevity: The Means of Prolonging Life after Middle Age. Fourth
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+
+GARRETT (E.).
+
+     By Still Waters. A Story for Quiet Hours. With Seven Illustrations.
+     Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 6_s._
+
+GEBLER (Karl Von).
+
+     Galileo Galilei and the Roman Curia, from Authentic Sources.
+     Translated with the sanction of the Author, by Mrs. GEORGE STURGE.
+     Demy 8vo. Cloth.
+
+G. H. T.
+
+     Verses, mostly written in India. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 6_s._
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+     Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
+GILL (Rev. W. W.), B.A.
+
+     Myths and Songs from the South Pacific. With a Preface by F. Max
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+     8vo. Cloth, price 9_s._
+
+GODKIN (James).
+
+     The Religious History of Ireland: Primitive, Papal, and Protestant.
+     Including the Evangelical Missions, Catholic Agitations, and Church
+     Progress of the last half Century. 8vo. Cloth, price 12_s._
+
+GODWIN (William).
+
+     William Godwin: His Friends and Contemporaries. With Portraits and
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+     Paul. 2 vols. Demy 8vo. Cloth, price 28_s._
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+     The Genius of Christianity Unveiled. Being Essays never before
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+     Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
+GOETZE (Capt. A. von).
+
+     Operations of the German Engineers during the War of 1870-1871.
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+     Translated from the German by Colonel G. Graham, V.C., C.B., R.E.
+     With 6 large Maps. Demy 8vo. Cloth, price 21_s._
+
+GOLDIE (Lieut. M. H. G.)
+
+     Hebe: a Tale. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+GOODENOUGH (Commodore J. G.), R.N., C.B., C.M.G.
+
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+
+     *** Also a Library Edition with Maps, Woodcuts, and Steel Engraved
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+GOODMAN (W.).
+
+     Cuba, the Pearl of the Antilles. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 7_s._
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+
+GOULD (Rev. S. Baring), M.A.
+
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+     6_d._
+
+GRANVILLE (A. B.), M.D., F.R.S., &c.
+
+     Autobiography of A. B. Granville, F. R. S., &c. Edited, with a
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+
+GREY (John), of Dilston.
+
+     John Grey (of Dilston): Memoirs. By Josephine E. Butler. New and
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+
+GRIFFITH (Rev. T.), A.M.
+
+     Studies of the Divine Master. Demy 8vo. Cloth, price 12_s._
+
+GRIFFITHS (Capt. Arthur).
+
+     Memorials of Millbank, and Chapters in Prison History. With
+     Illustrations by R. Goff and the Author. 2 vols. Post 8vo. Cloth,
+     price 21_s._
+
+GRIMLEY (Rev. H. N.), M.A.
+
+     Tremadoc Sermons, chiefly on the SPIRITUAL BODY, the UNSEEN WORLD,
+     and the DIVINE HUMANITY. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price
+     6_s._
+
+GRÜNER (M. L.).
+
+     Studies of Blast Furnace Phenomena. Translated by L. D. B. Gordon,
+     F.R.S.E., F.G.S. Demy 8vo. Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
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+
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+     Edition. Cloth, price 6_s._
+
+HORNE (William), M.A.
+
+     Reason and Revelation: an Examination into the Nature and Contents
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+HOWARD (Mary M.).
+
+     Beatrice Aylmer, and other Tales. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 6_s._
+
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+
+     An Old Legend of St. Paul's. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 4_s._ 6_d._
+
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+
+     A Tale of the Sea, Sonnets, and other Poems. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth,
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+
+HUGHES (Allison).
+
+     Penelope and other Poems. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 4_s._ 6_d._
+
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+
+     The European in India. With a MEDICAL GUIDE FOR ANGLO-INDIANS. By
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+     Handbooks for Regimental Officers. Edited by Lieut.-Col. C. B.
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+
+IGNOTUS.
+
+     Culmshire Folk. A Novel. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth,
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+
+INCHBOLD (J. W.).
