Legends of the Saxon Saints Part 9

Thus carolled Frideswida all alone, Treading the opens of a wood far spread Around the upper waters of the Thames.

Christian almost by instinct, earth to her Was shaped but to sustain the Cross of Christ.

Her mother lived a saint: she taught her child, From reason's dawn, to note in all things fair Their sacred undermeanings. 'Mark, my child, In lamb and dove, not fleshly shapes,' she said, 'But heavenly types: upon the robin's breast Revere that red which bathed her from the Cross With slender bill striving to loose those Nails!'

Dying, that mother placed within her hand A book of saintly legends. Thus the maid Grew up with mysteries clothed, with marvels fed, A fearless creature swift as wind or fire: But fires of hers were spirit-fires alone, All else like winter moon. The Wess.e.x King Had gazed upon the glory of her face, And deemed that face a spirit's. He had heard Her voice; it sounded like an angel's song; But wonder by degrees declined to love, Such love as Pagans know. The unworthy suit, She scorned, from childhood spoused in heart to Christ: She fled: upon the river lay a boat: She rowed it on through forests many a mile; A month had pa.s.sed since then.

Midsummer blazed On all things round: the vast, unmoving groves Stretched silent forth their immemorial arms Arching a sultry gloom. Within it buzzed Feebly the insect swarm: the dragon-fly Stayed soon his flight: the streamlet scarce made way: In shrunken pools, panting, the cattle stood, Languidly browsing on the dried-up sprays: No bird-song shook the bower. Alone that maid Glided light-limbed, as though some Eden breeze, Hers only, charioted the songstress on, Like those that serve the May. Beneath a tree Low-roofed at last she sank, with eyes up-raised On boughs that, ivy-twined and creeper-trailed, Darkened the shining splendour of the sky:-- Between their inters.p.a.ces, here and there, It flashed in purple stars.

Enraptured long, For admiration was to her as love, The maiden raised at last her mother's book, And lit upon her childhood's favourite tale, Catherine in vision wed to Bethlehem's Babe Who from His Virgin-Mother leaning, dropped His ring adown her finger. Princely pride, And pride not less of soaring intellect, At once in her were changed to pride of love: In vain her country's princes sued her grace; Kingdoms of earth she spurned. Around her seat The far-famed Alexandrian Sages thronged, Branding her Faith as novel. Slight and tall, 'Mid them, keen-eyed the wingless creature stood Like daughter of the sun on earth new-lit:-- That Faith she shewed of all things first and last; All lesser truths its prophets. Swift as beams Forth flashed such shafts of high intelligence That straight their lore sophistic shrivelled up, And Christians they arose. The martyr's wheel Was pictured in the margin, dyed with red, And likewise, azure-tinct on golden ground, Her queenly throne in heaven. 'Ah shining Saint!'

Half weeping, smiling half, the virgin cried; 'Yet dear not less thy sister of the West; For never gaze I on that lifted face, Or mark that sailing angel near her stayed, But straight her solemn organs round me swell; All discords cease.' Then with low voice she read Of Rome's Cecilia, her who won to Christ, (That earlier troth inviolably preserved) Her Roman bridegroom, wondering at that crown Invisible itself, that round her breathed Rose-breath celestial; her that to the Church Gave her ancestral house; and, happier gift, Devotion's heavenliest instrument of praise; Her that, unfearing, dared that Roman sword; And when its work was done, for centuries lay Like marble, 'mid the catacombs, unchanged, In sleep-resembling death.

