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diff --git a/49306-0.txt b/49306-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a5db50 --- /dev/null +++ b/49306-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1524 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Holy Isle, by Father Ignatius + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Holy Isle + A Legend of Bardsey Abbey + + +Author: Father Ignatius + + + +Release Date: June 29, 2015 [eBook #49306] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOLY ISLE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1870 G. J. Palmer edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + IN OMNIBUS GLORIFICETUR DEUS. + + —_Regula_, _S. Benedicti_, _Cap. lvij_. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic of cross] + + + + + + THE HOLY ISLE; + A Legend of Bardsey Abbey. + + + By IGNATIUS, O.S.B. + + _Dedicated_, _without permission_, _to Lord Newborough_, _and to the_ + _Rev. Hugh Roberts_, _Vicar of Aberdaron_, _Carnarvonshire_. + + * * * * * + + LONDON: + G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, + LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS. + + 1870. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic of cross] + + + + +THE HOLY ISLE. +A Legend of Bardsey Abbey. + + + I WATCHED the sea waves ebbing, + Beneath the crimson glow, + Which sunset light was pouring, + Upon their soft, sweet flow. + The wavelets looked liked dancers, + Upon the sun-lit sea, + They sung in whispering chorus,— + I thought they sung to me + Of fair and far off landscapes + Beyond that molten tide, + Of better joys, and gladness + Beyond those waters wide. + The wavelets all seemed passing + On, to some other strands, + And following the sun’s-glow, + To ever sun-lit lands. + But as I thought these fancies, + Again I raised mine eyes + And saw the sunset tinting + The glorious western skies. + Now ’mid the farewell glories + “Of Sol’s departing ray,” + I saw an Island resting + Upon his golden way. + There, misty mid the Sunshine, + The far off Isle appears, + Right out among the sea waves + Its rocky coast uprears. + And as I gaze, the sunset + Seems lighting up its shore, + Bathing the isle in glory + And then is seen no more. + Sweet, soothing calm fell o’er me + I watched the Islet still, + All round me heard I voices + Which seemed the air to fill. + Said one, “That Isle is holy, + For Saints are sleeping there, + Now lonely and deserted, + T’was once an Isle of prayer.” + “O Man! say would’st thou tremble, + To come away and see, + In vision, strange, sweet pictures + Which I can shew to thee?” + The Angel was so lovely, + So sweet the Angel’s smile, + I easily consented,— + He pointed to the Isle! + “Then will I bear thee thither, + One thousand years ago;— + I speak to aid thy weakness, + No _time_ can Angels know. + The present, past, and future, + All one they are to me, + I pass along their boundaries, + Unlimited, and free.” + A strange, calm change stole o’er me, + My spirit seemed to rise + In gentle, tireless motion, + Just as the sea-bird flies. + My Angel-guide was leading + My spirit o’er the sea + One moment—and we rested, + Upon the Islet’s lea. + Soft gloaming filled the air, + Deep peace lay all around, + Hushed voices seemed to whisper, + A wavelike, murmuring sound. + “Sweet Angel, say, where am I,— + Say me the Island’s name, + And tell me why such glory, + Enwraps it as a flame? + Say, too, what is that chanting, + So sweet, so very near, + The strangeness of this beauty + It fills my soul with fear?” + “This Holy Place is Bardsey, + Jesus, He loves it well, + ’Tis wrapped in God’s own brightness, + Safe from the power of Hell. + Those voices are the Virgins, + In yonder Abbey Choir, + Praises to Jesus singing, + Of which they never tire. + Hush! mid the shades of evening, + How restfully they sing, + Their Vesper praise-wreaths bringing + To Jesus Christ their King. + ’Mid lights of sunset glowing, + St. Mary’s Abbey stands; + But see! t’is wrapped in glories, + From far off better Lands.” + I looked again, and started, + For lo! another scene. + The Convent is surrounded + With Heaven’s own brightest sheen. + And choirs of Angels hover + High in the sunset air, + While th’ holy monks are chanting + Their