Legends of the Saxon Saints Part 7

Our lord, Northumbria's monarch, bids thee hail: He never yet in little thing or great Hath wronged thy kingdom; yet thy peace he woos: Accept the gifts he sends thee, and, thus crowned, Depart content.' Penda with backward hand Waved them far from him, and vouchsafed no word.

In sadness they returned: but Oswy smiled Hearing their tale, and said: 'My part is done: Let G.o.d decide the event,' He spake, and took The caskets twelve, and placed them, side by side, Before the altar of his chiefest church, And vowed to raise to G.o.d twelve monasteries, In honour of our Lord's Apostles Twelve, On greenest upland, or in sylvan glade Where purest stream kisses the richest mead.

His vow recorded, sudden through the church Ran with fleet foot a lady mazed with joy, Crying, 'A maiden babe! and lo, the queen Late dying lives and thrives!' That eve the king Bestowed on G.o.d the new-born maiden babe, Laying her cradled 'mid those caskets twelve, Six at each side; and said: 'For her nor throne Nor marriage bower! She in some holy house Shall dwell the Bride of Christ. But thou, just G.o.d, This day avenge my people!'

Windwaed field Heard, distant still, that mult.i.tudinous foe Trampling the darksome ways. With pallid face Morning beheld their standards, raven-black-- Penda had thus decreed, before him sending Northumbria's sentence. On a hill, thick-set Stood Oswy's army, small, yet strong in faith, A wedge-like phalanx, fenced by rocks and woods; A river in its front. His standards white Sustained the Mother-Maid and Babe Divine: From many a crag his altars rose, choir-girt, And crowned by incense wreath.

An hour ere noon, That river pa.s.sed, in thunder met the hosts; But Penda, straitened by that hilly tract, Could wield not half his force. Sequent as waves On rushed they: Oswy's phalanx like a cliff Successively down dashed them. Day went by: At last the clouds dispersed: the westering sun Glared on the spent eyes of those Mercian ranks Which in their blindness each the other smote, Or, trapped by hidden pitfalls, fell on stakes, And died blaspheming. Little help that day Gat they from Cambria. She on Heaven-Field height Had felt her death-wound, slow albeit to die.

The apostate Ethelwald in panic fled: The East Anglians followed. Swollen by recent rains, And choked with dead, the river burst its bound, And raced along the devastated plain Till cry of drowning horse and shriek of man Rang far and farther o'er that sea of death, A battle-field but late. This way and that Briton or Mercian where he might escaped Through flood or forest. Penda scorned to fly: Thrice with extended arms he met and cursed The fugitives on rus.h.i.+ng. As they pa.s.sed He flung his crowned helm into the wave, And bit his brazen s.h.i.+eld, above its rim Levelling a look that smote with chill like death Their hearts that saw it. Yet one moment more He sat like statue on some sculptured horse With upraised hand, close-clenched, denouncing Heaven: Then burst his mighty heart. As stone he fell Dead on the plain. Not less in after times Mercian to Mercian said, 'Without a wound King Penda died, although on battle-field, Therefore with Odin Penda shares not feast.'

Thus pagan died old Penda as he lived: Yet Penda's sons were Christian, kindlier none; His daughters nuns; and lamb-like Mercia's House, Lion one while, made end. King Oswy raised His monasteries twelve: benigner life Around them spread: wild waste, and robber bands Vanished: the poor were housed, the hungry fed: And Oswy sent his little new-born babe Dewed with her mother's tear-drops, Eanfleda, Like some young lamb with fillet decked and flower, Yet dedicated not to death, but life, To Hilda sent on Whitby's sea-washed hill, Who made her Bride of Christ. The years went by, And Oswy, now an old king, glory-crowned, His country from the Mercian thraldom loosed And free from north to south, in heart resolved A pilgrim, Romeward faring with bare feet, To make his rest by Peter's tomb and Paul's.

G.o.d willed not thus: within his native realm The sickness unto death clasped him with hold Gentle but firm. Long sleepless, t'ward the close Amid his wanderings smiling, from the couch He stretched a shrivelled hand, and pointing said, 'Who was it fabled she had died in age?