From earliest dawn That maiden's eyes had watched: wearied at noon Their silver curtains closed. Huge mossy roots Pillowed her head, that slender book wide-leaved In stillness, like some brooding, white-winged dove, Spread on her bosom: 'gainst its golden edge Rested, gold-tinged, the dimpled ivory chin-- Loud thunders broke that sleep; the tempest blast Came up against the woods, while bolt on bolt Ran through them sheer. She started up: she saw That Pagan prince and many a sworded serf Rushing towards her. Fleeter still she fled; But, as some mountain beast tender and slight, That, pasturing spring-fed lilies of Cashmere, Or slumbering where its rock-nursed torrents fall, Sudden not distant hears the hunter's cry And mocks pursuit at first, but slackens soon Breathless and spent, so failed her limbs ere long; A horror of great faintness o'er her crept; More near she heard their shout. She staggered on: To threat'ning phantoms all things round were changed; About her towered in ruin hollow trunks Of spiked and branchless trees, survivors sole Of woods that, summer-scorched, then lightning-struck A century past, for one short week had blazed And blackened ever since. She knelt: she raised Her hands to G.o.d: she sued for holier prayer Saint Catherine, Saint Cecilia. At that word Behind her close a cry of anguish rang: Silence succeeded. As by angels' help She reached a river's bank: sun-hardened clay Retained the hoof-prints of the drinking herd; And, shallower for long heats, the oxen's ford Challenged her bleeding feet. She crossed unharmed, And soon in green-gold pastures girt by woods Stood up secure. Then forth she stretched her hands, Like Agnes praising G.o.d amid the flame: 'Omnipotent, Eternal, Worshipful, One G.o.d, Immense, and All-compa.s.sionate, Thou from the sinner's snare hast s.n.a.t.c.hed the feet Of her that loved Thee. Glory to Thy name.'

Thenceforth secure she roamed those woods and meads; The dwellers in that region brought her bread, Upon that countenance gazing, some with awe But all with love. To her the maidens came: 'Tell us,' they said, 'what mystery hast thou learned So sweet and good;--thy Teacher, who was he; Grey-haired, or warrior young?' To them in turn Ceaseless she sang the praises of her Christ, His Virgin Mother and His heavenly court, Warriors on earth for justice. They for her Renounced all else, the banquet and the dance, And nuptial rites revered. A low-roofed house Inwoven of branches 'mid the woods they raised; There dwelt, and sang her hymn, and prayed her prayer, And loved her Saviour-Sovereign. Year by year More high her bright feet scaled the heavenly mount Of lore divine and knowledge of her G.o.d, And with sublimer chant she hymned His praise; While oft some bishop, tracking those great woods In progress to his charge, beneath their roof Baptizing or confirming made abode, And all which lacked supplied, nor discipline Withheld, nor doctrine high. The outward world To them a nothing, made of them its boast: A Saint, it said, within that forest dwelt, A Saint that helped their people. Saint she was, And therefore wrought for heaven her holy deeds; Immortal stand they on the heavenly roll; Yet fewest acts suffice for heavenly crown; And two of hers had consequence on earth, Like water circles widening limitless, For man still helpful. Hourly acts of hers, Interior acts invisible to men, Perchance were worthier. Humblest faith and prayer Are oft than miracle miraculous more:-- To us the exterior marks the interior might: These two alone record we.

Years had pa.s.sed: One day when all the streams were dried by heat And rainless fields had changed from green to brown, T'wards her there drew, by others led, a man Old, worn, and blind. He knelt, and wept his prayer: 'Help, Saint of G.o.d! That impious King am I, That King abhorred, his people's curse and bane, Who chased thee through these woods with fell resolve, Worst vengeance seeking for insulted pride:-- Rememberest thou that, near thee as I closed, Kneeling thou mad'st thy prayer? Instant from G.o.d Blindness fell on me. Forward still I rushed, Ere long amid those spiked and branded trunks To lie as lie the dead. If hope remains, For me if any hope survives on earth, It rests with thee; thee only!' On her knees She sank in prayer; her fingers in the fount She dipped; then o'er him signed the Saviour's cross, And thrice invoked that Saviour. At her word Behold, that sightless King arose, and saw, And rendered thanks to G.o.d.

The legend saith Saint Catherine by her stood that night, and spake: 'Once more I greet thee on thy dying day.'

Again the years went by. That sylvan lodge Had changed to convent. Beautiful it stood Not far from Isis, though on loftier ground: Sad outcasts knew it well: whate'er their need There found they solace. One day toward it moved, Dread apparition and till then unknown, Like one constrained, with self-abhorrent steps, A leper, long in forest caverns hid.

Back to their cells the nuns had shrunk, o'erawed: Remained but Frideswida. Thus that wretch With scarce organic voice, and aiding sign, Wailed out the supplication of despair: 'Fly not, O saintly virgin! Yet, ah me!

What help though thou remainest? Warned from heaven, I know that not thy fountain's healing wave Could heal my sorrow: not those spotless hands: Not even thy prayer. To me the one sole aid Were aid impossible--a kiss of thine.'

