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.
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 laughedTheir answer back. Beyond it London spread;But all between the river and that churchWas slope of grass and blossoming orchard copseGlittering 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 shineThus like the stars in heaven?"'As Sebert stood,The sweetness of the morning more and moreMade way into his heart. The pale blue smoke,Rising from hearths by woodland branches fed,Dimmed not the crystal matin air; not yetFrom 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 benignDispersed 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 mienPredicted 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 Cœlian Hill,Made thus his greeting.Westward by the ThamesThe King and Bishop paced, and held discourseOf him whose name that huge Cathedral bore,Israel's great son, the man of mighty heart,The man for her redemption zealous moreThan for his proper crown. Not task for herGod 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 SwordHe 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 twainBy Constantine beside the Tyber builtTo glorify their names. With sudden turn,Sebert, the crimson mounting to his brow,Made question, 'Is your Tyber of the SouthAmpler than this, our Thames?' The old man smiled;'Tyber to Thames is as that willow-stockTo 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 advanceLeft them in thickets tangled. Low the ground,Well-nigh by waters clipt, a savage hauntWith 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 floodRustled the sallows. Far I fled from men:A youth had done me wrong, and vengeful thoughtsBurned 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 kneesAnd cried, "Just God, if Thou despise my prayer,Faithless, thence weak, not less remember wellHow many a man in this East Saxon landStands 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 spaceWhere stood a flowering thorn. Adown it trailedIn zigzag curves erratic here and thereLong lines of milky bloom, like rills of foamFurrowing the green back of some huge sea waveRefluent from cliffs. Ecstatic minstrelsySwelled from its branches. Birds as thick as leavesThronged them; and whether joy was theirs that hourBecause the May had come, or joy of love,Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged,So piercing was that harmony, the placeEden to Sebert looked, while brake and bowerShone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,'The Bishop cried, 'could better chant God's praise?Here shall your church ascend:—its altar riseWhere yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake;Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oftHave trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed!Angels this church o'er-winging, age on ageShall see that boy at prayer!'In peace, in war,Daily the work advanced. The youthful KingKneeling, himself had raised the earliest sod,Made firm the corner stone. Whate'er of goldSun-ripened harvests of the royal landsYielded from Thames to Stour, or tax and tollFrom quays mast-thronged to loud-resounding sea,Save what his realm required by famine vexedAt 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 depthsSome haled the blocks; from distant forests someDragged home the oak-beam on the creaking wain:Alas, that arms in noble tasks so strongShould e'er have sunk in dust! Ere ten years passedSaint Peter's towers above the high-roofed streetsSmiled on Saint Paul's. That earlier church had risenWhere stood, in Roman days, Apollo's fane:Upon a site to Dian dedicateNow rose its sister. Erring Faith had reachedIn those twin Powers that ruled the Day and Night,To Wisdom witnessing and Chastity,Her loftiest height, and perished. Phœnix-like,From ashes of dead rites and truths abusedNow soared unstained Religion.What remained?The Consecration. On its eve, the KingHeld 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, interwreathedBrightness with brightness, glance turned back on glance,And smile on smile—a courtseying graciousnessOf stateliest forms that, winding, sank or roseAs if on heaving seas. In groups apartOld warriors clustered. Eadbald discussedAnd Snorr, that truce with Wessex signed, and said,'Fear nought: it cannot last!' A shadow satThat joyous night upon one brow alone,Redwald's, East Anglia's King. In generous youthHe, guest that time with royal Ethelbert,Had gladly bowed to Christ. From shallowest soilFaith springs apace, but springs to die. ReturnedTo plains of Ely, all that sweetness pastSeemed but a dream while scornful spake his wife,Upon whose brow beauty from love divorcedMade beauty's self unbeauteous: 'Lose—why not?