Legends of the Saxon Saints Part 6

And aged Finan, and Northumbria's king Oswy, approved; and all that host had joy.

Thus in that convent Ceadmon lived, a monk, Humblest of all the monks, save him that knelt In cell close by, who once had been a prince.

Seven times a day he sang G.o.d's praises, first When earliest dawn drew back night's sable veil With trembling hand, revisiting the earth Like some pale maid that through the curtain peers Round her sick mother's bed, mis...o...b..ing half If sleep lie there, or death; latest when eve Through nave and chancel stole from arch to arch, And laid upon the snowy altar-step At last a brow of gold. In later years, By ancient yearnings driven, through wood and vale He tracked Deirean or Bernician glades To holy Ripon, or late-sceptred York, Not yet great Wilfred's seat, or Beverley: The children gathered round him, crying, 'Sing!'

They gave him inspiration with their eyes, And with his conquering music he returned it.

Oftener he roamed that strenuous eastern coast To Jarrow and to Wearmouth, sacred sites The well-beloved of Bede, or northward more To Bamborough, Oswald's keep. At Coldingham His feet had rest; there where St. Ebba's Cape That ends the lonely range of Lammermoor, Sustained for centuries o'er the wild sea-surge In region of dim mist and flying bird, Fronting the Forth, those convent piles far-kenned, The worn-out sailor's hope.

Fair English sh.o.r.es, Despite those blinding storms of north and east, Despite rough ages blind with stormier strife, Or froz'n by doubt, or sad with worldly care, A fragrance as of Carmel haunts you still Bequeathed by feet of that forgotten Saint Who trod you once, sowing the seed divine!

Fierce tribes that kenned him distant round him flocked; On sobbing sands the fisher left his net, His lamb the shepherd on the hills of March, Suing for song. With wrinkled face all smiles, Like that blind Scian circling Grecian coasts, If G.o.d the song accorded, Ceadmon sang; If G.o.d denied it, after musings deep He answered, 'I am of the kine and dumb;'-- The man revered his art, and fraudful song Esteemed as fraudful coin.

Music denied, He solaced them with tales wherein, so seemed it, Nature and Grace, inwoven, like children played, Or like two sisters o'er one sampler bent, Braided one text. Ever the sorrowful chance Ending in joy, the human craving still, Like creeper circling up the Tree of Life, Lifted by hand unseen, witnessed that He, Man's Maker, is the Healer too of man, And life His school parental. Parables He shewed in all things. 'Mark,' one day he cried, 'Yon silver-breasted swan that stems the lake Taking nor chill nor moisture! Such the soul That floats o'er waters of a world corrupt, Itself immaculate still.'

Better than tale They loved their minstrel's harp. The songs he sang Were songs to brighten gentle hearts; to fire Strong hearts with holier courage; hope to breathe Through spirits despondent, o'er the childless floor Or widowed bed, flas.h.i.+ng from highest heaven A beam half faith, half vision. Many a tear, His own, and tears of those that listened, fell Oft as he sang that hand, lovely as light, Forth stretched, and gathering from forbidden boughs That fruit fatal to man. He sang the Flood, Sin's doom that quelled the impure, yet raised to height Else inaccessible, the just. He sang That patriarch facing at divine command The illimitable waste--then, harder proof, Lifting his knife o'er him, the seed foretold; He sang of Israel loosed, the ten black seals Down pressed on Egypt's testament of woe, Covenant of pride with penance; sang the face Of Moses glittering from red Sinai's rocks, The Tables twain, and Mandements of G.o.d.

On Christian nights he sang that jubilant star Which led the Magians to the Bethlehem crib By Joseph watched, and Mary. Pale, in Lent, Tremulous and pale, he told of Calvary, Nor added word, but, as in trance, rehea.r.s.ed That Pa.s.sion fourfold of the Evangelists, Which, terrible and swift--not like a tale-- With speed of things which must be done, not said, A river of bale, from guilty age to age Along the astonied sh.o.r.es of common life Annual makes way, the history of the world, Not of one day, one People. To its fount That stream he tracked, that primal mystery sang Which, chanted later by a thousand years, Music celestial, though with note that jarred, Some wandering orb troubling its starry chime, Amazed the nations, 'There was war in heaven: Michael and they, his angels, warfare waged With Satan and his angels.' Brief that war, That ruin total. Brief was Ceadmon's song: Therein the Eternal Face was undivulged: Therein the Apostate's form no grandeur wore: The grandeur was elsewhere. Who hate their G.o.d Change not alone to vanquished but to vile.