In all her youthful beauty holy and pure, Lo, where she kneels upon the wintry ground, The snow-flakes circling round her, yet with face Bright as a star!' so spake the king, and taking Into his heart that vision, slept in peace.

His daughter, abbess then on Whitby's height, Within her church interred her father's bones Beside her grandsire's, Edwin. Side by side They rested, one Bernicia's king, and one Deira's--great Northumbrian sister realms; Long foes, yet blended by that mingling dust.

_THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF BARDENEY_.

Osthryda, Queen of Mercia, translates the relics of her uncle, Oswald of Northumberland, to the Abbey of Bardeney. The monks refuse them admittance because King Oswald had conquered and kept for one year Lindsay, a province of Mercia. Though hourly expecting the destruction of their Abbey, they will yield neither to threats nor to supplications, nor even to celestial signs and wonders. At last, being convinced by the reasoning of a devout man, they repent of their anger.

Silent, with gloomy brows in conclave sat The monks of Bardeney, nigh the eastern sea;-- Rumour, that still outruns the steps of ill, Smote on their gates with news: 'Osthryda comes To bury here her royal uncle's bones, Northumbrian Oswald.' Oswald was a Saint; Had loosed from Pagan bonds that Christian land His own by right. But Oswald had subdued Lindsay, a Mercian province; and the monks Were sons of Mercia leal and true. Osthryda, Northumbrian born, had wedded Mercia's King; Therefore the monks of Bardeney pondered thus: 'This Mercian Queen spurns her adopted country!

Must Mercia therefore build her conqueror's tomb?

Though earth and h.e.l.l cried "Ay," it should not be!'

Thus mused the brethren till the sun went down: Then lo! beyond a vista in the woods Drew nigh a Bier, black-plumed, with funeral train: Thereon the stern monks gazed, and gave command To close the Abbey's gate. Beside that gate Tent-roofed that Bier remained.

Before them soon Stood up the royal herald. Thus he spake: 'Ye sacred monks of Bardeney's Abbey, hail!

Osthryda, wife of Ethelred our King, Prays that G.o.d's peace may keep this House forever.

The Queen has. .h.i.ther brought, by help of G.o.d, King Oswald's bones, and sues for them a grave Within this hallowed precinct.' Answer came: 'King Oswald, living, was Northumbria's King; King Oswald, by the pride of life seduced, Wrested from Mercia's sceptre Lindsay's soil; Therefore in Lindsay's soil King Oswald, dead, May never find repose.'

Before them next Three earls advanced full-armed, and spake loud-voiced: 'Our Queen is consort of the Mercian King; Ye, monks, are Mercian subjects! Sirs, beware!

Our King and Queen have loved you well till now, And ranked your abbey highest in their realm: But hearts ingrate can sour the mood of love; And Ethelred, though mild as summer skies When mildly used, once angered'----Answer came: 'We know it, and await our doom, content: If Mercia's King contemns his realm, more need That Mercia's priests her confessors should die: In Bardeney's church King Oswald ne'er shall rest: Ye have your answer, Earls!'

Through that dim hall Ere long a gentler emba.s.sage made way, Three priests; arrived, they knelt, and, reverent, spake: 'Fathers and brethren, Oswald was a Saint!

He loosed his native land from pagan thrall: Churches and convents everywhere he built: His relics, year by year, grow glorious more Through miracles and signs. Fathers revered, Within this sanctuary beloved of G.o.d Vouchsafe his dust interment!' They replied: 'We know that Oswald is a Saint with G.o.d: We know he freed his realm from pagan thrall; We know that churches everywhere he built; We know that from his relics Grace proceeds As light from sun and moon. In heaven a crown Rests on Saint Oswald's head: yet here on earth King Oswald's foot profaned our Mercian bound: Therefore in Mercian earth he finds not grave.'