—Thwarting your liegeful subjects, lose at willYour Kingdom; you that might have reigned ere nowBretwalda of the Seven!' In hour accursedThe weak man with his Faith equivocated:Fraudful, beneath the self-same roofs he raisedAltars to Christ and idols. By degreesThat Truth he mocked forsook him. Year by yearHis 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 discourseHe answered thus, with seeming-careless eyeWandering 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 CamWhere Felix rears even now his cloistral Schools,I trust to build three churches soon: my Queen,That seconds still my wishes, says, "BewareLest 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 secureSave when it skulks in corners!' As he spake,Despite that varnish on his brow clear-cut,Stung by remembrance, from the tutored eyeForth flashed the fire barbaric: race and heartA moment stood confessed.Old Mellitus,That night how fared he? In a fragile tentFacing that church expectant, low he kneltOn the damp ground. More late, like youthful knightIn 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 worldsForm one vast temple: Thou Who with Thyself,Ritual eterne, dost consecratethatChurch,For aye creating, hallowing it forever;Thou Who in narrowest heart of man or childMakest not less Thy dwelling, turn Thine eyesTo-morrow on our rite. The work we workWork 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 cloudsA panic-stricken moon stumbled and fled,And wildly on the waters blast on blastRidged their dark floor. A spring-tide from the seaBreasted the flood descending. Woods of SheneAnd 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 steepOr Reading's tower, had yielded to its waveBlossom and bud. More high, near Oxenford,Isis and Cherwell with precipitate streamHad swelled the current. Gathering thus its strengthFar off and near, allies and tributaries,That night by London onward rolled the ThamesBeauteous and threatening both.Its southern bankFronting the church had borne a hamlet longWhere fishers dwelt. Upon its verge that nightPerplexed the eldest stood: his hand was laidUpon the gunwale of a stranded boat;His knee was crooked against it. Shrinking stillAnd 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 gazedOnce on his face; and launched. Beside the helmThat Stranger sat. Then lo! a watery laneBefore them opening, through the billows curved,Level, like meadow-path. As when a weedDrifts with the tide, so softly o'er that laneOarless the boat advanced, and instant reachedThe northern shore, dark with that minster's shade;—Before them close it frowned.'Where now thou stand'stAbide thou:' thus the Stranger spake: anonBefore the church's southern gate he stood:—Then lo! a marvel. Inward as he passed,Its threshold crossed, a splendour as of GodForth from the bosom of that dusky pileThrough all its kindling windows streamed, and blazedFrom wave to wave, and spanned that downward tideWith many a fiery bridge. The moon was quenched;But all the edges of the headlong cloudsCaught up the splendour till the midnight vaultShone like the noon. The fisher knew, that hour,That with vast concourse of the Sons of GodThat church was thronged; for in it many a headSun-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 GodAnd heaven-born incense. Louder swelled that strain;And still the Bride of God, that church late dark,Glad of her saintly spousals, laughed and shoneIn radiance ever freshening. By degreesThat 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 manOnce more that Stranger stood:—'Seest thou yon tent?My Brother kneels within it. Thither speedAnd 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 oldFooting that Galilean Sea, with faithNot 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 manWith 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 mornIn multitudinous pomp the barges dropped,Following those twain that side by side advanced,One royal, one pontific, bearing eachThe 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 HellShall not prevail against it.'From the bargeOf Sebert and his Queen, antiphonalRapturous response was wafted: 'I beheldJerusalem, the City sage and blest;From heaven I saw it to the earth descendingIn sanctity gold-vested, as a BrideDecked 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 dayBrightened with banners of a thousand boatsWinnowed by winds flower-scented. Countless handsTossed on the brimming river chaplets wov'nOn mead or hill, or branches lopped in woodsWith fruit-bloom red, or white with clustering cone,Changing clear stream to garden. Mile on mileNow song was heard, now bugle horn that diedGradual 'mid sedge and reed. Alone the swanHigh on the western waters kept aloof;Remote she eyed the scene with neck thrown back,Her ancient calm preferring, and her hauntCrystalline still. Alone the Julian TowerFar down the eastern stream, though tap'stries wavedFrom every window, every roof o'er-swarmedWith 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 reachedIts noonday height, a people and its kingAround their minster pressed. With measured treadAnd Introit chanted, up the pillared naveReverent they moved: then knelt. Between their ranksTheir Bishop last advanced with mitred browAnd in his hand the Cross, at every stepSigning the benediction of his Lord.The altar steps he mounted. Turning thenWestward his face to that innumerous host,Thus spake he unastonished: 'Sirs, ere nowThis church's Consecration rite was sung:—Be ours to sing thanksgiving to our God,"Ter-Sanctus," and "Te Deum."'