On Easter morns he sang the Saviour Risen, Eden Regained. Since then on England's sh.o.r.es Though many sang, yet no man sang like him.

O holy House of Whitby! on thy steep Rejoice, howe'er the tempest, night or day, Afflict thee, or the hand of Time to earth Drag down thine airy arches long suspense; Rejoice, for Ceadmon in thy cloisters knelt, And singing paced beside thy sounding sea!

Long years he lived; and with the whitening hair More youthful grew in spirit, and more meek; Yea, those that saw him said he sang within Then when the golden mouth but seldom breathed Sonorous strain, and when--that fulgent eye No longer bright--still on his forehead shone Not flame but purer light, like that last beam Which, when the sunset woods no longer burn, Maintains high place on Alpine throne remote, Or utmost beak of promontoried cloud, And heavenward dies in smiles. Esteem of men Daily he less esteemed, through single heart More knit with G.o.d. To please a sickly child He sang his latest song, and, ending, said, 'Song is but body, though 'tis body winged: The soul of song is love: the body dead, The soul should thrive the more.' That Patmian Sage Whose head had lain upon the Saviour's breast, Who in high vision saw the First and Last, Who heard the harpings of the Elders crowned, Who o'er the ruins of the Imperial House And ashes of the twelve great Caesars dead Witnessed the endless triumph of the Just, To humbler life restored, and, weak through age, But seldom spake, and gave but one command, The great '_Mandatum Novum_' of his Lord, 'My children, love each other!' Like to his Was Ceadmon's age. Weakness with happy stealth Increased upon him: he was cheerful still: He still could pace, though slowly, in the sun, Still gladsomely converse with friends who wept, Still lay a broad hand on his well-loved kine.

The legend of the last of Ceadmon's days:-- That hospital wherein the old monks died Stood but a stone's throw from the monastery: 'Make there my couch to-night,' he said, and smiled: They marvelled, yet obeyed. There, hour by hour, The man, low-seated on his pallet-bed, In silence watched the courses of the stars, Or casual spake at times of common things, And three times played with childhood's days, and twice His father named. At last, like one that, long Compa.s.sed with good, is smit by sudden thought Of greater good, thus spake he: 'Have ye, sons, Here in this house the Blessed Sacrament?'

They answered, wrathful, 'Father, thou art strong; Shake not thy children! Thou hast many days!'

'Yet bring me here the Blessed Sacrament,'

Once more he said. The brethren issued forth Save four that silent sat waiting the close.

Ere long in grave procession they returned, Two deacons first, gold-vested; after these That priest who bare the Blessed Sacrament, And acolytes behind him, lifting lights.

Then from his pallet Ceadmon slowly rose And wors.h.i.+pped Christ, his G.o.d, and reaching forth His right hand, cradled in his left, behold!

Therein was laid G.o.d's Mystery. He spake: 'Stand ye in flawless charity of G.o.d T'ward me, my sons; or lives there in your hearts Memory the least of wrong?' The monks replied: 'Father, within us lives nor wrong, nor wrath, But love, and love alone.' And he: 'Not less Am I in charity with you, my sons, And all my sins of pride, and other sins, Humbly I mourn.' Then, bending the old head O'er the old hand, Ceadmon received his Lord To be his soul's viatic.u.m, in might Leading from life that seems to life that is; And long, unpropped by any, kneeling hung And made thanksgiving prayer. Thanksgiving made, He sat upon his bed, and spake: 'How long Ere yet the monks begin their matin psalms?'

'That hour is nigh,' they answered; he replied, 'Then let us wait that hour,' and laid him down With those kine-tending and harp-mastering hands Crossed on his breast, and slept.