Silent those priests withdrew. An hour well-nigh Went by in silence. Then with forehead crowned And mourner's veil, and step of one that mourns, The Queen advanced, a lady at each side, And 'mid the circle stood, and thus implored: 'Not as your Sovereign come I, holy Sirs, Since all are equal in the House of G.o.d; Nor stand I here a stranger. Many a day In this your church, I knelt, while yet a child; Then too, as now, within my breast there lived The tenderest of its ardours and the best, Zeal for my kinsman's fame. That time how oft I heard my Father, Oswy, cry aloud, "O Brother, had I walked but in thy ways My foot had never erred!" In maiden youth I met with one who shared my loyal zeal, Mercian himself: 'twas thus he won my heart: My royal husband shared it; shares this hour My trust that 'mid the altars reared by us To grace this chiefest Minster of our realm May rest the relics of our household Saint-- To spurn them from your threshold were to shame.'

She spake: benign and soft the answering voice: 'Entreat us not, thou mourner true and kind, Lest we, by pity from the straight path drawn, Sin more than thou. Thou know'st what thing love is, Thus loving one who died before thy birth!

Up to the measure of high love and fit Thou lov'st him for this cause, because thy heart Hath never rested on base love and bad: Lady, a sterner severance monks have made: Not base and bad alone do they reject, But lesser good for better and for best: Therefore what yet remains they love indeed: A single earthly love is theirs unblamed, Their Country! Lo, the wild-bird loves her nest, Lions their caves:--to us G.o.d gave a Country.

What heart of man but loves that mother-land Whose omnipresent arms are round him still In vale and plain; whose voice in every stream; Whose breath his forehead cools; whose eyes with joy Regard her offspring issuing forth each morn On duteous tasks; to rest each eve returning?

And who that loves her but must hate her foes?

Lady, accept G.o.d's Will, nor strive by prayer To change it. In our guest-house rest this night, Thou, and thy train.'

Severe the Queen replied: 'Yea, in thy guest-house I will lodge this night, Unvanquished, undiscouraged, not to cease From prayer: of that be sure. I make henceforth My prayer to G.o.d, not man. To Him I pray, That Lord of all, Who changes at His will The stony heart to flesh.'

She spake: then turned On those old faces, keenlier than before, Her large slow eyes; and instant in her face The sadness deepened: but the wrath was gone.

That sadness said, 'Love then as deep as mine, And grief like mine, in other b.r.e.a.s.t.s may spring From source how different!' Long she gazed, like child That knows not she is seen to gaze, with looks As though she took that h.o.a.ry-headed band Into her sorrowing heart. Silent she sighed; Then pa.s.sed into the guest-house with her train: There prayed all night for him, that Saint in heaven Ill-honoured upon earth.

Within their church Meantime the monks the 'Dies Irae' sang, The yellow tapers ranged as round a corse, And Penitential Psalms in order due.

Their rite was for the living: ere the time They sang the obsequies of sentenced men, Foreboding wrath to come. Sad Fancy heard The flames up-rus.h.i.+ng o'er their convent home, The ruin of their church late-built, the wreck It might be of their Order. Fierce they knew That Mercian royal House! Against their King They hurled no ban: venial they deemed his crime: 'He moves within the limits of his right, Though wrongly measuring right. He sees but this, His subjects break his laws. Some sin of youth It may be hides from him a right more high:'-- Thus spake they in their hearts.

While rival thus The brethren and the Queen sent up their prayer, And sacred night hung midway in her course, Behold, there fell from G.o.d tempest and storm Buffeting that abbey's walls. The woods around, Devastated by stress of blast on blast, Howled like the howling of wild beasts when fire Invests their ambush, and their cubs late-born Blaze in red flame. Trembling, the strong-built towers Echoed the woodland moans. All night the Queen, Propped by those two fair Seraphs, Faith and Love, Prayed on in hope, or hearing not that storm, Or mindful that where danger most abounds There G.o.d is nearest still. Meantime the Tent Covering that royal Bier, unshaken stood Beside the unyielding abbey-gates close-barred, Like something s.h.i.+elded by a heavenly charm: When morning came, shattered all round it lay Both trunk and bough; but in the rising sun The storm-drop shook not on that snowy shrine.