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 laughedTheir answer back. Beyond it London spread;But all between the river and that churchWas slope of grass and blossoming orchard copseGlittering 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 shineThus like the stars in heaven?"'As Sebert stood,The sweetness of the morning more and moreMade way into his heart. The pale blue smoke,Rising from hearths by woodland branches fed,Dimmed not the crystal matin air; not yetFrom 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 benignDispersed 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 mienPredicted 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 Cœlian Hill,Made thus his greeting.Westward by the ThamesThe King and Bishop paced, and held discourseOf him whose name that huge Cathedral bore,Israel's great son, the man of mighty heart,The man for her redemption zealous moreThan for his proper crown. Not task for herGod 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 SwordHe 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 twainBy Constantine beside the Tyber builtTo glorify their names. With sudden turn,Sebert, the crimson mounting to his brow,Made question, 'Is your Tyber of the SouthAmpler than this, our Thames?' The old man smiled;'Tyber to Thames is as that willow-stockTo 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 advanceLeft them in thickets tangled. Low the ground,Well-nigh by waters clipt, a savage hauntWith 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 floodRustled the sallows. Far I fled from men:A youth had done me wrong, and vengeful thoughtsBurned 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 kneesAnd cried, "Just God, if Thou despise my prayer,Faithless, thence weak, not less remember wellHow many a man in this East Saxon landStands 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 spaceWhere stood a flowering thorn. Adown it trailedIn zigzag curves erratic here and thereLong lines of milky bloom, like rills of foamFurrowing the green back of some huge sea waveRefluent from cliffs. Ecstatic minstrelsySwelled from its branches. Birds as thick as leavesThronged them; and whether joy was theirs that hourBecause the May had come, or joy of love,Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged,So piercing was that harmony, the placeEden to Sebert looked, while brake and bowerShone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,'The Bishop cried, 'could better chant God's praise?Here shall your church ascend:—its altar riseWhere yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake;Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oftHave trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed!Angels this church o'er-winging, age on ageShall see that boy at prayer!'In peace, in war,Daily the work advanced. The youthful KingKneeling, himself had raised the earliest sod,Made firm the corner stone. Whate'er of goldSun-ripened harvests of the royal landsYielded from Thames to Stour, or tax and tollFrom quays mast-thronged to loud-resounding sea,Save what his realm required by famine vexedAt 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 depthsSome haled the blocks; from distant forests someDragged home the oak-beam on the creaking wain:Alas, that arms in noble tasks so strongShould e'er have sunk in dust! Ere ten years passedSaint Peter's towers above the high-roofed streetsSmiled on Saint Paul's. That earlier church had risenWhere stood, in Roman days, Apollo's fane:Upon a site to Dian dedicateNow rose its sister. Erring Faith had reachedIn those twin Powers that ruled the Day and Night,To Wisdom witnessing and Chastity,Her loftiest height, and perished. Phœnix-like,From ashes of dead rites and truths abusedNow soared unstained Religion.What remained?The Consecration. On its eve, the KingHeld 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, interwreathedBrightness with brightness, glance turned back on glance,And smile on smile—a courtseying graciousnessOf stateliest forms that, winding, sank or roseAs if on heaving seas. In groups apartOld warriors clustered. Eadbald discussedAnd Snorr, that truce with Wessex signed, and said,'Fear nought: it cannot last!' A shadow satThat joyous night upon one brow alone,Redwald's, East Anglia's King. In generous youthHe, guest that time with royal Ethelbert,Had gladly bowed to Christ. From shallowest soilFaith springs apace, but springs to die. ReturnedTo plains of Ely, all that sweetness pastSeemed but a dream while scornful spake his wife,Upon whose brow beauty from love divorcedMade beauty's self unbeauteous: 'Lose—why not?—Thwarting your liegeful subjects, lose at willYour Kingdom; you that might have reigned ere nowBretwalda of the Seven!' In hour accursedThe weak man with his Faith equivocated:Fraudful, beneath the self-same roofs he raisedAltars to Christ and idols. By degreesThat Truth he mocked forsook him. Year by yearHis 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 discourseHe answered thus, with seeming-careless eyeWandering 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 CamWhere Felix rears even now his cloistral Schools,I trust to build three churches soon: my Queen,That seconds still my wishes, says, "BewareLest 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 secureSave when it skulks in corners!' As he spake,Despite that varnish on his brow clear-cut,Stung by remembrance, from the tutored eyeForth flashed the fire barbaric: race and heartA moment stood confessed.Old Mellitus,That night how fared he? In a fragile tentFacing that church expectant, low he kneltOn the damp ground. More late, like youthful knightIn 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 worldsForm one vast temple: Thou Who with Thyself,Ritual eterne, dost consecratethatChurch,For aye creating, hallowing it forever;Thou Who in narrowest heart of man or childMakest not less Thy dwelling, turn Thine eyesTo-morrow