Meanwhile the monks, The lights removed in reverence of his sleep, Sat mute nor stirred such time as in the Ma.s.s Between '_Orate Fratres_' glides away, And '_Hoc est Corpus Meum_.' Northward far The great deep, seldom heard so distant, roared Round those wild rocks half way to Bamborough Head; For now the mightiest spring-tide of the year, Following the magic of a maiden moon, Approached its height. Nearer, that sea which sobbed In many a cave by Whitby's winding coast, Or died in peace on many a sandy bar From river-mouth to river-mouth outspread, They heard, and mused upon eternity That circles human life. Gradual arose A softer strain and sweeter, making way O'er that sea-murmur hoa.r.s.e; and they were ware That in the black far-shadowing church whose bulk Up-towered between them and the moon, the monks Their matins had begun. A little sigh That moment reached them from the central gloom Guarding the sleeper's bed; a second sigh Succeeded: neither seemed the sigh of pain: And some one said, 'He wakens.' Large and bright Over the church-roof sudden rushed the moon, And smote the cross above that sleeper's couch, And smote that sleeper's face. The smile thereon Was calmer than the smile of life. Thus died Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song.

_KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY_.

Oswy, King of Bernicia, being at war with his kinsman Oswin, slays him unarmed. He refuses to repent of this sin; yet at last, subdued by the penitence, humility, and charity of Eanfleda, his wife, repents likewise, and builds a monastery over the grave of Oswin.

Afterwards he becomes a great warrior and dies a saint.

Young, beauteous, brave--the bravest of the brave-- Who loved not Oswin? All that saw him loved: Aidan loved most, monk of Iona's Isle, Northumbria's bishop next, from Lindisfarne Ruling in things divine. One morn it chanced That Oswin, noting how with staff in hand Old Aidan roamed his spiritual realm, footbare, Wading deep stream, and piercing th.o.r.n.y brake, Sent him a horse--his best. The Saint was pleased; But, onward while he rode, and, musing, smiled To think of these his honours in old age, A beggar claimed his alms. 'Gold have I none,'

Aidan replied; 'this horse be thine!' The King, Hearing the tale, was grieved. 'Keep I, my lord, No meaner horses fit for beggar's use That thus my best should seem a thing of naught?'

The Saint made answer: 'Beggar's use, my King!

What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare!

The least of men--the sinner--is G.o.d's child!'

Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried: 'Father, forgive me!' As they sat at meat Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow tears In silence trickled down old Aidan's face: These all men marked; yet no man question made.

At last to one beside him Aidan spake In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them, 'G.o.d will not leave such meekness long on earth.'

Who loved not Oswin? Not alone his realm, Deira, loved him, but Bernician lords Whose monarch, Oswy, was a man of storms, Fierce King albeit in youth baptized to Christ; At heart half pagan. Swift as northern cloud Through summer skies, he swept with all his host Down on the rival kingdom. Face to face The armies stood. But Oswin, when he marked His own a little flock 'mid countless wolves, Addressed them thus: 'Why perish, friends, for me?

From exile came I: for my people's sake To exile I return, or gladlier die: Depart in peace.' He rode to Gilling Tower; And waited there his fate. Thither next day King Oswy marched, and slew him.

Twelve days pa.s.sed; Then Aidan, while through green Northumbria's woods Pensive he paced, steadying his doubtful steps, Felt death approaching. Giving thanks to G.o.d, The old man laid him by a church half raised Amid great oaks and yews, and, leaning there His head against the b.u.t.tress, pa.s.sed to G.o.d.

They made their bishop's grave at Lindisfarne; But Oswin rested at the mouth of Tyne Within a wave-girt, granite promontory Where sea and river meet. For many an age The pilgrim from far countries came in faith To that still shrine--they called it 'Oswin's Peace,'-- Thither the outcast fled for sanctuary: The sick man there found health. Thus Oswin lived, Though dead, a benediction in the land.

What gentlest form kneels on the rain-washed ground From Gilling's keep a stone's-throw? Whose those hands Now pressed in anguish on a bursting heart, Now o'er a tearful countenance spread in shame?

What purest mouth, but roseless for great woe, With zeal to youthful lovers never known Presses a new-made grave, and through the blades Of gra.s.s wind-shaken breathes her piteous prayer?

Save from remorse came ever grief like hers?

Yet how could ever sin, or sin's remorse, Find such fair mansion? Oswin's grave it is; And she that o'er it kneels is Eanfleda, Kinswoman of the n.o.ble dead, and wife To Oswin's murderer--Oswy.