A moment stood she: not in doubt she stood: First slowly, swiftly then to where he knelt She moved: with steadfast hand she raised that cloth Which veiled what once had been a human face: O'er it she signed in faith the cross of Christ: She wept aloud, 'My brother!' Folding then Stainless to stained, with arms about him wound, In sacred silence mouth to mouth she pressed, A long, long sister's kiss. Like infant's flesh The blighted and the blasted back returned: That leper rose restored.

The legend saith That Saint Cecilia by her stood that night: 'Once more I greet thee on thy dying day.'

It came at last, that day. Her convent grew In grace with G.o.d and man: the pilgrim old Sought it from far; the gifts of kings enlarged:-- It came at last, that day. There are who vouch The splendour of that countenance never waned: Thus much is sure; it waxed to angels' eyes:-- Welcomed it came, that day desired, not feared.

By humbleness like hers those two fair deeds Were long forgotten: each day had its task: Not hardest that of dying. Why should sobs Trouble the quiet of a holy house Because its holiest pa.s.ses? Others wept; The sufferer smiled: 'Ah, little novices, How little of the everlasting lore Your foolish mother taught you if ye shrink From trial light as this!' She spake; then sank In what to those around her seemed but sleep, The midnoon August sunshine on her hair In ampler radiance lying than that hour When, danger near her yet to her unknown, Beneath that forest tree her eyelids closed-- Her book upon her bosom.

Near her bed Not danger now but heralds ever young, Saint Catherine, Saint Cecilia, stood once more, Linked hand in hand, with aureoles interwreathed: One gazing stood as though on radiance far With widening eyes: a listener's look intent The other's, soft with pathos more profound.

The Roman sister spake: 'Rejoice, my child, Rejoice, thus near the immeasurable embrace And breast expectant of the unnumbered Blest That swells to meet thee! Yea, and on the earth For thee reward remaineth. Happy thou Through prayer his sight restoring to thy foe, Sole foe that e'er thou knew'st though more his own!

Child! darkness is there worse than blindness far, Wherein erroneous wanders human Pride; That prayer of thine from age to age shall guard A realm against such darkness. Where yon kine Stand in mid ford, quenching their noontide thirst, Thy footsteps crossed of old the waters. G.o.d In the unerasing current sees them still!

Close by, a nation from a purer flood Shall quench a thirst more holy, quaffing streams Of Knowledge loved as Truth. Majestic piles Shall rise by yonder Isis, honouring, each, My clear-eyed sister of the sacred East That won to Christ the Alexandrian seers, Winning, herself, from chast.i.ty her lore: Upon their fronts, aloft in glory ranged With face to East, and cincture never loosed, All Sciences shall stand, daughters divine Of Him that Truth eterne and boon to man, Holding in spotless hand, not lamp alone, But lamp and censer both, and both alike From G.o.d's great Altar lighted.'

Spake in turn That Alexandrian with the sunlike eyes: 'Beside those Sciences shall stand a choir As fair as they; as tall; those sister Arts, High daughters of celestial Harmony, Diverse yet one, that bind the hearts of men To steadfast Truth by Beauty's sinuous cords; She that to marble changes mortal thought; She that with rainbow girds the cloud of life; She that above the streaming mist exalts Rock-rooted domes of prayer; and she that rears With words auguster temples. Happy thou Healing that leper with thy virgin kiss!

A leprosy there is more direful, child!-- Therein the nations rot when flesh is lord And spirit dies. Such ruin Arts debased Gender, or, gendered long, exasperate more.

But thou, rejoice! From this pure centre Arts Unfallen shall breathe their freshness through the land, With kiss like thine healing a nation's wound Year after year successive; listening, each, My sister's organ music in the skies, Prime Art that, challenging not eye but ear, To Faith is nearest, and of Arts on earth For that cause, living soul.'

