Part 2

'Twas the Corpus Christi Spring Feast, That now was hard at hand, And Pilgrim crowds are waiting On Aberdaron's strand. The sea was gaily sparkling, Beneath the May-day sun, The Aberdaron boatmen A race to Bardsey run. Now, in all haste the pilgrims Are landing on the isle, For crowds at Aberdaron Are waiting all the while. The boats return to fetch them, Across the sparkling bay, In time for the First Vespers Of Corpus Christi Day. The grand old Abbey Temple Was throng'd both aisle and nave, The Vespers from the choir Roll'd forth their choral wave. And then a grand procession, With lights, and incense, came From out the choir; the old Church Seem'd one bright blaze of flame. For all the congregation A lighted taper bore, In honour of the Victim, Once slain in days of yore. But now with solemn worship Borne in procession long, Mid incense-clouds, and tapers, And bursts of triumph song. The Fathers and the Novices Came first in order due, Then choir-boys with banners, All marching two and two. The people fall back reverently, As th' holy Monks draw near, One maiden there is trembling, As if for very fear. Or p'r'aps it's her devotion That palsies all her frame, But then she would most surely Be bow'd for virgin shame. It is not thus, for, see now, She pushes through the crowd, Close to the Monks' procession, She kneels and sobs aloud. She marks young Brother Rudolph, And wails a long deep cry; He knew her voice, but turns not, Nor lifts his downcast eye; He chants his grand old love-song To Jesus Christ the King, Borne in the slow procession, As the glad joy bells ring:-- "Tantum ergo Sacramentum, Veneremur cernui; Et antiquum documentum, Novo cedat ritui; Praestet fides supplementum, Sensuum defectui." "O Jesus! my sweet Jesus!" The warrior-monk doth pray, "Shew her Thine Own great Beauty, Make her Thine Own to-day; Be Thou her glorious Bridegroom, Be Thou her only Choice, Ravish her with Thy Beauty, Make her to hear Thy voice." But as the long procession Did wind its joyous way, Making the evening twilight Almost as bright as day, The countless tapers glittered Like hosts of meteors round, And sent a glow of radiance Athwart the Bardsey Sound. Right round the Islet pealing, The gladsome songs ascend, And with the evening breezes The clouds of incense blend. But what was Mabel doing, Where was the maiden now? O joy! at Mary's altar, She plights another vow! Yes! while the girl was weeping, Her Rudolph lost and gone, The Sacred Host drew near her, There from strange glory shone. And there as if in vision, All wondrous, and most clear, Mabel beheld the Saviour, His voice fell on her ear. "Arise, my love, my fair one, Arise, and come away; The winter's past, the rain gone," The sunbeams strew thy way. In lily vales the virgins Are waiting now for thee, "Arise my love, my fair one, Arise, and follow Me."

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Hush! softly in the distance, I hear the nuns' sweet song, 'Tis floating through the Cloister, Its fretted roofs along. And mingling with the echoes Of nature's own sweet praise, Which the lowing herd, and the sweet song-bird, With insects hum doth raise. How peacefully, how restfully, Such sounds as these combine To soothe the weary spirit, A weary one like mine. But now my spirit wanders, Woo'd by that distant hymn, Through the hallow'd door, o'er the storied floor, To the steps of the chancel dim. The nuns' sweet hymn was dying In faintest tones away, While prostrate at the altar, A maiden's figure lay. Two years had pass'd since Mabel Had heard the Bridegroom's voice, In Bardsey's Holy Island, And made her happy choice. And now before His Altar, She lays her young life down, And from the hands of Rudolph Receives the virgin crown! Yes! Father Rudolph blesses, The Virgin-Crown and Veil Adorn the brow of Mabel, With wreaths of lilies pale. Her vows, like his, are plighted, For ever and for aye, To One Whose Love and Beauty Can change not or decay. O happy youths and virgins! In cloister homes that dwell, For ever and for ever Your joyous songs shall swell-- Upon the soft sweet breezes Of Zion's sun-lit lands-- Upon the lily hill-slopes, With all the virgin bands.

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And so Carnarvon Convent Enclosed another bride, For Jesus Christ, the Bridegroom, The Virgins Joy and Pride.

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It was a calm sweet festal, In joyous, summer time, And Bardsey's Abbey bell-notes Rang out a merry chime. The Island seem'd rejoicing, With holy joy and mirth, The Monks are going to honour St. John the Baptist's birth. For John shines forth as Primate Of Monkish Choirs above, On earth he dwelt in deserts, And knew no earthly love. The poor, the sad, the orphans, All love St. Mary's shrine, And venerate her Cloister, Fill'd with the Love Divine. The Fathers, and the Novices, They count as loving friends, Whom Jesus in His Mercy, The poor and helpless sends. They teach their children sweetly, The Gospel's glorious tales, And tend their sick and dying With care that never fails. No poor's rates, and no workhouse, Were needed in those days, The monks were all they wanted, They work'd for Jesu's praise.