Things wondrous more that Legend old records: An hour past sunrise from the meads and moors Came wide-eyed herdsmen thronging, with demand, 'What means this marvel? All the long still night, While heaven and earth were dark, and peaceful sleep Closed in her arms the wearied race of men, Keeping our herds on meads and moorlands chill, We saw a glittering Tent beside your gates: Above it, and not far, a pillar stood, All light, and high as heaven!' The abbot answered, 'Fair Sirs, ye dreamed a dream; and sound your sleep Untroubled by the terror of the storm Whereof those woodland fragments witness still, And many a forest patriarch prostrate laid: There rose no pillar by our gates: yon Tent Stood there, and stood alone.' In two hours' s.p.a.ce Shepherds arrived, from hills remoter sped, Making the same demand. With eye ill pleased Thus answered brief the prior: 'Friends, ye jest!'

And they in wrath departed. Once again Came foresters from Lindsay's utmost bound, On horses blown, and spake: 'O'er yonder Tent, Through all the courses of the long still night, Behold, a s.h.i.+ning pillar hovering stood: It rained a glory on your convent walls: It flung a trail of splendour o'er your woods: We watched it hour by hour. Like Oswald's Cross On Heaven-Field planted in the days of old, It waxed in height:--the stars were quenched.' Replied With reddening brows the youngest of those monks, 'Sirs, ye have had your bribe, and told your tale: Depart!' and they departed great in scorn.

Long time the brethren sat; discoursed long time Each with his neighbour. 'Craft of man would force Dishonest deed on this our holy House, By miracles suborned;' thus spake the first: The second answered, 'Ay, confederates they!

The good Queen knew not of it:' then the third, 'Not so! these men are simple folks, I ween: Nor time for fraud had they. What sail is yon So weather-worn that nears the headland?' Soon A pilot stood before them; at his side A priest, long years an inmate of their House, But late a pilgrim in the Holy Land.

Their greetings over, greetings warm and kind, Thus spake the Pilgrim: 'Brothers mine, rejoice; Our G.o.d is with us! For our House I prayed Three times with forehead on the Tomb of Christ; Last night there came to me, in visible form, An answer to that prayer. All day our s.h.i.+p, Before a great wind rushed t'ward Mercian sh.o.r.es: To them I turned not: on the East I gazed: "O happy East," I mused, "O Land, true home Of every Christian heart! The Saviour's feet Thy streets, thy cornfields trod! With these compared Our country's self seems nothing!" In my heart Imaged successive, rose once more those sites Capernaum, Nain, Bethsaida, Bethlehem-- Where'er my feet had strayed. At midnight, cries Of wonder rang around me, and I turned: I saw once more our convent on its hill: I saw beside its gate a Tent snow-white; I saw a glittering pillar o'er that Tent 'Twixt heaven and earth suspense! Serene it shone, Such pillar as led forth the Chosen Race By night from Egypt's coasts. From wave to wave Moon-like it paved a path! I cried, "Thank G.o.d!

For who shall stay yon splendour till it reach That Syrian sh.o.r.e? England," I said, "my country, Shall lay upon Christ's Tomb a hand all light, Whatever tempest shakes the world of men, Thenceforth His servant vowed!"'

When ceased that voice There fell upon the monks a crisis strange; And where that Pilgrim looked for joy, behold, Doubt, wrath, and anguis.h.!.+ Faces old long since Grew older, stricken as by hectic spasm, So fierce a pang had clutched them by the throat; While drops of sweat on many a wrinkled brow Hung large like dewy beads condensed from mist On cliffs by torrents shaken. Mute they sat; Then sudden rose, uplifting helpless hands, As when from distant rock sore-wounded men, Who all day long have watched some dreadful fight, Behold it lost, or else foresee it lost, And with it lost their country's hearths and homes, And yet can bring no succour. Thus with them-- They knew themselves defeated; deemed the stars Of heaven had fought against them in their course; Yet still believed, and could not but believe Their cause the cause of Justice, and its wreck The wreck of priestly honour, patriot faith: At last the youngest of the brethren spake: 'Come what come may, G.o.d's monks must guard the Right.'

