Legends of the Saxon Saints Part 2

Then laughed the King, 'The stag-hunt and our songs So drugged my memory, I had nigh forgotten Why for our feast I chose this heaven-roofed hall: Missives I late received from friends in France; They make report of strangers from the South Who, tarrying in their coasts have learned our tongue, And northward wend with tidings strange and new Of some celestial Kingdom by their G.o.d Founded for men of Faith. Nor churl am I To frown on kind intent, nor child to trust This sceptre of Seven Realms to magic snare That puissance hath--who knows not?--greater thrice In house than open field. I therefore chose For audience hall this precinct.'

Muttered low Murdark, the scoffer with the cave-like mouth And sidelong eyes, 'Queen Bertha's voice was that!

A woman's man! Since first from Gallic sh.o.r.es That dainty daughter of King Charibert Pressed her small foot on England's honest sh.o.r.e The whole land dwindles!'

In seraphic hymns Ere long that serpent hiss was lost: for soon, In raiment white, circling a rocky point, O'er sands still glistening with a tide far-ebbed, On drew, preceded by a silver Cross, A long procession. Music, as it moved, Floated on sea-winds inland, deadened now By thickets, echoed now from cliff or cave: Ere long before them that procession stood.

The King addressed them: 'Welcome, Heralds sage!

And if from G.o.d I welcome you the more, Since great is G.o.d, and therefore great His gifts: G.o.d grant He send them daily, heaped and huge!

Speak without fear, for him alone I hate Who brings ill news, or makes inept demand Unmeet for Kings. I know that Cross ye bear; And in my palace sits a Christian wife, Bertha, the sweetest lady in this land; Most gracious in her ways, in heart most leal.

I knew her yet a child: she knelt whene'er The Queen, her mother, entered: then I said, A maid so reverent will be reverent wife, And wedded her betimes. Morning and eve She in her wood-girt chapel sings her prayer, Which wins us kindlier harvest, and, some think, Success in war. She strives not with our G.o.ds: Confusion never wrought she in my house, Nor minished Hengist's glory. Had her voice, Clangorous or strident, drawn upon my throne Deserved opprobrium'--here the monarch's brows Flushed at the thought, and fire was in his eyes-- 'The hand that clasps this sceptre had not spared To hunt her forth, an outcast in the woods, Thenceforth with beasts to herd! More lief were I To take the lioness to my bed and board Than house a rebel wife.' Remembering then The mildness of his Queen, King Ethelbert Resumed, appeased, for placable his heart; 'But she no rebel is, and this I deem Fair auspice for her Faith.'

A little breeze Warm from the sea that moment softly waved The standard from its staff, and showed thereon The Child Divine. Upon His mother's knee Sublime He stood. His left hand clasped a globe Crowned with a golden Cross; and with His right, Two fingers heavenward raised, o'er all the earth He sent His Blessing.

Of that band snow-stoled One taller by the head than all the rest Obeisance made; then, pointing to the Cross, And forward moving t'ward the monarch's seat, Opened the great commission of the Faith:-- 'Behold the Eternal Maker of the worlds!

That Hand which shaped the earth and blesses earth Must rule the race of man!'

Majestic then As when, far winding from its mountain springs, City and palm-grove far behind it left, Some Indian river rolls, while mists dissolved Leave it in native brightness un.o.bscured, And kingly navies share its sea-ward sweep, Forward on-flowed in Apostolic might Augustine's strong discourse. With G.o.d beginning, He showed the Almighty All-compa.s.sionate, Down drawn from distance infinite to man By the Infinite of Love. Lo, Bethlehem's crib!

There lay the Illimitable in narrow bound: Thence rose that triumph of a world redeemed!

Last, to the standard pointing, thus he spake: 'Yon Standard tells the tale! Six hundred years Westward it speeds from subject realm to realm: First from the bosom of G.o.d's Race Elect, His People, till they slew Him, mild it soared: Rejected, it returned. Above their walls While ruin rocked them, and the Roman fire, Dreadful it hung. When Rome had shared that guilt, Mocking that Saviour's Brethren, and His Bride, Above the conquered conqueror of all lands In turn this Standard flew. Who raised it high?