That prophecy Found its accomplishment. In later years, There where of old the Oxen had their Ford, The goodliest city England boasts arose, Mirrored in sacred Isis; like that flood Its youth for aye renewing. Convents first Through stately groves levelled their placid gleam, With cloisters opening dim on garden gay Or moonlit lawn dappled by shadowing deer: Above them soared the chapel's reverent bulk With storied window whence, in hues of heaven, Martyrs looked down, or Confessor, or Saint On tomb of Founder with its legend meek 'Pro anima orate.' Night and day Mounted the Church's ever-varying song Sustained on organ harmonies that well Might draw once more to earth, with wings outspread And heavenly face made heavenlier by that strain, Cecilia's Angel. Of those convents first Was Frideswida's, ruled in later years By Canons Regular, later yet rebuilt By him of York, that dying wept, alas, 'Had I but served my Maker as my king!'

To colleges those convents turned; yet still The earlier inspiration knew not change: The great tradition died not: near the bridge From Magdalen's tower still rang the lark-like hymn On May-day morn: high ranged in airy cells, Facing the East, all Sciences, all Arts, Yea, and with these all Virtues, imaged stood, Best imaged stood in no ideal forms, Craft unhistoric of some dreamer's brain, But life-like shapes of plain heroic men Who in their day had fought the fight of Faith, Warriors and sages, poets, saints, and kings, And earned their rest: the long procession paced, Up winding slow the college-girded street To where in high cathedral slept the Saint, Singing its 'Alma Redemptoris Mater,'

On August noons, what time the a.s.sumption Feast From purple zenith of the Christian heaven Brightened the earth. That hour not bells alone Chiming from countless steeples made reply: Laughed out that hour high-gabled roof and spire; Kindling shone out those Sciences, those Arts Pagan one time, now confessors white-robed; And all the holy City gave response, 'Deus illuminatio mea est.'[24]

_THE BANQUET HALL OF WESs.e.x, OR THE KING WHO COULD SEE._

Kenwalk, King of Wess.e.x, is a Pagan, but refuses to persecute Christians. He is dethroned by the Mercian King, and lives an exile in a Christian land. There he boasts that he never accords faith to what he hears, and believes only what he sees; yet, his eye being single, he sees daily more of the Truth. Wess.e.x is delivered, and a great feast held at which the Pagan n.o.bles, priests, and bards all conspire for the destruction of the Faith. Birinus, the bishop, having withstood them valiantly, Kenwalk declares himself a Christian. Birinus prophesies of England's greatest King.

King Cynegils lay dead, who long and well Had judged the realm of Ess.e.x. By his bier The Christians standing smote their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and said, 'Ill day for us:' but all about the house Cl.u.s.tering in smiling knots of twos and threes, The sons of Odin whispered, or with nods Gave glad a.s.sent. Christ's bishop sent from Rome, Birinus, to the king had preached for years The Joyous Tidings. Cynegils believed, And with him many; but the most refrained: With these was Kenwalk; and, his father dead, Kenwalk was king.

A valiant man was he, A man of stubborn will, but yet at heart Magnanimous and just. To one who said, 'Strike, for thine hour is come!' the king new-crowned Made answer, 'Never! Each man choose his path!

My father chose the Christian--Odin's I.

I crossed my father oft a living man; I war not on him dead.'

That giant hand Which spared Religion ruled in all beside: He harried forth the robbers from the woods, And wrecked the pirates' ships. He burned with fire A judge unjust, and thrice o'er Severn drave The invading Briton. Lastly, when he found That woman in his house intolerable, From bed and realm he hurled her forth, though crowned, Ensuing thence great peace.

Not long that peace: The Mercian king, her brother, heard her tale With blackening brow. The shrill voice stayed at last, Doubly incensed the monarch made reply: 'Sister, I never loved you;--who could love?

But him who spurned you from his realm I hate: Fear nought! your feast of vengeance shall be full!'

He spake; then cried, 'To arms!'

In either land, Like thunders low and far, or windless plunge Of waves on coasts long silent that proclaim, Though calm the sea for leagues, tempest far off That sh.o.r.eward swells, thus day by day was heard The direful preparation for a war Destined no gladsome tournament to prove, But battle meet for ancient foes resolved To clear old debts; make needless wars to come.

Not long that strife endured; on either side Valour was equal; but on one, conjoined, The skill most practised, and the heavier bones: The many fought the few. On that last field 'Twas but the fury of a fell despair, Not hope, that held the balance straight so long: Ere sunset all was over. From the field A wounded remnant dragged their king, half dead: The Mercian host pursued not.