on our rite. The work we workWork 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 cloudsA panic-stricken moon stumbled and fled,And wildly on the waters blast on blastRidged their dark floor. A spring-tide from the seaBreasted the flood descending. Woods of SheneAnd 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 steepOr Reading's tower, had yielded to its waveBlossom and bud. More high, near Oxenford,Isis and Cherwell with precipitate streamHad swelled the current. Gathering thus its strengthFar off and near, allies and tributaries,That night by London onward rolled the ThamesBeauteous and threatening both.Its southern bankFronting the church had borne a hamlet longWhere fishers dwelt. Upon its verge that nightPerplexed the eldest stood: his hand was laidUpon the gunwale of a stranded boat;His knee was crooked against it. Shrinking stillAnd 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 gazedOnce on his face; and launched. Beside the helmThat Stranger sat. Then lo! a watery laneBefore them opening, through the billows curved,Level, like meadow-path. As when a weedDrifts with the tide, so softly o'er that laneOarless the boat advanced, and instant reachedThe northern shore, dark with that minster's shade;—Before them close it frowned.'Where now thou stand'stAbide thou:' thus the Stranger spake: anonBefore the church's southern gate he stood:—Then lo! a marvel. Inward as he passed,Its threshold crossed, a splendour as of GodForth from the bosom of that dusky pileThrough all its kindling windows streamed, and blazedFrom wave to wave, and spanned that downward tideWith many a fiery bridge. The moon was quenched;But all the edges of the headlong cloudsCaught up the splendour till the midnight vaultShone like the noon. The fisher knew, that hour,That with vast concourse of the Sons of GodThat church was thronged; for in it many a headSun-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 GodAnd heaven-born incense. Louder swelled that strain;And still the Bride of God, that church late dark,Glad of her saintly spousals, laughed and shoneIn radiance ever freshening. By degreesThat 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 manOnce more that Stranger stood:—'Seest thou yon tent?My Brother kneels within it. Thither speedAnd 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 oldFooting that Galilean Sea, with faithNot 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 manWith 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 mornIn multitudinous pomp the barges dropped,Following those twain that side by side advanced,One royal, one pontific, bearing eachThe 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 HellShall not prevail against it.'From the bargeOf Sebert and his Queen, antiphonalRapturous response was wafted: 'I beheldJerusalem, the City sage and blest;From heaven I saw it to the earth descendingIn sanctity gold-vested, as a BrideDecked 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 dayBrightened with banners of a thousand boatsWinnowed by winds flower-scented. Countless handsTossed on the brimming river chaplets wov'nOn mead or hill, or branches lopped in woodsWith fruit-bloom red, or white with clustering cone,Changing clear stream to garden. Mile on mileNow song was heard, now bugle horn that diedGradual 'mid sedge and reed. Alone the swanHigh on the western waters kept aloof;Remote she eyed the scene with neck thrown back,Her ancient calm preferring, and her hauntCrystalline still. Alone the Julian TowerFar down the eastern stream, though tap'stries wavedFrom every window, every roof o'er-swarmedWith 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 reachedIts noonday height, a people and its kingAround their minster pressed. With measured treadAnd Introit chanted, up the pillared naveReverent they moved: then knelt. Between their ranksTheir Bishop last advanced with mitred browAnd in his hand the Cross, at every stepSigning the benediction of his Lord.The altar steps he mounted. Turning thenWestward his face to that innumerous host,Thus spake he unastonished: 'Sirs, ere nowThis church's Consecration rite was sung:—Be ours to sing thanksgiving to our God,"Ter-Sanctus," and "Te Deum."'
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.
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 downsAnd in the oakwoods by the Stour was dead,While sadly shone o'er snowy plains of MarchHer comfortless, cold star. The daffodilThat year was past its time. The leaden streamHad waited long that lamp of river-bedsWhich, when the lights of Candlemas are quenched,Looks forth through February mists. A filmOf ice lay brittle on the shallows: darkAnd swift the central current rushed: the windSighed through the tawny sedge.'So fleets our life—Like yonder gloomy stream; so sighs our age—Like yonder sapless sedge!' Thus Laurence musedStanding on that sad margin all alone,His twenty years of gladsome English toilEnding 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 loveIts lustre smote the beggar as she passedAnd 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 strokeWhich 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 youthHeroic in its gladness, spurned your gifts,Yearning for noble death. In age, in ageWe 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 woodsTowards his house monastic. Vast it loomedThrough ground-fog seen; and vaster, close beside,That convent's church by great Augustine rearedWhere once old woodlands clasped a temple old,Vaunt of false Gods. To Peter and to PaulThat church was dedicate, albeit so longHigh o'er the cloudy rack of fleeting yearsIt 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 newIn that Herodian court had Laurence stood,Commanding, 'Put the evil thing away!'Since then the woman's to the monarch's hateHad added strength—the serpent's poison-bagVenoming the serpent's fang. 