Death-like a silence on that conclave fell-- Then rose a monk white-headed, well-nigh blind, Esteemed a Saint, who had not uttered speech Since came the tidings of the Queen's resolve: Low-voiced he spake, with eyes upon the ground And inward smile that dimly reached his lips: 'Brethren, be wary lest ye strive with G.o.d Through wrath, that blind incontinence of age, For what He wills He works. By pa.s.sion warped Ye deem this trial strange, this conflict new, Yourselves doomed men that stand between two Fates, On one side right, on one side miracles!

Brethren, the chief of miracles is this, That knowing what ye know ye know no more: Ye know long since that Oswald is a Saint: Ye know the sins of Saints are sins forgiven: What then? Shall man revenge where G.o.d forgives?

Be wroth with those He loves? Ye, seeing much, See not the sun at noontide! G.o.d last night Sent you in love a miracle of love To quell in you a miracle of wrath:-- Discern its import true!

Sum up the past!

Thus much is sure: we heard those thunder peals Unheard by hind or shepherd, near or far: 'Tis sure not less that light the shepherds saw We saw not; neither we nor yet the Queen What then? Is G.o.d not potent to divulge The thing He wills, or hide it? Brethren, G.o.d Shrouding from us that beam far dwellers saw Admonished us perchance that far is near; That ofttimes distance makes intelligible What, nigh at hand, is veiled. This too He taught, That when Northumbrian foot our Mercia spurned The men who saw that ruin saw not all: The light of Christ drew near us in that hour; His pillar o'er us stood, and in our midst: The pang, the shame, were transient. See the whole!'

The old man paused a s.p.a.ce, and then resumed: 'Brethren, that day our country suffered wrong: One day she may inflict it. Years may bring The aggressor of past time a penitent grief; The wronged may meet her penitence with scorn Guiltier through malice than her foe's worst rage: Were it not well to leave that time unborn Magnanimous ensample? Hard it were To lay in Mercian earth the unforgiven: _Wholly_ to pardon--that I deem not hard.

My voice is this: forgive we Oswald's sin, And lay his relics in our costliest shrine!'

Thus spake the aged man. That self-same eve, The western sun descending, while the church, Grey shaft transfigured by the glow divine, Grey wall in flame of light pacific washed, Shone out all golden like that flower all gold Which shoots through sunset airs an arrowy beam, In charity perfected moved the monks, No longer sad, a long procession forth, With foreheads smoothed as by the kiss of death And eyes like eyes of Saints from death new risen, Bearing the relics of Northumbria's King, Oswald, the man of G.o.d. Behind them paced Warriors and chiefs; Osthryda last, the Queen, With face whereon that great miraculous light, By her all night unseen, appeared to rest, And foot that might have trod the ocean waves Unwetted save its palm. A shrine gem-wrought Received the royal relics. O'er them drooped Northumbria's standard, guest of Mercian airs Through which it once had sailed, a portent dire: And whosoe'er in after centuries knelt On Oswald's grave, and, praying, wooed his prayer, Departed, in his heart the peace of G.o.d, Pa.s.sions corrupt expelled, and demon snares, Irreverent love, and anger past its bound.

_HOW SAINT CUTHBERT KEPT HIS PENTECOST AT CARLISLE._

Saint Cuthbert while a boy wanders among the woods of Northumbria, bringing solace to all. Later he lives alone in the island of Farne. Being made bishop, many predict that he will be able neither to teach his people nor to rule his diocese. His people flock to him gladly, but require that he should teach them by parable and tale. This he does, and likewise rules his diocese with might. He discourses concerning common life. Keeping his Pentecost at Carlisle, he preaches on that Feast and the Resurrection from the Dead. Herbert, an eremite, beseeching him that the two may die the same day, he prays accordingly, and they die the same hour.