A son of this your island, Constantine!

In these, thine English oakwoods, Helena, 'Twas thine to nurse thy warrior. He had seen Star-writ in heaven the words this Standard bears, "Through Me is victory." Victory won, he raised High as his empire's queenly head, and higher, This Standard of the Eternal Dove thenceforth To fly where eagle standard never flew, G.o.d's glory in its track, goodwill to man.

Advance for aye, great Emblem! Light as now Famed Asian headlands, and h.e.l.lenic isles!

O'er snow-crowned Alp and citied Apennine Send forth a breeze of healing! Keep thy throne For ever on those western peaks that watch The setting sun descend the Hesperean wave, Atlas and Calpe! These, the old Roman bound, Build but the gateway of the Rome to be; Till Christ returns, thou Standard, hold them fast: But never till the North, that, age by age, Dashed back the Pagan Rome, with Christian Rome Partakes the spiritual crown of man restored, From thy strong flight above the world surcease, And fold thy wings in rest!'

Upon the sod He knelt, and on that Standard gazed, and spake, Calm-voiced, with hand to heaven: 'I promise thee, Thou Sign, another victory, and thy best-- This island shall be thine!'

Augustine rose And took the right hand of King Ethelbert, And placed therein the Standard's staff, and laid His own above the monarch's, speaking thus: 'King of this land, I bid thee know from G.o.d That kings have higher privilege than they know, The standard-bearers of the King of kings.'

Long time he clasped that royal hand; long time The King, that patriarch's hand at last withdrawn, His own withdrew not from that Standard's staff Committed to his charge. His hand he deemed Thenceforth its servant vowed. With large, meek eyes Fixed on that Maid and Babe, he stood as child That, gazing on some reverent stranger's face, Nor loosening from that stranger's hold his palm, Listens his words attent.

The man of G.o.d Meantime as silent gazed on Thanet's sh.o.r.e Gold-tinged, with sunset spray to crimson turned In league-long crescent. Love was in his face, That love which rests on Faith. He spake: 'Fair land, I know thee what thou art, and what thou lack'st!

The Master saith, "I give to him that hath:"

Thy harvest shall be great.' Again he mused, And shadow o'er him crept. Again he spake: 'That harvest won, when centuries have gone by, What countenance wilt thou wear? How oft on brows Brightened by Baptism's splendour, sin more late Drags down its cloud! The time may come when thou This day, though darkling, yet so innocent, Barbaric, not depraved, on greater heights May'st sin in malice--sin the great offence, Changing thy light to darkness, knowing G.o.d, Yet honouring G.o.d no more; that time may come When, rich as Carthage, great in arms as Rome, Keen-eyed as Greece, this isle, to sensuous gaze A sun all gold, to angels may present Aspect no n.o.bler than a desert waste, Some blind and blinding waste of sun-scorched sands, Trod by a race of pigmies not of men, Pigmies by pa.s.sions ruled!'

Once more he mused; Then o'er his countenance pa.s.sed a second change; And from it flashed the light of one who sees, Some hill-top gained, beyond the inc.u.mbent night The instant foot of morn. With regal step, Martial yet measured, to the King he strode, And laid a strong hand on him, speaking thus: 'Rejoice, my son, for G.o.d hath sent thy land This day Good Tidings of exceeding joy, And planted in her breast a Tree divine Whose leaves shall heal far nations. Know besides, Should sickness blight that Tree, or tempest mar, The strong root shall survive: the winter past, Heavenward once more shall rush both branch and bough, And over-vault the stars.'

He spake, and took The sacred Standard from that monarch's hand, And held it in his own, and fixed its point Deep in the earth, and by it stood. Then lo!