+
+     Annus Amoris. Sonnets. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 4_s._ 6_d._
+
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+
+     The Little Wonder-horn. A Second Series of "Stories Told to a
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+
+Indian Bishoprics. By an Indian Churchman. Demy 8vo. 6_d._
+
+International Scientific Series (The).
+
+     I. Forms of Water: A Familiar Exposition of the Origin and
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+
+     XIII. The History of the Conflict between Religion and Science. By
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+
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+
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+
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+
+     _Forthcoming Volumes._
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+     Prof. W. KINGDON CLIFFORD, M.A. The First Principles of the Exact
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+
+     W. B. CARPENTER, LL.D., F.R.S. The Physical Geography of the Sea.
+
+     Sir JOHN LUBBOCK, Bart., F.R.S. On Ants and Bees.
+
+     Prof. W. T. THISELTON DYER, B.A., B.Sc. Form and Habit in Flowering
+     Plants.
+
+     Prof. MICHAEL FOSTER, M.D. Protoplasm and the Cell Theory.
+
+     H. CHARLTON BASTIAN, M.D., F.R.S. The Brain as an Organ of Mind.
+
+     Prof. A. C. RAMSAY, LL.D., F.R.S. Earth Sculpture: Hills, Valleys,
+     Mountains, Plains, Rivers, Lakes; how they were Produced, and how
+     they have been Destroyed.
+
+     P. BERT (Professor of Physiology, Paris). Forms of Life and other
+     Cosmical Conditions.
+
+     Prof. T. H. HUXLEY. The Crayfish: an Introduction to the Study of
+     Zoology.
+
+     The Rev. A SECCHI, D.J., late Director of the Observatory at Rome.
+     The Stars.
+
+     Prof. J. ROSENTHAL, of the University of Erlangen. General
+     Physiology of Muscles and Nerves.
+
+     Prof. A. DE QUATREFAGES, Membre de l'Institut. The Human Race.
+
+     FRANCIS GALTON, F.R.S. Psychometry.
+
+     J. W. JUDD, F.R.S. The Laws of Volcanic Action.
+
+     Prof. F. N. BALFOUR. The Embryonic Phases of Animal Life.
+
+     J. LUYS, Physician to the Hospice de la Salpétrière. The Brain and
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+
+     Dr. CARL SEMPER. Animals and their Conditions of Existence.
+
+     Prof. WURTZ. Atoms and the Atomic Theory.
+
+     GEORGE J. ROMANES, F.L.S. Animal Intelligence.
+
+     ALFRED W. BENNETT. A Handbook of Cryptogamic Botany.
+
+JACKSON (T. G.).
+
+     Modern Gothic Architecture. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
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+
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+
+JENKINS (E.) and RAYMOND (J.), Esqs.
+
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+     Second Edition Revised. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 6_s._
+
+JENKINS (Rev. R. C.), M.A.
+
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+
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+
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+
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+
+     Money and the Mechanism of Exchange. Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo.
+     Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+     Volume XVII. of The International Scientific Series.
+
+JONES (Lucy).
+
+     Puddings and Sweets. Being Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Receipts
+     approved by Experience. Crown 8vo., price 2_s._ 6_d._
+
+KAUFMANN (Rev. M.), B.A.
+
+     Socialism: Its Nature, its Dangers, and its Remedies considered.
+     Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
+KER (David).
+
+     The Boy Slave in Bokhara. A Tale of Central Asia. With
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+
+     The Wild Horseman of the Pampas. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth,
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+
+KERNER (Dr. A.), Professor of Botany in the University of Innsbruck.
+
+     Flowers and their Unbidden Guests. Translation edited by W. OGLE,
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+     Illustrations. Sq. 8vo. Cloth, price 9_s._
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+KIDD (Joseph), M.D.
+
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+
+KINAHAN (G. Henry), M.R.I.A., &c., of her Majesty's Geological Survey.