Many a week Low lay the broken giant nigh to death: At last, like creeping plant down-dragged, not crushed, That, washed by rains, and sunshine-warmed, once more Its length uplifting, feels along the air, And gradual finds its 'customed prop, so he, Strengthening each day, with dubious eyes at first Around him peered, but raised at length his head, And, later, question made. His health restored, He sought East Anglia, where King Anna reigned, His chief of friends in boyhood. Day by day A spirit more buoyant to the exile came And winged him on his way: his country's bound Once pa.s.sed, his darker memories with it sank: Through Ess.e.x hastening, stronger grew his step; East Anglian breezes from the morning sea Fanned him to livelier pulse: wild April growths Gladdened his spirit with glittering green. More fresh He walked because the sun outfaced him not, Veiled, though not far. That shrouded sun had ta'en Its pa.s.sion from the wild-bird's song, but left Quiet felicities of notes low-toned That kept in tune with streams too amply brimmed To chatter o'er their pebbles. Kenwalk's soul Partook not with the poet's. Loveliest sights, Like music brightening those it fails to charm, Roused but his mirthful mood. To each that pa.s.sed He tossed his jest: he scanned the labourer's task; Reviled the luckless boor that ploughed awry, And beat the smith that marred the horse's hoof: At times his fortunes thus he moralised: 'Here walk I, crownless king, and exiled man: My Mercian brother lists his sister's tongue: Say, lark! which lot is happiest?'

Festive streets, Tapestries from windows waving, banners borne By white-clad children chanting anthems blithe; With these East Anglia's king received his friend Entering the city gate. In joyous sports That day was pa.s.sed. At banquet Christian priests Sat with his thanes commingled. Anna's court Was Christian, and, for many a league around, His kingdom likewise. As the earth in May Glistens with vernal flowers, or as the face Of one whose love at last has found return Irradiate shines, so shone King Anna's house, A home of Christian peace. Fair sight it was-- Justice and Love, the only rivals there, O'er-ruled it, and attuned. Majestic strength Looked forth in every glance of Anna's eye, Too great for pride to dwell there. Tender-souled As that first streak, the harbinger of dawn Revealed through cloudless ether, such the queen, All charity, all humbleness, all grace, All womanhood. Harmonious was her voice, Dulcet her movements, undisguised her thoughts, As though they trod an Eden land unfallen, And needed raiment none. Some heavenly birth Their children seemed, blameless in word and act, The sisters as their brothers frank, and they, Though bolder, not less modest. Kenwalk marked, And marking, mused in silence, 'Contrast strange These Christians with the pagan races round!

Something those pagans see not these have seen: Something those pagans hear not these have heard: Doubtless there's much in common. What of that?

'Tis thus 'twixt man and dog; yet knows the dog His master walks in worlds by him not shared-- Perchance for me too there are worlds unknown!'

Thus G.o.d to Kenwalk shewed the things that bear Of G.o.d true witness, seeing in his soul Justice and Judgment, and, with these conjoined, Valour and Truth: for as the architect On tower four-square and solid plants his spire, And not on meads below, though gay with flowers, On those four virtues G.o.d the fabric rears Of virtues loftier yet--those three, heaven-born, And pointing heavenward.

To those worlds unknown Kenwalk ere long stood nigh. In three short months The loveliest of those children, and last born, Lay cold in death. Old nurses round her wailed: The mighty heart of Kenwalk shook for dread Entering the dim death-chamber. On a bier The maiden lay, the cross upon her breast: Beside her sat her mother, pale as she, Yet calm as pale. When Kenwalk near her drew She lifted from that bier a slender book And read that record of the three days' dead Raised by the Saviour from that death-cave sealed, A living man. Once more she read those words, 'I am the Resurrection and the Life,'

Then added, low, with eyes up cast to heaven, 'With Him my child awaits me.' Kenwalk saw; And, what he saw, believing, half believed-- Not more--the things he heard.

Yes, half believed; Yet, call it obduracy, call it pride, Call it self-fear, or fear of priestly craft, He closed his ear against the Word Divine: The thing he saw he trusted; nought beyond.

Three years went by. Once, when his friend had named The Name all-blessed, Kenwalk frowned. Since then That Name was named no more. O'er hill and dale They chased the wild deer; on the billow breathed Inspiring airs; in hall of joyance trod The mazes of the dance. Then war broke out: Reluctant long King Anna sought the field; Hurled back aggression. Kenwalk, near him still, Watched him with insight keener than his wont, And, wondering, marked him least to pagans like Inly, when like perforce in outward deed.