'Depart the realm!'With voice scarce human thus the tyrant cried,'Depart or die;' and gave the Church's goodsTo clown and boor.Upon the bank of ThamesSettled 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 setWatching 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 speedTheir swords leaped forth; contemptuous next they cried,'For once we spare to sweep a witless headFrom worthless shoulders. Ere to-morrow's dawnHence, nor return!' He sped to Rochester:Her bishop, like himself, was under ban:The twain to Canterbury passed, and thereResolved to let the tempest waste its wrath,And crossed the seas. By urgency outworn,'Gainst that high judgment of his holier willLaurence to theirs deferred, but tarried yetFor one day more to cast a last regardOn regions loved so long.As compline ceasedHe reached the abbey gates, and entered in:Sadly the brethren looked him in the face,Yet no one said, 'Take comfort!' Sad and soleHe passed to the Scriptorium: round he gazed,And thought of happy days, when Gregory,One time their Abbot, next their Pope, would sendSome 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 borneWith echoes from the Coliseum's wallAdown that Cœlian Hill; and saw God's poorAt feast around that humble board which gracedThat 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-slopedBreast-high, and faintly warmed by sinking sun;Then o'er it bent a space.With sudden handsThe old man raised that scroll; aloud he read:'I, Ethelbert the King, and all my Thanes,Honouring the Apostle Peter, cede to GodThis Abbey and its lands. If heir of mineCancel that gift, when Christ with angels girtMakes 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 browThe veins swelled out; dilated nostril, mouthWorking 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 soonWhose 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 aroundThe windy corridors and courts stone-paved;And bitter blew the blast: his unlooped cloakFell loose: the cold he noted not. At lastA brother passed the door with lamp in hand:Dazzled, he started first: then meekly spake,'Beseech the brethren that they strew my bedWithin the church. Until the second watchThere 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 stoneThe old head's nightly pillow. Echoes faintEre long of their receding footsteps diedWhile from the dark fringe of a rainy cloudAn ice-cold moon, ascending, streaked the churchWith gleam and gloom alternate. On his kneesMeantime that aged priest was creeping slowFrom 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 searchOf thirst-assuaging spring. Glittered sereneThat light before the Sacrament of Love:Thither he bent his way, and long time prayed:Thence onward crept to where King EthelbertSlept, 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 kneesThou mad'st confession of thine earthly sinsTo 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 thisThat 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 yearAll shepherdless thy well-loved people strayedWhat 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 shoresSet 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 daysCrowned with such glories, with such sweetness winged!Thou saw'st thy realm made one with Christ's: thou saw'stThy 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 kneesThen 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 knowThat on thee in thy cradle Mary flungA lily whiter from her hand, a roseWarm from her breath and breast, for all thy lifeWas made of Chastities and Charities—This hour thine eyes are on that Vision bentWhereof 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 pleadFor hearts that break below!'Upon the groundAwhile that man sore tried his forehead bowed;Then raised it till the frore and foggy beamMixed with his wintry hair. Once more he creptUpon his knees through shadow; reached at lengthHis toilsome travel's last and dearest bourn,The grave of Saint Augustine. O'er it layThe Patriarch's statued semblance as in sleep:He knew it well, and found it, though to himIn darkness lost and veil beside of tears,With level hands grazing those upward feetOft 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 HillSent 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 earthThy step was regal, meekness of thy ChristWeighted 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 hourGod laid His holy hand upon thine eyes:I knelt beside thy bed: I leaned mine earDown 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 GodWho 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 feetLifting a marble face, in silence creptTo where far off his bed was strewn, and drewThe deer-skin covering o'er him. With its warmthDeep sleep, that solace of lamenting heartsWhich makes the waking bitterer, o'er him sank,Nor wholly left him, though in sleep he moanedWhen from the neighbouring farm, an hour ere dawn,The second time rang out that clarion