peaceful, evening prayer. + The Monastery is glowing, + Like heaps of molten gold; + The walls seem all transparent, + With majesty untold. + T’is strange; my spirit enters + St Mary’s Sacred Shrine, + I see the cowlèd figures, + In many a white rob’d line, {6} + Filling the stalls, but facing + The hallow’d Altar Throne, + Where Jesus makes His dwelling, + Untended and alone. + O peaceful, happy Bardsey, + Sweet Islet of the Sea! + I would for ever rest me, + All joyfully in thee! + O dear St. Marys Abbey, + On Bardsey’s northern shore; + Would I could bide within thee, + And part from thee no more! + O happy Monks and Virgins, + Singing by night and day, + Your hymnals to Sweet Jesus, + In dearest, fondest lay! + How can I speak your glory, + How can I tell your worth? + Ye are the Church’s safeguard; + Ye are the “Salt of earth.” + Ye live the life of Angels; + Ye never cease from praise, + To Heaven your intercedings + For sinners ceaseless raise. + Ah! well may throngs of sinners + Seek this most Sacred Isle, + Well may ten thousand pilgrims + Visit St. Mary’s pile. + Well may’st thou, Aberdaron, {8} + Loving to Bardsey be, + And daily turn thy glances + To the Islet out at sea. + For Bardsey is the lighthouse + Of many a shipwrecked soul; + To many a way-worn wanderer + Is Bardsey’s Isle the goal. + The glow of Bardsey’s brightness, + Illumes wild Cambria’s shores, + Across the Irish Channel, + Her Heavenly light she pours. + And blessed saints in thousands + Have dwelt on Bardsey’s hill, + Sending her countless Virgins + Celestial choirs to fill. + How Jesus must love Bardsey, + And prize her sacred soil; + Here Saints in countless numbers + Have rested from earth’s toil: + Have laid aside the burden + Of poor mortality, + And entered on the Sabbath + Of glad eternity. + While thus I dream, the Organ + Is pealing forth its wave, + The Holy Monks are marching + All slowly down the Nave. + “Dear Angel! may I follow + Them, down the Cloister still, + And join their recreation, + On yonder mossy hill?” + The Angel smiled permission; + I willed myself along, + Until unseen, I joined me + To th’ happy, Virgin throng. + Here, there were boys most lovely; + And there, old hoary men; + And youths, and those of mid-age; + Here joyous boys again. + I followed one young novice, + Who held an old man’s hand; + I listened,—they were speaking, + Of some dear, distant Land. + The boy I saw was pointing + Away, right out to sea, + Where moonlight made a pathway, + Of silver radiancy. + The silver way seemed joining + Together sea and sky, + The stars seemed trembling o’er it, + Like lightlets from on high. + “Dear Father Cadfan, look now,” + —Said the bright and lovely boy,— + “I’m sure that silver roadway + Leads to our Home of Joy.” + “No, no, my Son, t’is only + An emblem of the way, + Across time’s changing storm-tide, + To regions of the day.” + And then the old man turning, + Towards Cambria’s rock bound shore, + Pointed the boy to Barmouth, {11} + But then called Abermawr. + “My son,” said he, “’tis yonder, + Long years ago I tried + To bring poor souls to Jesus, + Who once for sinners died. + But there the Druids held them + In error’s iron chain, {12a} + They would not hear of Jesus, + And drove me thence again. + Yet though at Abermawr I failed + ’Mid Towyn’s marshes drear, {12b} + The people bowed before the Cross, + And sought the Saviour dear. + My son, one day thou must away, + If Father Abbot wills, + And build a Shrine to Christ Divine, + ’Mid Barmouth’s rocky hills. + The idols which they worship + Thou boldly must destroy, + Promise old Father Cadfan this, + My brave, my darling boy!” + The boy’s bright eyes were flashing, + He grasped the old man’s hand,— + “Father, I will preach Jesus + Upon that darkened strand. + Only, my father, pray for me, + When thou hast past the sea, + And reignest with our Jesus, + In the ‘kingdom of the free.’” + St. Cadfan smiled, and blessed the lad, + His heart’s desire seemed gained, + From idol worship for the Lord + Should Abermawr be claimed. + The Compline Bell tolled solemnly + From out St. Mary’s Tower, + Calling the Monks to worship + At day’s last hallowed hour. + Dubritius, {14} the novice boy, + Stood meekly in his stall, + The fathers and the novices + Chanted the Office all. + But Father