Like one disburthened of some ponderous charge, King Ethelbert became himself again, And round him gazed well pleased. Throughout his train Sudden a movement thrilled: remembrance had Of those around, his warriors and his thanes, That ever on his wisdom waiting hung, Thus he replied discreet: 'Stranger and friend, Thou bear'st good tidings! That thou camest thus far To fool us, knave and witling may believe: I walk not with their sort; yet, guest revered, Kings are not as the common race of men; Counsel they take, lest honour heaped on one Dishonour others. Odin holds on us Prescriptive right, and special claims on me, The son of Hengist's grandson. Preach your Faith!

The man who wills I suffer to believe: The man who wills not, let him moor his skiff Where anchorage likes him best. The day declines: This night with us you harbour, and our Queen Shall lovingly receive you.'

Staid and slow The King rode homewards, while behind him paced Augustine and his Monks. The ebb had left 'Twixt Thanet and the mainland narrow s.p.a.ce Marsh-land more late: beyond the ford there wound A path through flowery meads; and, as they pa.s.sed, Not herdsmen only, but the broad-browed kine Fixed on them long their meditative gaze; And oft some blue-eyed boy with flaxen locks Ran, fearless, forth, and plucked them by the sleeve, Some boy clear-browed as those Saint Gregory marked, Poor slaves, new-landed on the quays of Rome, That drew from him that saying, '"Angli"--nay, Call them henceforward "Angels"!'

From a wood Issuing, before them l.u.s.trous they beheld King Ethelbert's chief city, Canterbury, Strong-walled, with winding street, and airy roofs, And high o'er all the monarch's palace pile Thick-set with towers. Then fire from G.o.d there fell Upon Augustine's heart; and thus he sang Advancing; and the brethren sang 'Amen':

'Hail, City loved of G.o.d, for on thy brow Great Fates are writ. Thou c.u.mberest not His earth For petty traffic reared, or petty sway; I see a heavenly choir descend, thy crown Henceforth to bind thy brow. Forever hail!

'I see the basis of a kingly throne In thee ascending! High it soars and higher, Like some great pyramid o'er Nilus kenned When vapours melt--the Apostolic Chair!

Doctrine and Discipline thence shall hold their course, Like Tigris and Euphrates, through all lands That face the Northern Star. Forever hail!

'Where stands yon royal keep, a church shall rise Like Incorruption clothing the Corrupt On the resurrection morn! Strong House of G.o.d, To Him exalt thy walls, and nothing doubt, For lo! from thee like lions from their lair Abroad shall pace the Primates of this land:-- They shall not lick the hand that gives and smites, Doglike, nor snakelike on their bellies creep In indirectness base. They shall not fear The people's madness, nor the rage of kings Reddening the temple's pavement. They shall lift The strong brow mitred, and the crosiered hand Before their presence sending Love and Fear To pave their steps with greatness. From their fronts Stubborned with marble from Saint Peter's Rock The sunrise of far centuries forth shall flame: He that hath eyes shall see it, and shall say, "Blessed who cometh in the name of G.o.d!"'

Thus sang the Saint, advancing; and, behold, At every pause the brethren sang 'Amen!'

While down from window and from roof the throng Eyed them in silence. As their anthem ceased, Before them stood the palace cl.u.s.tered round By many a stalwart form. Midway the gate On the first step, like angel newly lit, Queen Bertha stood. Back from her forehead meek, The meeker for its crown, a veil descended, While streamed the red robe to the foot snow-white Sandalled in gold. The morn was on her face, The star of morn within those eyes upraised That flashed all dewy with the grateful light Of many a granted prayer. O'er that sweet shape Augustine signed the Venerable Sign; The lovely vision sinking, hand to breast, Received it; while, by sympathy surprised, Or taught of G.o.d, the monarch and his thanes Knelt as she knelt, and bent like her their heads, Sharing her blessing. Like a palm the Faith Thenceforth o'er England rose, those saintly men Preaching by life severe, not words alone, The doctrine of the Cross. Some Power divine, Stronger than patriot love, more sweet than Spring, Made way from heart to heart, and daily G.o.d Joined to His Church the souls that should be saved, Thousands, where Medway mingles with the Thames, Rus.h.i.+ng to Baptism. In his palace cell High-nested on that Vaticanian Hill Which o'er the Martyr-gardens kens the world, Gregory, that news receiving, or from men, Or haply from that G.o.d with whom he walked, The Spirit's whisper ever in his ear, Rejoiced that hour, and cried aloud, 'Rejoice, Thou Earth! that North which from its cloud but flung The wild beasts' cry of anger or of pain, Redeemed from wrath, its Hallelujahs sings; Its waves by Roman galleys feared, this day Kiss the bare feet of Christ's Evangelists; That race whose oak-clubs brake our Roman swords Glories now first in bonds--the bond of Truth: At last it fears;--but fears alone to sin, Striving through faith for Virtue's heavenly crown.