voiceWhich bids the Christian watch.As thus he layT'wards him there moved in visions of the LordA 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 eyesMade worthier of such grace; and Laurence sawPrincedom 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 vaultsStood Peter, Moses of the Christian Law,Figured in one that by the Burning BushUnsandalled knelt, or drew with lifted handThe torrent from the rock, yet wore not lessIn 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 thenLong-waited, or with sceptre-wielding handEarthward to smite the unworthiest head on earth,Or with the darker of those Keys thou bearestHim from the synod of the Saints to shutWho fled as flies the hireling? Let it be!Not less in that bright City by whose gateWarder thou sitt'st, my Master thou shalt seePacing the diamond terraces of GodAnd 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 paceMy Ethelbert, my Bertha! Who can tellBut in the on-sweeping centuries thrice or twiceThese three may name my name?' He spake and wept.To whom the Apostolic Splendour thus:'Live, and be strong: for those thou lovest in ChristNot 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 commandThe Brother-band to strengthen; last to rule?I who to Hebrew and to Gentile bothFlung 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 swordAgainst me raged. Forth by the Appian WayI fled; and, past the gateway, face to face,Him met, Who up the steep of Calvary, bareFor man's behoof the Cross. "Where goest thou, Lord?"I spake; then He: "I go to Rome, once moreTo 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 partHath 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 GodWould not be dispossessed, but kindled thereMemorial dawn of brightness, more and moreGrowing 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 upsoaredHope, starry-crowned, and winged, that liberates oftFaith, unextinct, though bound by Powers accursedThat o'er her plant the foot, and hold the chain—Terror and Sloth. To noble spirits set freeDelight 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 musedThe day-dawn reaching to his pallet showedThat Discipline, wire-woven, in ancient daysGuest of monastic bed. He snatched it thence:Around his bending neck and shoulders leanIn dire revenge he hurled it. Spent at last,Though late, those bleeding hands down dropped: the cheekSank on the stony pillow. Little birds,Low-chirping ere their songs began, attunedSlumber unbroken. In a single hourHe slept a long night's sleep.The rising sunWoke him: but in his heart another sun,New-risen serene with healing on its wings,Outshone that sun in brightness. 'Mid the choirHis voice was loudest while they chanted lauds:Brother to brother whispered, issuing forth,'He walks in stature higher by a headThan in the month gone by!'That day at noonKing Eadwald, intent to whiten theftAnd 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 oftSages can brag; your dreamer weaves his dream:But honest flesh rules all!' While thus they spakeConfusion filled the hall: through guarded gatesA priest advanced with mitre and with Cross,A monk that seemed not monk, but prince disguised:It was Saint Laurence. As he neared the throneThe 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 oneBuried in years gone by. All else is dreamSave that last look the Apostle on me bentEre from my sight he ceased. I saw thereinThe reflex of that wondrous last RegardCast by the sentenced Saviour of mankindOn one who had denied Him, standing coldBeside the High Priest's gate. Like him, I wept;His countenance wrought my penance, not his hand:I scarcely felt the scourge.'King EadbaldDrave 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 trueHis 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 wasOf swift transitions. Hearts, how proud soe'er,Made not that boast—consistency in sin,Though dark and rough accessible to GraceAs earth to vernal showers. With hands hard-clenchedThe 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 moreI ratify my Father's oath, and mine,To keep the Church in peace: and though I swareTo push God's monks from yonder monasteryAnd 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 swordHe clave the red seal from their statute scrollAnd 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 CanterburyTill reigned the Norman, crowned on Hastings' field,God's Church had rest. In many a Saxon realmConvulsion rocked her cradle: altars raisedBy earlier kings by later were o'erthrown:One half the mighty Roman work, and more,Fell to the ground: Columba's Irish monksThe ruin raised. From Canterbury's towers,'Rome of the North' long named, from them aloneAbove sea-surge still shone that vestal fireBy tempest fanned, not quenched; and at her breastFor centuries six were nursed that Cœlian race,The Benedictine Primates of the Land.
