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