Cadfan was not there, + Calmly his body lay; + Upon the mound by Bardsey Sound, + His spirit passed away. + His work was done, his prize was won, + The holy Monk was gone, + To join the virgin song notes, + Before th’ Eternal Throne. + + * * * * * + + The boy, so beautiful and pure, + Grew up to manhood’s bloom, + And ofttimes visited for prayer + The Blessed Cadfan’s Tomb. + One night the sun was sinking + Behind the Western wave, + Dubritius was kneeling + Beside St. Cadfan’s grave. + The Compline chants were over, + The twilight almost gone, + The youth was startled by a voice + Which cried—“My son! my son!” + A gentle light shone round the grave, + He raised his eyes, and lo! + St. Cadfan stood beside him, + Amid the weird-like glow; + “My son, make haste, thy solemn vows + Thou speedily must make, + Then to the men of Abermawr + The Cross of Jesus take. + The Banner and the Gospel, + With holy Chant and Psalm, + Straight to the Druid’s Temple go, + Nor fear, nor feel alarm. + For Jesus must be Cambria’s God, + The night must hie away, + Thyself must be the harbinger + Of Everlasting Day.” + The youth sprung forward to embrace + The friend he loved so well, + But he was gone; no sound was heard, + Save the lone ocean’s swell. + + * * * * * + + How beautiful! how beautiful! + Is now the Convent Choir; + All deck’d for some high festival + In exquisite attire. + Most precious gems are gleaming + Upon the frontal fair, + The Mass Priests too are vested + In garments passing rare. + The sacred tapers glisten + The Altar all along; + The holy Monks are chanting + Some sweet—some wedding song! + And tall white lilies, scenting + The Incense laden air, + Are bending down their petals, + T’wards a novice bow’d in prayer. + Yes! there before the Altar, + I see Dubritius bow, + Pure as the virgin lilies, + Encircling his fair brow. + His vows are said—the Cowl is given, + His live-long promise made; + All earthly loves are buried now, + Within the Cloister’s shade. + + * * * * * + + “Unfurl the sail! unloose the chain! + That links us to the shore— + To our own precious Island home + Which we may see no more!” + Thus spake Dubritius; and the tide + Fast wafted him away, + Out t’wards the rocky Cambrian coast + Of Cardigan’s fair bay. + The sea was calmly resting, + Lit by the summer’s sun; + In three short hours the Convent boat + Her little voyage had run. + Dubritius and his monkish band + At once pursued their way, + Reaching the town of Abermawr + Just at the close of day. + The evening’s hush was resting + So peacefully around, + Alone was heard the shrill sea bird, + And the waves’ soft murmuring sound. + When all at once through th’ restful air, + Dread shrieks of anguish rung + From the idol temple near the town, + While Druid choirs sung + Fierce hymns to their false savage gods, + Around the kindling flame, + Prepared for sacrificial rites, + Too terrible to name. + A fair young mother brings her babe, + A warrior brings his boy, + The Druids bind their victims + With fierce, fanatic joy! + The weeping mother hears the wail + Well from her darling’s breast; + The father sees the Druids bind + His boy with savage zest. + The lad was fair to look upon, + Ah! must he really die, + Oh! shall such sacrifice pollute + That calm blue evening sky? + The boy, though brave, is trembling now, + He nears the dreadful fire, + He feels its scorch, yet gives his life, + To still the idol’s ire. + The father’s cheek grows blanched and pale, + The poor young mother stands, + Yearning to snatch her precious one + From the stern Druid’s hands. + High leaps the flame, loud swells the song, + From the Druids’ choirs around; + But suddenly the evening wind + Fills with another sound! + ’Tis “Miserere Domine,” + Sung by the Monkish train, + “Exurgat Deus Dominus,” {20} + A grand and glorious strain! + With Crucifix and banner bright, + The bold brave monks appear; + And then among the heathen crowd, + Christ’s mighty Cross they rear. + “Cease, cease, ye sons of wickedness, + This useless wicked rite; + The God of Heaven has sent me here, + Of Majesty and Might!” + Dubritius spoke, and seized the boy + Straight from the altar’s side; + And caught the infant from the flame, + Or ere the darling died! + While this was done, some novices + Had hurl’d