The day was dying on the Kentish downsAnd in the oakwoods by the Stour was dead,While sadly shone o'er snowy plains of MarchHer comfortless, cold star. The daffodilThat year was past its time. The leaden streamHad waited long that lamp of river-bedsWhich, when the lights of Candlemas are quenched,Looks forth through February mists. A filmOf ice lay brittle on the shallows: darkAnd swift the central current rushed: the windSighed through the tawny sedge.'So fleets our life—Like yonder gloomy stream; so sighs our age—Like yonder sapless sedge!' Thus Laurence musedStanding on that sad margin all alone,His twenty years of gladsome English toilEnding 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 loveIts lustre smote the beggar as she passedAnd 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 strokeWhich 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 youthHeroic in its gladness, spurned your gifts,Yearning for noble death. In age, in ageWe 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 woodsTowards his house monastic. Vast it loomedThrough ground-fog seen; and vaster, close beside,That convent's church by great Augustine rearedWhere once old woodlands clasped a temple old,Vaunt of false Gods. To Peter and to PaulThat church was dedicate, albeit so longHigh o'er the cloudy rack of fleeting yearsIt 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 newIn that Herodian court had Laurence stood,Commanding, 'Put the evil thing away!'Since then the woman's to the monarch's hateHad added strength—the serpent's poison-bagVenoming the serpent's fang. 'Depart the realm!'With voice scarce human thus the tyrant cried,'Depart or die;' and gave the Church's goodsTo clown and boor.Upon the bank of ThamesSettled 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 setWatching 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 speedTheir swords leaped forth; contemptuous next they cried,'For once we spare to sweep a witless headFrom worthless shoulders. Ere to-morrow's dawnHence, nor return!' He sped to Rochester:Her bishop, like himself, was under ban:The twain to Canterbury passed, and thereResolved to let the tempest waste its wrath,And crossed the seas. By urgency outworn,'Gainst that high judgment of his holier willLaurence to theirs deferred, but tarried yetFor one day more to cast a last regardOn regions loved so long.As compline ceasedHe reached the abbey gates, and entered in:Sadly the brethren looked him in the face,Yet no one said, 'Take comfort!' Sad and soleHe passed to the Scriptorium: round he gazed,And thought of happy days, when Gregory,One time their Abbot, next their Pope, would sendSome 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 borneWith echoes from the Coliseum's wallAdown that Cœlian Hill; and saw God's poorAt feast around that humble board which gracedThat 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-slopedBreast-high, and faintly warmed by sinking sun;Then o'er it bent a space.With sudden handsThe old man raised that scroll; aloud he read:'I, Ethelbert the King, and all my Thanes,Honouring the Apostle Peter, cede to GodThis Abbey and its lands. If heir of mineCancel that gift, when Christ with angels girtMakes 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 browThe veins swelled out; dilated nostril, mouthWorking 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 soonWhose 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 aroundThe windy corridors and courts stone-paved;And bitter blew the blast: his unlooped cloakFell loose: the cold he noted not. At lastA brother passed the door with lamp in hand:Dazzled, he started first: then meekly spake,'Beseech the brethren that they strew my bedWithin the church. Until the second watchThere 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 stoneThe old head's nightly pillow. Echoes faintEre long of their receding footsteps diedWhile from the dark fringe of a rainy cloudAn ice-cold moon, ascending, streaked the churchWith gleam and gloom alternate. On his kneesMeantime that aged priest was creeping slowFrom 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 searchOf thirst-assuaging spring. Glittered sereneThat light before the Sacrament of Love:Thither he bent his way, and long time prayed:Thence onward crept to where King EthelbertSlept, 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 kneesThou mad'st confession of thine earthly sinsTo 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 thisThat 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 yearAll shepherdless thy well-loved people strayedWhat 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 shoresSet 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 daysCrowned with such glories, with such sweetness winged!Thou saw'st thy realm made one with Christ's: thou saw'stThy 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 kneesThen 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 knowThat on thee in thy cradle Mary flungA lily whiter from her hand, a roseWarm from her breath and breast, for all thy lifeWas made of Chastities and Charities—This hour thine eyes are on that Vision bentWhereof 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 pleadFor hearts that break below!'Upon the groundAwhile that man sore tried his forehead bowed;Then raised it till the frore and foggy beamMixed with his wintry hair. Once more he creptUpon his knees through shadow; reached at lengthHis toilsome travel's last and dearest bourn,The grave of Saint Augustine. O'er it layThe Patriarch's statued semblance as in sleep:He knew it well, and found it, though to himIn darkness lost and veil beside of tears,With level hands grazing those upward feetOft 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 HillSent 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 earthThy step was regal, meekness of thy ChristWeighted 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 hourGod