Saddest one And sweetest! Lo, that cloud which overhung Her cradle swathes once more in deeper gloom Her throne late won, and new-decked bridal bed.

This was King Edwin's babe, whose natal star Shone on her father's pathway doubtful long, Shone there a line of light, from pagan snares Leading to Christian baptism. Penda heard-- Penda, that drew his stock from Odin's loins, Penda, that drank his wine from skulls of foes, Penda, fierce Mercia's king. He heard, and fell In ruin on the region. Edwin dead, Paulinus led the widow and her babe Back to that Kentish sh.o.r.e whereon had reigned Its grandsire Ethelbert.

The infant's feet Pattered above the pavement of that church In Canterbury by Augustine raised; The child grew paler when Gregorian chants Shook the dim roofs. Gladly the growing girl Hearkened to stories of her ancestress Clotilda, boast of France, but weeping turned From legends whispered by her Saxon nurse Of Loke, the Spirit accursed that slanders G.o.ds, And Sinna, Queen of h.e.l.l. The years went by; The last had brought King Oswy's emba.s.sage With suit obsequious, 'Let the princess share With me her father's crown.' To simple hearts Changes come gently. Soon, all trust, she stood Before G.o.d's altar with her destined lord: Adown her finger while the bride-ring ran So slid into her heart a true wife's love: Rooted in faith, it ripened day by day-- And now the end was this!

There as she knelt A strong foot clanged behind her. 'Weeping still!

Up, wife of mine! If Oswin had not died His gracious ways had filched from me my realm, The base so loved his meekness!' Turning not She answered low: 'He died an unarmed man:'

And Oswy: 'Fool that fought not when he might; At least his slaughtered troop had decked his grave!

I scorned him for his grief that men should die; And, scorning him, I hated; yea, for that His blood is on my sword!'

The priests of G.o.d Had faced the monarch and denounced his crime: They might as well have preached to ocean waves: He felt no anger: he but deemed them mad, And smiling went his way. Thus autumn pa.s.sed: The queen--he knew it--when alone wept on: Near him the pale face smiled; the voice was sweet; Loving the service; the obedience full: Neither by words, by silence, nor by looks She chid him. Like some penitent she walked That mourns her own great sin.

Yet Oswy's heart, Remorseless thus, had moods of pa.s.sionate love: A warrior of his host, Tosti by name, Lay low, plague-stricken: kith and kin had fled: Whole days the king sustained upon his knees The sufferer's head, and cheered his heart with songs Of Odin, strangely blent with Christian hymns, While ofttimes stormy bursts of tears descended Upon that face upturned. Ministering he sat Till death the vigil closed.

One winter night From distant chase belated he returned, And pa.s.sed by Oswin's grave. The snow, new-fallen, Whitened the precinct. In the blast she knelt, While coldly glared the broad and bitter moon Upon those flying flakes that on her hair Settled, or on her thin, light raiment clung.

She heard him not draw nigh. She only beat Her breast, and, praying, wept: 'Our sin, our sin!'

There as the monarch stood a change came o'er him: Old, exiled days in Alba as a dream Redawned upon his spirit, and that look In Aidan's eyes when, binding first that cross Long by his pupil craved, around his neck, He whispered: 'He who serveth Christ, his Lord, Must love his fellow-man.' As when a stream, The ice dissolved, grows audible once more, So came to him those words. They dragged him down: He knelt beside his wife, and beat his breast, And said, 'My sin, my sin!' Till earliest morn Glimmered through sleet that twain wept on, prayed on:-- Was it the rising sun that lit at last The fair face upward lifted;--kindled there A lovelier dawn than o'er it blushed when first Dropped on her bridegroom's breast? Aloud she cried: 'Our prayer is heard: our penitence finds grace:'

Then added: 'Let it deepen till we die!

A monastery build we on this grave: So from this grave, while fleet the years, that prayer Shall rise both day and night, till Christ returns To judge the world--a prayer for him who died; A prayer for one who sinned, but sins no more.'