The Holy Mass was over, The Abbot seeks his cell, His heart is strangely trembling, Wherefore he cannot tell. 'Tis some foreboding sorrow That makes his spirit sad, Though all around is sunshine And everything seems glad. A strange, a chill forewarning, Shakes the old man with fear, Some dread, some dire affliction, Too surely must be near. That night, ere hushful Compline Had closed the sacred day, Two boats the Point were rounding, Of Aberdaron's Bay. In one brief hour there landed, On Bardsey's holy shore, Ten men from Windsor, bringing Tidings most sad and sore. They seek at once admission, Telling the news they bring, The Monks must, ere the morrow, Surrender to the king The Abbey and its treasures, Its Church, its relics rare, Its Vestments and its Chalices, Its Shrines with jewels fair. The Monks _must_ sign surrender, Acknowledge many a sin They never could have dreamt of, If they would safety win. And call the tyrant merciful, For driving them away, Making them leave their Abbey To ruin and decay. {48} The Compline Bell was tolling Its last dear Compline call, To-morrow death-like ruin Would o'er the Convent fall. That night the holy Fathers Held consultation long, And all agreed--Surrender Would be unjust and wrong. "Then die we at God's Altar, Sooner than yield the right Which God Himself has given us, To sacrilegious might." And true to their confession The holy Monks remained, And with their virgin life-blood The Altar-steps are stained. The poor arose right bravely, Their much-loved Monks to aid, And many thus right gladly Their lives a forfeit made. Now having done all thoroughly, Their work of cruel wrong, They left the Island weeping, All hushed the Holy Song, Which for so many ages, By night as well as day, Had praised the Love of Jesus, In one long ceaseless lay. And now the poor are seeking, Among the ruins drear, The bodies of the Martyrs, So holy, and so dear. Ah! there before the Altar, The brave old Abbot lies; And there, too, Father Rudolph, With fixed and glassy eyes. But oh! a calm serenest Enfolds the Martyrs blest, Strange joy lights up their faces, Their spirits are at rest. The dear old Abbey crumbles All swiftly to decay: Oh! for its restoration! Cadfan! Dubritius! pray! Ye thousand Saints of Bardsey, Lift up your pleading song, That Jesus may avenge you, Of this most cruel wrong!

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A hundred years are over, Two stranger pilgrims steal, To Bardsey's Abbey ruins, To pray for Bardsey's weal. The night was stormy, darksome, No moonlight's silver ray Lit up the desolation That all around them lay. The hour was lonely midnight, See! now beside the tomb, Where holy Cadfan resteth, A light steals through the gloom, And 'mid the light a figure, In holy Monk's attire, And smiling sweetly, brightly, Points to the ruined choir. "Pilgrims faithful, Pilgrims true, List to that I tell to you. Years three hundred shall not end, Ere the King of Heaven shall send, Saints to rear this sacred fane, And restore her walls again. Saints above cease not their cry, Unto Christ the Lord Most High, That His ceaseless praises may Here arise by night and day. Newborough's Lord shall own this soil; Ere he resteth from life's toil, Jesus, for His servants' sake, Bids him restoration make. And if Newborough's Lord obey, That which Jesu's servants say, He shall gain a blessing bright, In the realms of Morning Light. If he do not grant their prayer, He shall lose a blessing rare, When he lies on his last bed, Sad regret shall crown his head. To his son shall then be given, {52} Choicest blessings from High Heaven, For he shall restore to God, Through the Monks this sacred sod." Saying thus he sought repose, In the tomb whence he arose.

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The Angel shewed me these things, In pictures bright and true; I woke!--my eyes were resting Upon the waters blue. But oh! the waves seem sighing For sorrow at my tale, The sea-birds floating o'er them. Sent forth a piteous wail. Oh happy waves! no tyrant Can hush _your_ endless song. May ye again comingle With Bardsey's chants ere long. Then Heaven, and Earth, and Nature, In unison shall raise, One grand joy-peal of gladness,-- One mighty shout of praise!

_Written at Barmouth and Aberdaron_, _off Bardsey Isle_, _February_, 1870.

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[Picture: Decorative graphic of a cross]

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LONDON: PRINTED BY G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.

Footnotes.

{6} The Bardsey Monks, at this time (the eighth century) doubtless wore the black habit, but assumed the white habit of the Premonstratensians some hundreds of years later.

{8} Aberdaron is situated on the mainland of Carnarvonshire, just five miles from Bardsey Island, in its own snug bay shore, just round the last point of the Promontory of Lleyn. It was the starting place of the pilgrims for the Holy Isle.

{11} Barmouth is nearly thirty miles due east of Bardsey, across Cardigan Bay, and quite visible on a clear day. It is a seaport of Merionethshire.

{12a} This may seem an anachronism, but it should be remembered that Druidism lingered a long time in Wales, after it was fairly driven from the rest of Britain.

{12b} The Church here is dedicated to St. Cadfan.

{14} St. Dubritius spent much of his early life in Bardsey, and was buried there.

{20} Psalm lxviii.