_THE CONSECRATION OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY._

Sebert, King of the East Saxons, having built the great church of Saint Peter at Westminster, Mellitus the Bishop prepares to consecrate it, but is warned in a vision that it has already been consecrated by one greater than he.

As morning brake, Sebert, East Saxon king, Stood on the winding sh.o.r.es of Thames alone, And fixed a sparkling eye upon Saint Paul's: The sun new-risen had touched its roofs that laughed Their answer back. Beyond it London spread; But all between the river and that church Was slope of gra.s.s and blossoming orchard copse Glittering with dews dawn-reddened. Bertha here, That church begun, had thus besought her Lord, 'Spare me this bank which G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ne Thus like the stars in heaven?"'

As Sebert stood, The sweetness of the morning more and more Made way into his heart. The pale blue smoke, Rising from hearths by woodland branches fed, Dimmed not the crystal matin air; not yet From clammy couch had risen the mist sun-warmed: All things distinctly showed; the rus.h.i.+ng tide, The barge, the trees, the long bridge many-arched, And countless huddled gables, far away, Lessening, yet still descried.

A voice benign Dispersed the Prince's trance: 'I marked, my King, Your face in yonder church; you took, I saw, A blessing thence; and Nature's here you find: The same G.o.d sends them both.' The man who spake, Though silver-tressed, was countenanced like a child; Smooth-browed, clear-eyed. That still and luminous mien Predicted realms where Time shall be no more; Where gladness, like some honey-dew divine, Freshens an endless present. Mellitus, From Rome late missioned and the Coelian Hill, Made thus his greeting.

Westward by the Thames The King and Bishop paced, and held discourse Of him whose name that huge Cathedral bore, Israel's great son, the man of mighty heart, The man for her redemption zealous more Than for his proper crown. Not task for her G.o.d gave him: to the Gentiles still he preached, And won them to the Cross. 'That Faith once spurned,'

Thus cried the Bishop with a kindling eye, 'Lo, how it raised him as on eagle's wings, And past the starry gates! The Spirit's Sword He wielded well! Save him who bears the Keys, Save him who made confession, "Thou art Christ,"

Saint Paul had equal none! Hail, Brethren crowned!

Hail, happy Rome, that guard'st their mingled dust!'

Next spake the Roman of those churches twain By Constantine beside the Tyber built To glorify their names. With sudden turn, Sebert, the crimson mounting to his brow, Made question, 'Is your Tyber of the South Ampler than this, our Thames?' The old man smiled; 'Tyber to Thames is as that willow-stock To yonder oak.' The Saxon cried with joy: 'How true thy judgment is! how just thy tongue!

What hinders, O my Father, but that Thames, Huge river from the forests rolled by G.o.d, Should image, like that Tyber, churches twain, Honouring those Princes of the Apostles' Band?

King Ethelbert, my uncle, built Saint Paul's; Saint Peter's Church be mine!'