the idol down; + “Jesus is God!” the Monks proclaim, + “Your King with homage crown! + Ye Druids move not, or we call + God’s Angels to our aid. + The hour has come. By Abermawr + Worship must now be paid + To Jesus Christ, and Him alone, + Crown Him ye people all; + He bought you with His Precious Blood, + Prostrate before Him fall!” + Dubritius, with mighty power, + Told of the love so free, + That made God Man to die to save, + And bring true liberty. + God gave the Monks the victory, + The power of Jesus’ Name + Prevailed among those savage hearts, + Put out the cruel flame; + Rescued the boy, and snatched the babe + From that dread altar’s side; + Plunged them in gentle mercy’s stream, + The blest Baptismal tide. + The days and weeks passed swiftly, + New converts owned the Lord, + Ere long, all Abermawr became + Obedient to the Word. + + * * * * * + + Seventy long years had flown away, + See! Aberdaron weeps; + Forth from her Church beside the shore, {23a} + A long procession sweeps. + See crowds of pilgrims waiting + From all Carnarvon round, + The hushing of the sea roar, + To cross the dangerous sound. {23b} + The Church at Aberdaron + Is wet with mourners’ tears; + Dubritius has entered + Upon the Eternal years. + His body rests so calmly + Before the Altar high, + The Priests are softly wailing + The mournful Requiem’s sigh. + Upon the Altar glisten + The waxen tapers tall, + And summer flowers are lying + Upon the snow-white pall. + Sweet Incense clouds are rising + Around the hallowed bier; + From many an eye is falling + The sad, the loving tear. + Dubritius left Bardsey, + His lov’d—his peaceful home, + For fifty years mid war-strife, + This valiant Saint did roam. + But now, in peace, he cometh, + In Bardsey’s Isle to rest, + His spirit calmly dwelling + In regions of the blest. + Lower your crest, ye foam waves, + Wail adverse winds no more, + Dubritius must pass over + To Bardsey’s sainted shore. + ’Tis evening, and the sun glow + Is lighting up the sea: + The tiny waves are dancing, + For merriment and glee. + They bore Dubritius to toil, + To the fight at Abermawr, + And now they sing his lullaby, + And hush their noisy roar. + The boats are filling quickly + At Aberdaron’s quay, + The Bardsey bells are pealing, + Across the crimson sea. + The Aberdaron Canons {25} + Are chanting their sweet Psalm, + The blessed Saint is passing + Across those waters calm. + The Bay of Aberdaron + Seems full of peace and life, + Dubritius the Warrior, + As victor from the strife, + Is coming full of glory, + To his Island Home again; + The welcome bells are ringing, + Athwart the calm blue main. + Hark! how the chant is rising + From a hundred boats and mo’, + Mingling its soft sweet requiem, + With the murmuring wavelet’s flow. + And now the fleet of mourners + Reaches the haven still, + And th’ Monks’ slow, sad procession + Is winding down the hill. + The sacred banners waving, + In th’ restful evening air, + Borne by some weeping novices, + Wrought in devices rare. + And Incense-clouds ascending, + And many a taper’s light, + Burst on the pilgrims’ vision, + A fair and holy sight. + “Requiem æternam,” + The aged Abbot sings; + “Dona ei Domine,” + The loud response-note rings. + He comes! he comes! the victor! + We’ll welcome him with song; + Another Saint now perfect, + To Bardsey doth belong! + The dread Pelagian heresy + He trampled from our land, {27} + And drove the Druid’s tyranny + From Cambria’s noble strand. + He joined his Alleluia + With countless thousands more, + And drove the heathen foemen, + The Holy Cross before. + “Now that thou reign’st with Jesus, + A glorious Saint above, + O pray, dear St. Dubritius, + For the island of thy love!” + The Abbey Church was glistening + With incense, lights, and gold, + The organ’s peal of welcome, + Through aisle and choir rolled. + The hooded Monks are bearing + Slowly the bier along, + The choristers are chanting + A glad triumphant song. + “Rest for thy toil is o’er, + The battle’s shout no more + Shall break thy spirit’s calm, + Or mar thy peaceful Psalm; + Of praise to Christ the King, + Whose beauty thou shalt sing, + Throughout the ages long, + In one unbroken song. + For ever, and for aye, + In everlasting Day.” + + * * * * * + + The lichens and the ivy + Are