+
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+
+KING (Alice).
+
+     A Cluster of Lives. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
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+     Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
+
+     Aspromonte, and other Poems. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth,
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+
+     Letters and Memories of his Life. Edited by his WIFE. With 2 Steel
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+     *** Also a Cabinet Edition in 2 vols. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price
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+     True Words for Brave Men: a Book for Soldiers' and Sailors'
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+
+KNIGHT (A. F. C).
+
+     Poems. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+LACORDAIRE (Rev. Père).
+
+     Life: Conferences delivered at Toulouse. A New and Cheaper Edition.
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+
+Lady of Lipari (The). A Poem in Three Cantos. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price
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+
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+
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+
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+
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+
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+
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+     With 13 Illustrations. A New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth,
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+
+LEWIS (Mary A.).
+
+     A Rat with Three Tales. With Four Illustrations by Catherine F.
+     Frere. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+LOCKER (F.).
+
+     London Lyrics. A New and Revised Edition, with Additions and a
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+
+     Also, an Edition for the People. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 2_s._
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+
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+     of Spectra, and numerous engravings on wood. Second Edition. Crown
+     6vo. Cloth, price 6_s._ 6_d._
+
+     Vol. XXIII. of The International Scientific Series.
+
+LOMMEL (Dr. E.).
+
+     The Nature of Light: With a General Account of Physical Optics.
+     Second Edition. With 188 Illustrations and a Table of Spectra in
+     Chromo-lithography. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+     Volume XVIII. of The International Scientific Series.
+
+LORIMER (Peter), D.D.
+
+     John Knox and the Church of England: His Work in her Pulpit, and
+     his Influence upon her Liturgy, Articles, and Parties. Demy 8vo.
+     Cloth, price 12_s._
+
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+     Translated from the German, with additional Notes. 2 vols. Demy
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+LOTHIAN (Roxburghe).
+
+     Dante and Beatrice from 1282 to 1290. A Romance. 2 vols. Post 8vo.
+     Cloth, price 24_s._
+
+LOVER (Samuel), R.H.A.
+
+     The Life of Samuel Lover, R. H. A.; Artistic, Literary, and
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+     Correspondence. By Bayle Bernard. 2 vols. With a Portrait. Post
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+
+LUCAS (Alice).
+
+     Translations from the Works of German Poets of the 18th and 19th
+     Centuries. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, price 5_s._
+
+LYONS (R. T.), Surg.-Maj. Bengal Army.
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+     A Treatise on Relapsing Fever. Post 8vo. Cloth, price 7_s._ 6_d._
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+
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+
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+PFEIFFER (Emily).
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+
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+VYNER (Lady Mary).
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+WARTENSLEBEN (Count H. von).
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+
+WATERFIELD, W.
+
+     Hymns for Holy Days and Seasons. 32mo. Cloth, price 1_s._ 6_d._
+
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+
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+     Volume XVI. of The International Scientific Series.
+
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+WICKHAM (Capt. E. H., R.A.)
+
+     Influence of Firearms upon Tactics: Historical and Critical
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+
+WILBERFORCE (H. W.).
+
+     The Church and the Empires. Historical Periods. Preceded by a
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+     With Portrait. Post 8vo. Cloth, price 10_s._ 6_d._
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+
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+
+WILLIAMS (A. Lukyn).
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+
+
+Transcriber's Notes
+
+
+K[=a]l[=a]m is represented here as Kalam. The a has a macro above.
+
+The following words or names are not consistent throughout, but are
+retained as in the original text.
+
+  Voluspá
+  Völuspá
+  Voluspà
+
+  Jötunheim
+  Jotünheim
+
+  hill-side
+  hillside
+
+  May-day
+  Mayday
+
+  out-stretched
+  outstretched
+
+  sea-ward
+  seaward
+
+  Malmsbury
+  Malmesbury
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Legends of the Saxon Saints, by Aubrey de Vere
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