An hour's advance Left them in thickets tangled. Low the ground, Well-nigh by waters clipt, a savage haunt With briar and bramble thick, and 'Th.o.r.n.y Isle'

For that cause named. Sebert around him gazed, A maiden blush upon him thus he spake: 'I know this spot; I stood here once, a boy: 'Twas winter then: the swoll'n and turbid flood Rustled the sallows. Far I fled from men: A youth had done me wrong, and vengeful thoughts Burned in my heart: I warred with them in vain: I prayed against them; yet they still returned: O'erspent at last, I cast me on my knees And cried, "Just G.o.d, if Thou despise my prayer, Faithless, thence weak, not less remember well How many a man in this East Saxon land Stands up this hour, in wood, or field, or farm, Like me sore tempted, but with loftier heart: To these be helpful--yea, to one of these!"

And lo, the wrathful thoughts, like routed fiends, Left me, and came no more!'

Discoursing thus, The friends a moment halted in a s.p.a.ce Where stood a flowering thorn. Adown it trailed In zigzag curves erratic here and there Long lines of milky bloom, like rills of foam Furrowing the green back of some huge sea wave Refluent from cliffs. Ecstatic minstrelsy Swelled from its branches. Birds as thick as leaves Thronged them; and whether joy was theirs that hour Because the May had come, or joy of love, Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged, So piercing was that harmony, the place Eden to Sebert looked, while brake and bower Shone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,'

The Bishop cried, 'could better chant G.o.d's praise?

Here shall your church ascend:--its altar rise Where yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake; Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oft Have trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed!

Angels this church o'er-winging, age on age Shall see that boy at prayer!'

In peace, in war, Daily the work advanced. The youthful King Kneeling, himself had raised the earliest sod, Made firm the corner stone. Whate'er of gold Sun-ripened harvests of the royal lands Yielded from Thames to Stour, or tax and toll From quays mast-thronged to loud-resounding sea, Save what his realm required by famine vexed At times, or ravage of the Mercian sword, Went to the work. His Queen her jewels brought, Smiling, huge gift in slenderest hands up-piled; His thanes their store; the poor their labour free.

Some clave the quarry's ledges: from its depths Some haled the blocks; from distant forests some Dragged home the oak-beam on the creaking wain: Alas, that arms in n.o.ble tasks so strong Should e'er have sunk in dust! Ere ten years pa.s.sed Saint Peter's towers above the high-roofed streets Smiled on Saint Paul's. That earlier church had risen Where stood, in Roman days, Apollo's fane: Upon a site to Dian dedicate Now rose its sister. Erring Faith had reached In those twin Powers that ruled the Day and Night, To Wisdom witnessing and Chast.i.ty, Her loftiest height, and perished. Phoenix-like, From ashes of dead rites and truths abused Now soared unstained Religion.

What remained?

The Consecration. On its eve, the King Held revel in its honour, solemn feast, And wisely-woven dance, where beauty and youth, Through loveliest measures moving, music-winged, And winged not less by gladness, interwreathed Brightness with brightness, glance turned back on glance, And smile on smile--a courtseying graciousness Of stateliest forms that, winding, sank or rose As if on heaving seas. In groups apart Old warriors cl.u.s.tered. Eadbald discussed And Snorr, that truce with Wess.e.x signed, and said, 'Fear nought: it cannot last!' A shadow sat That joyous night upon one brow alone, Redwald's, East Anglia's King. In generous youth He, guest that time with royal Ethelbert, Had gladly bowed to Christ. From shallowest soil Faith springs apace, but springs to die. Returned To plains of Ely, all that sweetness past Seemed but a dream while scornful spake his wife, Upon whose brow beauty from love divorced Made beauty's self unbeauteous: 'Lose--why not?-- Thwarting your liegeful subjects, lose at will Your Kingdom; you that might have reigned ere now Bretwalda of the Seven!' In hour accursed The weak man with his Faith equivocated: Fraudful, beneath the self-same roofs he raised Altars to Christ and idols. By degrees That Truth he mocked forsook him. Year by year His face grew dark, and barbed his tongue though smooth, Manner and mind like gra.s.s-fields after thaw, Silk-soft above, yet iron-hard below: Spleenful that night at Sebert's blithe discourse He answered thus, with seeming-careless eye Wandering from wall to roof: 'I like your Church: Would it had rested upon firmer ground, Adorned some airier height: its towers are good, Though dark the stone: three quarries white have I; You might have used them gratis had you willed: At Ely, Elmham, and beside the Cam Where Felix rears even now his cloistral Schools, I trust to build three churches soon: my Queen, That seconds still my wishes, says, "Beware Lest overhaste, your people still averse, Frustrate your high intent." A woman's wit-- Yet here my wife is wiser than her wont.