creeping up the wall, + And growing round the casements, + And o’er the towers tall. + The Abbey hath grown hoary, + With centuries of age, + St. Mary’s Abbey stories + In many an ancient page. + And yet her grand old praise notes + Linger in her choir, + For of the praise of Jesus, + Her Monks can never tire. + Now round the hallowed precincts + Saint’s ashes crowd her sod, + Here thousands, and ten thousands + Have passed away to God. {30} + Men call the Holy Island + “The Gate of Paradise,” + And crowd her shores with pilgrims, + Who offer Sacrifice, + In Holy Eucharist, and tears, + And penance for their sin, + And pray that through sweet Jesus + God’s pardon they may win. + A pilgrimage to Bardsey, + If faithfully _twice_ made, + Brings blessings all as gracious, + As if to Rome _once_ paid. + So thought the Faithful in that day, + Of Bardsey’s Sacred Isle, + And sought her weal devoutly, + For Jesu’s sake the while. + + * * * * * + + A maiden fair was weeping; + Her warrior lover gone, + Yet not for noisy war-strife, + He leaves her thus alone. + Valiant in battle—bravely + The gory plains he trod, + Nor feared the deadly sword-thrust, + Nor th’ battles death-strewn sod. + And ofttimes ’mid the strife-clang, + He thought of his fair bride; + Whom he should press in triumph, + So closely to his side. + When all at once he altered, + He laid his armour by, + He said, his eyes were opened + To see earth’s vanity. + Eternity seemed opening + Her vista to his view, + He trembled at the prospect, + Graver he daily grew. + Men tried their skill all vainly + To dissipate his fear; + But Rudolph only answered— + “Eternity is near! + They say this life is joyous, + ’Tis all too short for me, + I must seek joys that fade not, + Throughout Eternity. + All—all of earth I’ll banish, + Its hopes, its loves, its smile; + And live alone for Jesus, + In Enlli’s {33} sainted isle.” + This stern resolve all firmly, + Rudolph right soon did make; + And parents, lover, glory, + For Christ he did forsake. + “These things for money promptly, + Earth’s servants oft forego, + Then I, for years eternal, + Relinquish _all_ below. + I’ll live alone for Jesus + In the Monastic Life, + And in the sacred cloister + I’ll wage the wondrous strife + With Satan, like our Master, + Amid the desert wild, + I’ll give my will to Jesus, + Just as a little child, + That thus I soon ‘may enter + The Kingdom’ of the Lord, + As said our Saviour Jesus, + In His own Holy Word.” + But Mabel pines; young Rudolph, + She pineth sore for thee; + To thee her troth she plighted, + In love’s first purity. + Within her bower she waiteth, + Her eyes with weeping sore, + They cannot stay her sorrow, + She mourneth more and more. + “Go, tell her,” said young Rudolph, + “Go, tell the lady fair, + That I have found a Lover, + Of Beauty wondrous rare. + Yes, tell her He is chiefest + ‘Among ten thousand’ too, + Yea, ‘altogether lovely,’ + His Love is ever true. + Tell her, my Love is Jesus, + The Prince of Peace—the King, + Whose Beauty all the Angels + Eternally do sing.” + But Rudolph, list! she pineth, + Oh, canst thou break her heart? + Wilt thou prove false to Mabel, + So cruelly thus part? + Her rosy blush is waning, + Her cheek is growing pale, + Her maiden heart is breaking, + Soon will her young life fail. + As Rudolph listened, tear drops + Flashed in his dark blue eye, + His manly breast was heaving + A deep, a piercing sigh. + Oh! tell her, brother, tell her, + She must not weep for me; + Say that I long to meet her + Where parting may not be. + My love is all unaltered, + But the eternal years + Have stole my heart from Mabel, + And earth’s sad vale of tears! + + * * * * * + + And now a boat is waiting + The resting of the tide, + One hour—Rudolph is landing + On Bardsey’s southern side. + And quick his steps are seeking + The Abbey’s quiet shade; + Three months—the princely Rudolph + His novice vows had made. + + * * * * * + + ’Twas the Corpus Christi Spring Feast, + That now was hard at hand, + And Pilgrim crowds are waiting + On Aberdaron’s strand. + The sea was gaily sparkling, + Beneath the May-day sun, + The Aberdaron boatmen + A race to Bardsey run. + Now, in all haste the pilgrims + Are landing on the isle, + For crowds at Aberdaron + Are waiting all the while. + The