Saint Cuthbert, yet a youth, for many a year Walked up and down the green Northumbrian vales Well loving G.o.d and man. The rockiest glens And promontories shadowing loneliest seas, Where lived the men least cared for, most forlorn, He sought, and brought to each the words of peace.

Where'er he went he preached that G.o.d all Love; For, as the sun in heaven, so flamed in him That love which later fired a.s.sisi's Saint: Yea, rumour ran that every mountain beast Obeyed his loving call; that when all night He knelt upon the frosty hills in prayer, The hare would couch her by his naked feet And warm them with her fur. To manhood grown, He dwelt in Lindisfarne; there, year by year, Prospering yet more in vigil and in fast; And paced its sh.o.r.es by night, and blent his hymns With din of waves. Yet ofttimes o'er the strait He pa.s.sed, once more in search of suffering men, Wafting them solace still. Where'er he went, Those loved as children first, again he loved As youth and maid, and in them nursed that Faith Through which pure youth pa.s.ses o'er pa.s.sion's waves, Like Him Who trod that Galilean sea: He clasped the grey-grown sinner in his arms, And won from him repentance long delayed, Then with him shared the penance he enjoined.

O heart both strong and tender! offering Ma.s.s, Awe-struck he stood as though on Calvary's height: The men who marked him shook.

Twelve winters pa.s.sed: Then mandate fell upon the Saint from G.o.d, Or breathed upon him from the heavenly height, Or haply from within. It drave him forth A hermit into solitudes more stern.

'Farewell,' he said, 'my brethren and my friends!

No holier life than yours, pure Coen.o.bites Pacing one cloister, sharing one spare meal, Chanting to G.o.d one hymn! yet I must forth-- Farewell, my friends, farewell!' On him they gazed, And knew that G.o.d had spoken to his soul, And silent stood, though sorrowing.

Long that eve, The brethren grieved, noting his vacant stall, Yet thus excused their sadness: 'Well for him, And high his place in heaven; but woe to those Henceforth of services like his amerced!

Here lived he in the world; here many throng;-- To him in time some lesser bishopric Might well have fallen, behoof of countless souls!

Such dream is past forever!'

Forth he fared To Farne, a little rocky islet nigh, Where man till then had never dared to dwell, By dreadful rumours scared. In narrow cave Worn from the rock, and roughly walled around, The anch.o.r.et made abode, with lonely hands Raising from one poor strip his daily food, Barley thin-grown, and coa.r.s.e. He saw by day The clouds on-sailing, and by night the stars; And heard the eternal waters. Thus recluse The man lived on in vision still of G.o.d Through contemplation known: and as the shades, Each other chase all day o'er steadfast hills, Even so, athwart that Vision unremoved, Forever rushed the tumults of this world, Man's fleeting life, the rise and fall of states, While changeless measured change; the spirit of prayer Fanning that wondrous picture oft to flame Until the glory grew insufferable.

Long years thus lived he. As the Apostle Paul, Though raised in raptures to the heaven of heavens, Not therefore loved his brethren less, but longed To give his life--his all--for Israel's sake, So Cuthbert, loving G.o.d, loved man the more, His wont of old. To him the mourners came, And sinners bound by Satan. At his touch Their chains fell from them light as summer dust: Each word he spake was as a Sacrament Clothed with G.o.d's grace; beside his feet they sat, And in their perfect mind; thence through the world Bare their deliverer's name.

So pa.s.sed his life: There old he grew, and older yet appeared, By fasts outworn, though ever young at heart; When lo! before that isle a barge there drew Bearing the royal banner. Egfrid there With regal sceptre sat, and many an earl, And many a mitred bishop at his side.

Northumbria's see was void: a council's voice Joined with a monarch's called him to its throne: In vain he wept, and knelt, and sued for grace: Six months' reprieve alone he won; then ruled In Lindisfarne, chief Bishop of the North.

But certain spake who deemed that they were wise, Fools all beside: 'Shall Cuthbert crosier lift?