I miss your Bishop: grandly countenanced he, Save for that mole. He shuns our revel:--ay!

Monastic virtue never feels secure Save when it skulks in corners!' As he spake, Despite that varnish on his brow clear-cut, Stung by remembrance, from the tutored eye Forth flashed the fire barbaric: race and heart A moment stood confessed.

Old Mellitus, That night how fared he? In a fragile tent Facing that church expectant, low he knelt On the damp ground. More late, like youthful knight In chapel small watching his arms untried, He kept his consecration vigil still, With h.o.a.ry hands screening a h.o.a.ry head, And thus made prayer: 'Thou G.o.d to Whom all worlds Form one vast temple: Thou Who with Thyself, Ritual eterne, dost consecrate _that_ Church, For aye creating, hallowing it forever; Thou Who in narrowest heart of man or child Makest not less Thy dwelling, turn Thine eyes To-morrow on our rite. The work we work Work it Thyself! Thy storm shall try it well; Consummate first its strength in righteousness; So shall beginning just, whate'er befall, Or guard it, or restore.'

So prayed the man, Nor ever raised his head--saw nought--heard nought-- Nor knew that on the night had come a change, Ill Spirits, belike, whose empire is the air, Grudging its glories to that pile new raised, And, while they might, a.s.sailing. Through the clouds A panic-stricken moon stumbled and fled, And wildly on the waters blast on blast Ridged their dark floor. A spring-tide from the sea Breasted the flood descending. Woods of Shene And Hampton's groves had heard that flood all day, No more a whisperer soft; and meadow banks, Not yet o'er-gazed by Windsor's crested steep Or Reading's tower, had yielded to its wave Blossom and bud. More high, near Oxenford, Isis and Cherwell with precipitate stream Had swelled the current. Gathering thus its strength Far off and near, allies and tributaries, That night by London onward rolled the Thames Beauteous and threatening both.

Its southern bank Fronting the church had borne a hamlet long Where fishers dwelt. Upon its verge that night Perplexed the eldest stood: his hand was laid Upon the gunwale of a stranded boat; His knee was crooked against it. Shrinking still And sad, his eye pursued that racing flood, Here black like night, dazzled with eddies there, Eddies by moons.h.i.+ne glazed. In doubt he mused: Sudden a Stranger by him stood and spake: 'Launch forth, and have no fear.' The fisher gazed Once on his face; and launched. Beside the helm That Stranger sat. Then lo! a watery lane Before them opening, through the billows curved, Level, like meadow-path. As when a weed Drifts with the tide, so softly o'er that lane Oarless the boat advanced, and instant reached The northern sh.o.r.e, dark with that minster's shade;-- Before them close it frowned.

'Where now thou stand'st Abide thou:' thus the Stranger spake: anon Before the church's southern gate he stood:-- Then lo! a marvel. Inward as he pa.s.sed, Its threshold crossed, a splendour as of G.o.d Forth from the bosom of that dusky pile Through all its kindling windows streamed, and blazed From wave to wave, and spanned that downward tide With many a fiery bridge. The moon was quenched; But all the edges of the headlong clouds Caught up the splendour till the midnight vault Shone like the noon. The fisher knew, that hour, That with vast concourse of the Sons of G.o.d That church was thronged; for in it many a head Sun-bright, and hands lifted like hands in prayer, High up he saw: meantime harmonic strain, As though whatever moves in earth or skies, Winds, waters, stars, had joined in one their song, Above him floated like a breeze from G.o.d And heaven-born incense. Louder swelled that strain; And still the Bride of G.o.d, that church late dark, Glad of her saintly spousals, laughed and shone In radiance ever freshening. By degrees That vision waned. At last the fisher turned: The matin star shook on the umbered wave; Along the East there lay a pallid streak, That streak which preludes dawn.