boats return to fetch them, + Across the sparkling bay, + In time for the First Vespers + Of Corpus Christi Day. + The grand old Abbey Temple + Was throng’d both aisle and nave, + The Vespers from the choir + Roll’d forth their choral wave. + And then a grand procession, + With lights, and incense, came + From out the choir; the old Church + Seem’d one bright blaze of flame. + For all the congregation + A lighted taper bore, + In honour of the Victim, + Once slain in days of yore. + But now with solemn worship + Borne in procession long, + Mid incense-clouds, and tapers, + And bursts of triumph song. + The Fathers and the Novices + Came first in order due, + Then choir-boys with banners, + All marching two and two. + The people fall back reverently, + As th’ holy Monks draw near, + One maiden there is trembling, + As if for very fear. + Or p’r’aps it’s her devotion + That palsies all her frame, + But then she would most surely + Be bow’d for virgin shame. + It is not thus, for, see now, + She pushes through the crowd, + Close to the Monks’ procession, + She kneels and sobs aloud. + She marks young Brother Rudolph, + And wails a long deep cry; + He knew her voice, but turns not, + Nor lifts his downcast eye; + He chants his grand old love-song + To Jesus Christ the King, + Borne in the slow procession, + As the glad joy bells ring:— + “Tantum ergo Sacramentum, + Veneremur cernui; + Et antiquum documentum, + Novo cedat ritui; + Præstet fides supplementum, + Sensuum defectui.” + “O Jesus! my sweet Jesus!” + The warrior-monk doth pray, + “Shew her Thine Own great Beauty, + Make her Thine Own to-day; + Be Thou her glorious Bridegroom, + Be Thou her only Choice, + Ravish her with Thy Beauty, + Make her to hear Thy voice.” + But as the long procession + Did wind its joyous way, + Making the evening twilight + Almost as bright as day, + The countless tapers glittered + Like hosts of meteors round, + And sent a glow of radiance + Athwart the Bardsey Sound. + Right round the Islet pealing, + The gladsome songs ascend, + And with the evening breezes + The clouds of incense blend. + But what was Mabel doing, + Where was the maiden now? + O joy! at Mary’s altar, + She plights another vow! + Yes! while the girl was weeping, + Her Rudolph lost and gone, + The Sacred Host drew near her, + There from strange glory shone. + And there as if in vision, + All wondrous, and most clear, + Mabel beheld the Saviour, + His voice fell on her ear. + “Arise, my love, my fair one, + Arise, and come away; + The winter’s past, the rain gone,” + The sunbeams strew thy way. + In lily vales the virgins + Are waiting now for thee, + “Arise my love, my fair one, + Arise, and follow Me.” + + * * * * * + + Hush! softly in the distance, + I hear the nuns’ sweet song, + ’Tis floating through the Cloister, + Its fretted roofs along. + And mingling with the echoes + Of nature’s own sweet praise, + Which the lowing herd, and the sweet song-bird, + With insects hum doth raise. + How peacefully, how restfully, + Such sounds as these combine + To soothe the weary spirit, + A weary one like mine. + But now my spirit wanders, + Woo’d by that distant hymn, + Through the hallow’d door, o’er the storied floor, + To the steps of the chancel dim. + The nuns’ sweet hymn was dying + In faintest tones away, + While prostrate at the altar, + A maiden’s figure lay. + Two years had pass’d since Mabel + Had heard the Bridegroom’s voice, + In Bardsey’s Holy Island, + And made her happy choice. + And now before His Altar, + She lays her young life down, + And from the hands of Rudolph + Receives the virgin crown! + Yes! Father Rudolph blesses, + The Virgin-Crown and Veil + Adorn the brow of Mabel, + With wreaths of lilies pale. + Her vows, like his, are plighted, + For ever and for aye, + To One Whose Love and Beauty + Can change not or decay. + O happy youths and virgins! + In cloister homes that dwell, + For ever and for ever + Your joyous songs shall swell— + Upon the soft sweet breezes + Of Zion’s sun-lit lands— + Upon the lily hill-slopes, + With all the virgin bands. + + * * * * * + + And so Carnarvon Convent + Enclosed another bride, + For Jesus Christ, the Bridegroom, + The Virgins Joy and Pride. + + * * * * * + + It was a calm sweet festal, + In joyous, summer time, + And Bardsey’s