A child, 'tis known he herded flocks for hire, Housed in old Renspid's hut, his Irish nurse, Who told him tales of Leinster Kings, his sires, And how her hands, their palace wrecked in war, Had s.n.a.t.c.hed him from its embers. Yet a boy He rode to Melrose and its wondering monks, A mimic warrior, in his hand a lance, With shepherd youth for page, and spake: "'Tis known Christ's kingdom is a kingdom militant: A son of Kings I come to guard His right And battle 'gainst his foes!" For lance and sword A book they gave him; and they made him monk: Savage since then he couches on a rock, As fame reports, with birds' nests in his beard!

Can dreamers change to Bishops? Vision-dazed, Move where he may, that slowly wandering eye Will see in man no more than kites or hawks; Men, if they note, will flee him.' Thus they buzzed, Self-praised, and knowing not that simpleness Is sacred soil, and sown with royal seed, The heroic seed and saintly.

Mitred once Such gibes no more a.s.sailed him: one short month Sufficed the petty cavil to confute; One month well chronicled in book which verse Late born, alas, in vain would emulate.

At once he called to mind the days that were; His wanderings in Northumbrian glens; the hearths That welcomed him so joyously; at once Within his breast the heart parental yearned; He longed to see his children, scattered wide From Humber's bank to Tweed, from sea to sea, And cried to those around him: 'Let us forth, And visit all my charge; and since Carlisle Remotest sits upon its western bound, Keep there this year our Pentecost!' Next day He pa.s.sed the sands, left hard by ebbing tide, His cross-bearer and brethren six in front, And trod the mainland. Reverent, first he sought His childhood's nurse, and 'neath her humble roof Abode one night. To Melrose next he fared Honouring his master old.

Southward once more Returning, scarce a bow-shot from the woods There rode to him a mighty thane, one-eyed, With warriors circled, on a jet-black horse, Barbaric shape and huge, yet frank as fierce, Who thus made boast: 'A Jute devout am I!

What raised that convent-pile on yonder rock?

This hand! I wrenched the hillside from a foe By force, and gave it to thy Christian monks To spite yet more those Angles! Island Saint, Unprofitable have I found thy Faith!

Behold, those priests, thy thralls, are savage men, Unrighteous, ruthless! For a sin of mine They laid on me a hundred days of fast!

A man am I keen-witted: friend and liege I summoned, shewed my wrong, and ended thus: "Sirs, ye are ninety-nine, the hundredth I; I counsel that we share this fast among us!

To-morrow from the dawn to evening's star No food as bulky as a spider's tongue Shall pa.s.s our lips; and thus in one day's time My hundred days of fast shall stand fulfilled."

Wrathful they rose, and sware by Peter's keys That fight they would, albeit 'gainst Peter's self; But fast they would not save for personal sins.

Signal I made: then backward rolled the gates, And, captured thus, they fasted without thanks, Cancelling my debt--a hundred days in one!

Beseech you, Father, chide your priests who breed Contention thus 'mid friends!' The Saint replied, 'Penance is irksome, Thane: to 'scape its scourge Ways are there various; and the easiest this, Keep far from mortal sin.'

Where'er he faced, The people round him pressed--the sick, the blind, Young mothers sad because a babe was pale; Likewise the wives of fishers, praying loud Their husbands' safe return. Rejoiced he was To see them, hear them, touch them; wearied never: Whate'er they said delighted still he heard: The rise and fall of empires touched him less, The book rich-blazoned, or the high-towered church: 'We have,' he said, 'G.o.d's children, and their G.o.d: The rest is fancy's work.' Him too they loved; Loved him the more because, so great and wise, He stumbled oft in trifles. Once he said, 'How well those pine-trees s.h.i.+eld the lamb from wind!'

A smile ran round; at last the boldest spake, 'Father, these are not pine-trees--these are oaks.'

And Cuthbert answered, 'Oaks, good sooth, they are!

In youth I knew the twain apart: the pine Wears on his head the Cross.' Instruction next He gave them, how the Cross had vanquished sin: Then first abstruse to some appeared his words.