Where Gilling's long and lofty hill o'erlooks For leagues the forest-girdled plain, ere long A monastery stood. That self-same day In tears the penitential work began; In tears the sod was turned. The rugged brows Of March relaxed 'neath April's flying kiss: Again the violet rose, the thrush was loud; Mayday had come. Around that hallowed spot Full many a warrior met; some Christians vowed; Some muttering low of Odin. Near to these Stood one of lesser stature, keener eye, More fiery gesture. Splenetic, he marked, Christian albeit himself, those Christian walls By Saxon converts raised:--he was a Briton.

Invisibly that morn a dusky c.r.a.pe O'erstretched the sky; and slowly swayed the bough Heavy with midnight rains. Through mist the woods Let out the witchery of their young fresh green Backed by the dusk of ruddy oaks that still Reserved at heart the old year's stubbornness, Yet blent it with that purple distance glimpsed Beyond the forest alleys.

In a tent Finan sang Ma.s.s: his altar was that stone Which told where Oswin died. Before it knelt The king, the queen: alone their angels know Their thoughts that hour! The sacred rite complete, They raised their brows, and, hand-in-hand, made way To where, beyond the portal, shone blue skies, Nature's long-struggling smile at last divulged.

The throng--with pa.s.sion it had prayed for each-- Divided as they pa.s.sed. In either face They saw the light of that conceded prayer, The peace of souls forgiven.

From that day forth Hourly in Oswy's spirit soared more high The one true greatness. Flaming heats of soul, Through faith subjected to a law divine, Like fire, man's va.s.sal, mastering iron ore, Learned their true work. The immeasurable strength Had found at once its master and its end, And, balanced thus while weighted, soared to G.o.d.

In all his ways he prospered, work and word Yoked to one end. Till then the Kingdoms Seven, Opposed in interests as diverse in name, Had looked on nothing like him. Now, despite Mercia that frowned, they named him king of kings, Bretwalda; and the standard of the Seven In peace foreran his feet. The Spirits of might Before his vanguard winged their way in war, Scattering the foe; and in his peacefuller years Upon the aerial hillside high and higher The golden harvest clomb, waving delight On eyes upraised from winding rivers clear That shone with milky sails. His feet stood firm, For with his growing greatness ever grew His penitence. Still sang the cloistered choir, Year after year pleading o'er Oswin's tomb, 'To him who perished grant thy Vision, Lord; To him the slayer, penitence and peace; Let Oswin pray for Oswy:' Oswin prayed.

What answered Penda when the tidings came Of Oswy glorying in the yoke of Christ, Of Oswy's victories next? Grinding his teeth, He spake what no man heard. Then rumour rose Of demon-magic making Oswy's tongue Fell as his sword. 'Within the sorcerer's court,'

It babbled, 'stood the brave East Saxon king: Upon his shoulder Oswy laid a hand Accursed and whispered in his ear. The king, Down sank, perforce, a Christian!' Lightning flashed From under Penda's gray and s.h.a.ggy brows;-- 'Forth to Northumbria, son,' he cried, 'and back; And learn if this be true.'

That son obeyed, Peada, to whose heart another's heart, Alcfrid's, King Oswy's son, was knit long since As David's unto Jonathan's. One time A tenderer heart had leaned, or seemed to lean, Motioning that way, Alfleda's, Alcfrid's sister, Younger than he six years. 'Twas so no more: No longer on Peada's eyes her eyes Rested well-pleased: not now the fearless hand Tarried in his contented. 'Sir and king,'

Peada thus to Oswy spake, 'of old Thy child--then child indeed--would mount my knee; Now, when I seek her, like a swan she fleets That arches back its neck 'twixt snowy wings, And, swerving, sideway drifts. My lord and king, The child is maiden: give her me for wife!'

Oswy made answer: 'He that serves not Christ Can wed no child of mine.' Alfleda then Dropping her broidery lifted on her sire Gently the dewy light of childlike eyes And spake, 'But he in time will wors.h.i.+p Christ!'

Then, without blush or tremor, to her work Softly returned. Silent her mother smiled.

That moment, warned of G.o.d, from Lindisfarne Finan, unlooked for, entered. Week by week Reverend and mild he preached the Saviour-Lord: Grave-eyed, with listening face and forehead bowed, The prince gave ear, not like that trivial race Who catch the sense ere spoken, smile a.s.sent, And in a moment lose it. On his brow At times the apprehension dawned, at times Faded. Oft turned he to his Mercian lords:-- 'How trow ye, friends? He speaks of what he knows!