Abbey bell-notes + Rang out a merry chime. + The Island seem’d rejoicing, + With holy joy and mirth, + The Monks are going to honour + St. John the Baptist’s birth. + For John shines forth as Primate + Of Monkish Choirs above, + On earth he dwelt in deserts, + And knew no earthly love. + The poor, the sad, the orphans, + All love St. Mary’s shrine, + And venerate her Cloister, + Fill’d with the Love Divine. + The Fathers, and the Novices, + They count as loving friends, + Whom Jesus in His Mercy, + The poor and helpless sends. + They teach their children sweetly, + The Gospel’s glorious tales, + And tend their sick and dying + With care that never fails. + No poor’s rates, and no workhouse, + Were needed in those days, + The monks were all they wanted, + They work’d for Jesu’s praise. + + The Holy Mass was over, + The Abbot seeks his cell, + His heart is strangely trembling, + Wherefore he cannot tell. + ’Tis some foreboding sorrow + That makes his spirit sad, + Though all around is sunshine + And everything seems glad. + A strange, a chill forewarning, + Shakes the old man with fear, + Some dread, some dire affliction, + Too surely must be near. + That night, ere hushful Compline + Had closed the sacred day, + Two boats the Point were rounding, + Of Aberdaron’s Bay. + In one brief hour there landed, + On Bardsey’s holy shore, + Ten men from Windsor, bringing + Tidings most sad and sore. + They seek at once admission, + Telling the news they bring, + The Monks must, ere the morrow, + Surrender to the king + The Abbey and its treasures, + Its Church, its relics rare, + Its Vestments and its Chalices, + Its Shrines with jewels fair. + The Monks _must_ sign surrender, + Acknowledge many a sin + They never could have dreamt of, + If they would safety win. + And call the tyrant merciful, + For driving them away, + Making them leave their Abbey + To ruin and decay. {48} + The Compline Bell was tolling + Its last dear Compline call, + To-morrow death-like ruin + Would o’er the Convent fall. + That night the holy Fathers + Held consultation long, + And all agreed—Surrender + Would be unjust and wrong. + “Then die we at God’s Altar, + Sooner than yield the right + Which God Himself has given us, + To sacrilegious might.” + And true to their confession + The holy Monks remained, + And with their virgin life-blood + The Altar-steps are stained. + The poor arose right bravely, + Their much-loved Monks to aid, + And many thus right gladly + Their lives a forfeit made. + Now having done all thoroughly, + Their work of cruel wrong, + They left the Island weeping, + All hushed the Holy Song, + Which for so many ages, + By night as well as day, + Had praised the Love of Jesus, + In one long ceaseless lay. + And now the poor are seeking, + Among the ruins drear, + The bodies of the Martyrs, + So holy, and so dear. + Ah! there before the Altar, + The brave old Abbot lies; + And there, too, Father Rudolph, + With fixed and glassy eyes. + But oh! a calm serenest + Enfolds the Martyrs blest, + Strange joy lights up their faces, + Their spirits are at rest. + The dear old Abbey crumbles + All swiftly to decay: + Oh! for its restoration! + Cadfan! Dubritius! pray! + Ye thousand Saints of Bardsey, + Lift up your pleading song, + That Jesus may avenge you, + Of this most cruel wrong! + + * * * * * + + A hundred years are over, + Two stranger pilgrims steal, + To Bardsey’s Abbey ruins, + To pray for Bardsey’s weal. + The night was stormy, darksome, + No moonlight’s silver ray + Lit up the desolation + That all around them lay. + The hour was lonely midnight, + See! now beside the tomb, + Where holy Cadfan resteth, + A light steals through the gloom, + And ’mid the light a figure, + In holy Monk’s attire, + And smiling sweetly, brightly, + Points to the ruined choir. + “Pilgrims faithful, Pilgrims true, + List to that I tell to you. + Years three hundred shall not end, + Ere the King of Heaven shall send, + Saints to rear this sacred fane, + And restore her walls again. + Saints above cease not their cry, + Unto Christ the Lord Most High, + That His ceaseless praises may + Here arise by night and day. + Newborough’s Lord shall own this soil; + Ere he resteth from life’s toil, + Jesus, for His servants’ sake, + Bids him restoration make. + And if Newborough’s Lord obey, + That which Jesu’s servants say, + He shall gain a blessing bright, + In the realms of Morning Light. + If he do not grant their prayer, + He shall lose a blessing rare, + When he lies on his last bed, + Sad regret shall crown his head. + To his son shall then be given, {52} + Choicest blessings from High Heaven, + For he shall restore to God, + Through the Monks this sacred sod.” + Saying thus he sought repose, + In the tomb whence he arose. + + * * * * * + + The Angel shewed me these things, + In pictures bright and true; + I woke!