“It was well sung,” commented the abbot, after Egwina had concluded. “Sweet is it to Him when the voice of youth sounds His praises. Knowest thou no more, my child?”
“Nay, I know none other,” answered Egwina.
“Thou must not think ill of us, father,” spoke the harper hastily, “that we wot not of these things. Our aim is to please the people, and the mead hall cares but for the song of the warrior or of glory.”
“True,” answered the abbot, “yet Aldhelm used thy art to advantage. Hast thou not heard how the good priest stood on the bridge of Malmesbury, where the ministrels were wont to stand, because the people would not come to worship, and there did he sing of war and the heroes, until attracted by the sweetness of his voice, he had gained their attention? Then did he change the words, and sing to them of the Holy One and the blessed Virgin. In which manner many were instructed in our sacred religion and brought to the Church.”
“Sayest thou so, good father?” broke in Ælfric, the juggler. “Marry! but well would it please me to hear such songs! Canst thou or thy monks sing for us any of the songs that he sang?”
“There is one, brother, which is food for reflection. That we will sing thee, and then after the Te Deum. Then shall ye tell us if aught hath happened recently from the Dane.”
Without further ado, the monks began singing the following dismal dirge, the brief metre sounding abruptly on the ear with a measured stroke like the passing bell:
“For thee was a house built ere thou wert born,
For thee was a mold shapen ere thou of thy mother camest.
Its height is not determined, nor its depth measured;
Nor is it closed up, however long it may be, until I thee bring where thou shalt remain;
Until I shall measure thee, and the sod of the earth.
Thy house is not highly built; it is not unhigh and low.
When thou art in it, the heel ways are low, the side ways unhigh.
The roof is built thy breast full high;
So thou shalt in earth dwell full cold, dim, and dark.
Doorless is that house, and dark it is within.
There thou art fast detained, and Death holds the key.
Loathly is that earth house, and grim to dwell in.
There thou shalt dwell, and worms shall share thee.
Thus thou art laid, and leavest thy friends.
Thou hast no friend that will come to thee,
Who will ever inquire how that house liketh thee.
Who shall ever open for thee the door, and seek thee;
For soon thou becomest loathly and hateful to look upon.”
“The saints guard us!” ejaculated Ælfric, crossing himself devoutly. “I like not thy song, father, and if it were with songs like that, it marvels me much how thy Aldhelm should draw the people to hear him. Quotha! my flesh creepeth to think of it! Doth not thine, Friend Harper?”
Wulfhere’s face was inscrutable, and he made no reply for, Saxon-like, he scorned to show that the picture held any dread for him.