Beside the man Once more that Stranger stood:--'Seest thou yon tent?

My Brother kneels within it. Thither speed And bid him know I sent thee, speaking thus, "He whom the Christians name 'the Rock' am I: My Master heard thy prayer: I sought thy church, And sang myself her Consecration rite: Close thou that service with thanksgiving psalm."'

Thus spake the Stranger, and was seen no more: But whether o'er the waters, as of old Footing that Galilean Sea, with faith Not now infirm he reached the southern sh.o.r.e, Or pa.s.sed from sight as one whom crowds conceal, The fisher knew not. At the tent arrived, Before its little door he bent, and lo!

Within, there knelt a venerable man With h.o.a.ry hands screening a h.o.a.ry head, Who prayed, and prayed. His tale the fisher told: With countenance unamazed, yet well content, That kneeler answered, 'Son, thy speech is true!

Hence, and announce thy tidings to the King, Who leaves his couch but now.'

'How beautiful'-- That old man sang, as down the Thames at morn In mult.i.tudinous pomp the barges dropped, Following those twain that side by side advanced, One royal, one pontific, bearing each The Cross in silver blazoned or in gold-- 'How beautiful, O Sion, are thy courts!

Lo, on thy brow thy Maker's name is writ: Fair is this place and awful; porch of heaven: Behold, G.o.d's Church is founded on a rock: It stands, and shall not fall: the gates of h.e.l.l Shall not prevail against it.'

From the barge Of Sebert and his Queen, antiphonal Rapturous response was wafted: 'I beheld Jerusalem, the City sage and blest; From heaven I saw it to the earth descending In sanct.i.ty gold-vested, as a Bride Decked for her Lord. I heard a voice which sang, Behold the House where G.o.d will dwell with men: And G.o.d shall wipe the tears from off their face; And death shall be no more.'

Old Thames that day Brightened with banners of a thousand boats Winnowed by winds flower-scented. Countless hands Tossed on the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river chaplets wov'n On mead or hill, or branches lopped in woods With fruit-bloom red, or white with cl.u.s.tering cone, Changing clear stream to garden. Mile on mile Now song was heard, now bugle horn that died Gradual 'mid sedge and reed. Alone the swan High on the western waters kept aloof; Remote she eyed the scene with neck thrown back, Her ancient calm preferring, and her haunt Crystalline still. Alone the Julian Tower Far down the eastern stream, though tap'stries waved From every window, every roof o'er-swarmed With anthem-echoing throngs, maintained, unmoved, Roman and Stoic, her Caesarean pride: On Saxon feasts she fixed a cold, grey gaze; 'Mid Christian hymns heard but the old acclaim-- 'Consul Roma.n.u.s.'

When the sun had reached Its noonday height, a people and its king Around their minster pressed. With measured tread And Introit chanted, up the pillared nave Reverent they moved: then knelt. Between their ranks Their Bishop last advanced with mitred brow And in his hand the Cross, at every step Signing the benediction of his Lord.

The altar steps he mounted. Turning then Westward his face to that innumerous host, Thus spake he unastonished: 'Sirs, ere now This church's Consecration rite was sung:-- Be ours to sing thanksgiving to our G.o.d, "Ter-Sanctus," and "Te Deum."'

_THE PENANCE OF SAINT LAURENCE._

Eadbald, King of Kent, persecuting the Church, Laurence the Bishop deems himself the chief of sinners because he has consented, like the neighbouring bishops, to depart; but, being consoled by a wonderful reprimand, faces the King, and offers himself up to death. The King reproves them that gave him evil counsel.