—my eyes were resting + Upon the waters blue. + But oh! the waves seem sighing + For sorrow at my tale, + The sea-birds floating o’er them. + Sent forth a piteous wail. + Oh happy waves! no tyrant + Can hush _your_ endless song. + May ye again comingle + With Bardsey’s chants ere long. + Then Heaven, and Earth, and Nature, + In unison shall raise, + One grand joy-peal of gladness,— + One mighty shout of praise! + +_Written at Barmouth and Aberdaron_, _off Bardsey Isle_, _February_, +1870. + + * * * * * + + [Picture: Decorative graphic of a cross] + + * * * * * + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, + LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS. + + + + +Footnotes. + + +{6} The Bardsey Monks, at this time (the eighth century) doubtless wore +the black habit, but assumed the white habit of the Premonstratensians +some hundreds of years later. + +{8} Aberdaron is situated on the mainland of Carnarvonshire, just five +miles from Bardsey Island, in its own snug bay shore, just round the last +point of the Promontory of Lleyn. It was the starting place of the +pilgrims for the Holy Isle. + +{11} Barmouth is nearly thirty miles due east of Bardsey, across +Cardigan Bay, and quite visible on a clear day. It is a seaport of +Merionethshire. + +{12a} This may seem an anachronism, but it should be remembered that +Druidism lingered a long time in Wales, after it was fairly driven from +the rest of Britain. + +{12b} The Church here is dedicated to St. Cadfan. + +{14} St. Dubritius spent much of his early life in Bardsey, and was +buried there. + +{20} Psalm lxviii. + +{23a} The Church of Aberdaron is still standing close to the sea shore, +and was roofless and going to decay, until a few years ago the present +good vicar re-roofed the holy place, which might easily be restored for +worship were £500 collected for the purpose. The parish and vicar are +too poor to do any more. I had the privilege of preaching in this holy +old temple to a large crowd of peasants last Quinquagesima Sunday. + +{23b} I and a friend waited a whole week at Aberdaron this spring, but +in vain, waiting for a quiet sea, in order to visit the Holy Isle; which +is separated from the mainland by a most dangerous current. + +{25} Aberdaron Church was Collegiate in after years, and served by +secular Canons. + +{27} St. Dubritius attended the Council at Verulam with St. Germanus, +and is also said to have been present at the “Alleluiatic Battle.” + +{30} It is said by the historians of Bardsey, that 20,000 Saints are +buried there. A Bardsey man told me the other day when I was at +Aberdaron, that he has seen perfect skeletons of tall fine men lying +perfect, in five separate layers one above another, which were exposed +near the shore of the Island, by the wind and waves. He said, too, that +he believed bodies were buried all over the Island. + +{33} Ynys Enlli is the old British name for Bardsey, and means “The +Island in the _Flood_.” + +{48} See Collier’s Eccles. History, Vol. ii., where an exact parallel to +this may be found. + +{52} Lord Newborough is the present owner of the Holy Island. Its +present inhabitants are without a Church or Clergyman. I have written to +him to ask him to give us the Abbey Ruins, promising in return to try and +build a little Church and School there, which we would take charge of +free of expense to anyone. The good Priest of Aberdaron was much pleased +with our proposed plan. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOLY ISLE*** + + +******* This file should be named 49306-0.txt or 49306-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/9/3/0/49306 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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