laid His holy hand upon thine eyes:I knelt beside thy bed: I leaned mine earDown 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 GodWho 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 feetLifting a marble face, in silence creptTo where far off his bed was strewn, and drewThe deer-skin covering o'er him. With its warmthDeep sleep, that solace of lamenting heartsWhich makes the waking bitterer, o'er him sank,Nor wholly left him, though in sleep he moanedWhen from the neighbouring farm, an hour ere dawn,The second time rang out that clarion voiceWhich bids the Christian watch.As thus he layT'wards him there moved in visions of the LordA 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 eyesMade worthier of such grace; and Laurence sawPrincedom 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 vaultsStood Peter, Moses of the Christian Law,Figured in one that by the Burning BushUnsandalled knelt, or drew with lifted handThe torrent from the rock, yet wore not lessIn 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 thenLong-waited, or with sceptre-wielding handEarthward to smite the unworthiest head on earth,Or with the darker of those Keys thou bearestHim from the synod of the Saints to shutWho fled as flies the hireling? Let it be!Not less in that bright City by whose gateWarder thou sitt'st, my Master thou shalt seePacing the diamond terraces of GodAnd 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 paceMy Ethelbert, my Bertha! Who can tellBut in the on-sweeping centuries thrice or twiceThese three may name my name?' He spake and wept.To whom the Apostolic Splendour thus:'Live, and be strong: for those thou lovest in ChristNot 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 commandThe Brother-band to strengthen; last to rule?I who to Hebrew and to Gentile bothFlung 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 swordAgainst me raged. Forth by the Appian WayI fled; and, past the gateway, face to face,Him met, Who up the steep of Calvary, bareFor man's behoof the Cross. "Where goest thou, Lord?"I spake; then He: "I go to Rome, once moreTo 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 partHath 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 GodWould not be dispossessed, but kindled thereMemorial dawn of brightness, more and moreGrowing 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 upsoaredHope, starry-crowned, and winged, that liberates oftFaith, unextinct, though bound by Powers accursedThat o'er her plant the foot, and hold the chain—Terror and Sloth. To noble spirits set freeDelight 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 musedThe day-dawn reaching to his pallet showedThat Discipline, wire-woven, in ancient daysGuest of monastic bed. He snatched it thence:Around his bending neck and shoulders leanIn dire revenge he hurled it. Spent at last,Though late, those bleeding hands down dropped: the cheekSank on the stony pillow. Little birds,Low-chirping ere their songs began, attunedSlumber unbroken. In a single hourHe slept a long night's sleep.The rising sunWoke him: but in his heart another sun,New-risen serene with healing on its wings,Outshone that sun in brightness. 'Mid the choirHis voice was loudest while they chanted lauds:Brother to brother whispered, issuing forth,'He walks in stature higher by a headThan in the month gone by!'That day at noonKing Eadwald, intent to whiten theftAnd 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 oftSages can brag; your dreamer weaves his dream:But honest flesh rules all!' While thus they spakeConfusion filled the hall: through guarded gatesA priest advanced with mitre and with Cross,A monk that seemed not monk, but prince disguised:It was Saint Laurence. As he neared the throneThe 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 oneBuried in years gone by. All else is dreamSave that last look the Apostle on me bentEre from my sight he ceased. I saw thereinThe reflex of that wondrous last RegardCast by the sentenced Saviour of mankindOn one who had denied Him, standing coldBeside the High Priest's gate. Like him, I wept;His countenance wrought my penance, not his hand:I scarcely felt the scourge.'King EadbaldDrave 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 trueHis 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 wasOf swift transitions. Hearts, how proud soe'er,Made not that boast—consistency in sin,Though dark and rough accessible to GraceAs earth to vernal showers. With hands hard-clenchedThe 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 moreI ratify my Father's oath, and mine,To keep the Church in peace: and though I swareTo push God's monks from yonder monasteryAnd 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 swordHe clave the red seal from their statute scrollAnd 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 CanterburyTill reigned the Norman, crowned on Hastings' field,God's Church had rest. In many a Saxon realmConvulsion rocked her cradle: altars raisedBy earlier kings by later were o'erthrown:One half the mighty Roman work, and more,Fell to the ground: Columba's Irish monksThe ruin raised. From Canterbury's towers,'Rome of the North' long named, from them aloneAbove sea-surge still shone that vestal fireBy tempest fanned, not quenched; and at her breastFor centuries six were nursed that Cœlian race,The Benedictine Primates of the Land.