Good tidings these! Each evening while I muse Distinct they s.h.i.+ne like yonder mountain range; Each morning, mists conceal them.' Pa.s.sed a month; Then suddenly, as one that wakes from dream, Peada rose: 'Far rather would I serve Thy Christ,' he said, 'and thus Alfleda lose, Than win Alfleda, and reject thy Christ.'

He spake: old Finan first gave thanks to G.o.d, Who grants the pure heart valour to believe, Then took his hand and led him to that Cross On Heaven-Field raised beneath the Roman Wall, That cross King Oswald's standard in the fight, That cross Cadwallon's sentence as he fell, 'That cross which conquered;'--there to G.o.d baptized; Likewise his thanes and earls.

Meantime, far off In Penda's palace-keep the revel raged, High feast of rites impure. At banquet sat The monarch and his chiefs; chant followed chant Bleeding with wars foregone. The day went by, And, setting ere its time, a sanguine sun Dipped into tumult vast of gathering storm That soon inc.u.mbent leant from tower to tower And shook them to their base. As high within The gladness mounted, meeting storm with storm, Till cried that sacrificial priest whose knife Had pierced the warrior victim's willing throat That morn, 'Already with the G.o.ds we feast!

Hark! round Valhalla swell the phantom wars!'

Ere ceased the shout applausive, from his seat Uprose the warrior Saxo, in his hand The goblet, in the other Alp, his sword, Pointing to heaven. 'To Odin health!' he cried; 'Would that this hour he rode into this hall!

He should not hence depart till blood of his Had reddened Sleipner's flank, his snow-white steed: This sword would shed that blood!' Warriors sixteen Leaped up in wrath, and for a moment rage Rocked the huge hall. But Saxo waved his sword, And, laughing, shouted, 'Odin's sons, be still!

Count it no sin to battle with high G.o.ds!

Great-hearted they! They give the blow and take!

To Odin who was ever leal as I?'

As sudden as it rose the tumult fell: So ceased the storm without: but with it ceased The rapture and the madness, and the shout: The wine-cup still made circuit; but the song Froze in mid-air. Strange shadow hung o'er all: Neighbour to neighbour whispered: courtiers slid Through doors scarce open. Rumour had arrived, If true or false none knew.

The morrow morn From Penda's court the bravest fled in fear, Questioning with white lips, 'Will he slay his son?'

Or skulked at distance. Penda by the throat Catching a white-cheeked courtier, cried: 'The truth!

What whisper they in corners?' On his knees That courtier made confession. Penda then, 'Live, since my son is yet a living man!

A Christian, say'st thou? Let him serve his Christ!

That man whom ever most I scorned is he Who vows him to the service of some G.o.d, Yet breaks his laws; for that man walks, a lie.

My son shall live, and after me shall reign: Northumbrian realm shall die!'

Thus Penda spake And sent command from tower and town to blow Instant the trumpet of his last of wars, Fanning from Odin's hall with airs ice-cold Of doom the foes of Odin. 'Man nor child,'

He sware,'henceforth shall tread Northumbrian soil, Nor hart nor hind: I spare the creeping worm: My scavenger is he,' The Mercian realm Rose at his call, innumerable ma.s.s Of warriors iron-armed. East Anglia sent Her hosts in aid. Apostate Ethelwald, Though Oswy's nephew, joined the hostile league, And thirty chiefs beside that ruled by right Princedom or province. Mightier far than these Old Cambria, brooding o'er the ancestral wrong, The Saxon's sin original, met his call, And vowed her to the vengeance.

Bravest hearts Hate most the needless slaughter. Oswy mused: 'Long since too much of blood is on this hand: Shall I for pride or pa.s.sion risk once more Northumbria, my mother;--rudely stain Her pretty babes with blood?' To Penda then, Camped on the confines of the adverse realms, He sent an emba.s.sage of reverend men, Warriors and priests. Before them, staff in hand, Peaceful, with h.o.a.ry brows and measured tread, Twelve heralds paced. Twelve caskets bare they heaped With gems and gold, and thus addressed the King: 'Lord of the Mercian realm, renowned in arms!