The battle frenzy took on him no hold: Severe his countenance grew; austere and sad; Fatal, not wrathful. Vicar stern he seemed Of some dread, judgment-executing Power, Against his yearnings; not despite his will.

Once, when above the faithless town far off The retributive smoke leaped up to heaven, He closed with iron hand on Kenwalk's arm And slowly spake--a whisper heard afar-- 'See you that town? Its judgment is upon it!

I gave it respite twice. This day its doom Is irreversible.'

The invader quelled, Anna and Kenwalk on their homeward way Rode by the grave of saintly Sigebert, King Anna's predecessor. Kenwalk spake: 'Some say the people keep but memory scant Of benefits: I trust the things I see: I never pa.s.sed that tomb but round it knelt A throng of supplicants! King Sigebert Conversed, men say, with prophet and with seer: I never loved that sort:--who wills can dream-- Yet what I see I see.'

'They pray for him,'

Anna replied, 'who perished for their sake: Long years he lived recluse at Edmondsbury, A tonsured monk: around its walls one day Arose that cry, "The Mercian, and his host!

Forth, holy King, and lead, as thou wert wont, Thy people to the battle, lest they die!"

Again I see him riding at their head, Lifting a cross, not sword. The battle lost, Again I see him fall.' With rein drawn tight King Kenwalk mused; then smote his hands, and cried 'My father would have died like Sigebert!

He lacked but the occasion!' After pause, Sad-faced, with bitter voice he spake once more: 'Such things as these I might have learned at home!

I shunned my father's house lest fools might say, 'He thinks not his own thoughts.'

Thus month by month, Though Faith which 'comes by hearing' had not come To Kenwalk yet, not less since sight he used In honest sort, and resolute to learn, G.o.d shewed him memorable things and great Which sight unblest discerns not, tutoring thus A kingly spirit to a kingly part: Before him near it lay.

The morrow morn Great tidings came: in Wess.e.x war was raised: Kenwalk, departing thus to Anna spake, To Anna, and his consort: 'Well I know What thanks are those the sole your hearts could prize:'

With voice that shook he added: 'Man am I That make not pledge: yet, if my father's G.o.d Sets free my father's realm----' again he paused; Then westward rode alone.

Well planned, fought well (For Kenwalk, of the few reverse makes wise, From him had put his youth's precipitance) That virtuous warfare triumphed. Swift as fire The news from Sherburne and from Winbourne flashed To Sarum, Chertsey, Malmsbury. That delight On earth the nearest to religious joy, The rapture of a trampled land set free, Swelled every breast: the wounded in their wounds Rejoiced, not grieved: the sick forgat their pains: The mourner dashed away her tear and cried, 'Wess.e.x is free!' Remained a single doubt: Christians crept forth from cave and hollow tree: Once more the exiled monk was seen; and one Who long in minstrel's garb, with harp in hand, Old, poor, half blind, had sat beside a bridge, And, charming first the wayfarer with song, Had won him next with legends of the Cross, Stood up before his altar. Rumour ran 'Once more Birinus lifts his crosier-staff!'

Then muttered priests of Odin, 'Cynegils We know was Christian. Kenwalk holds--or held, Ancestral Faith, yet warred not on the new: Tolerance means still connivance.'

Peace restored, Within King Kenwalk's echoing palace hall, The hall alike of council and of feast, The Great Ones of the Wess.e.x realm were met: Birinus sat among them, eyed from far With anger and with hatred. Council o'er, Banquet succeeded, and to banquet song, The Saxon's after-banquet. Many a harp That day by flying hand entreated well Divulged its secret, amorous, or of war; And many a warrior sang his own great deeds Or dirge of ancient friend Valhalla's guest; Nor stinted foeman's praise. Silent meanwhile Far down the board a son of Norway sat, Ungenial guest with clouded brows and stern, And eyes that flashed beneath them: bard was he, Warrior and bard. Not his the song for gold!

He sang but of the war-fields and the G.o.ds; He lays of love despised. 'Thy turn is come, Son of the ice-bound North,' thus spake a thane: 'Sing thou! The man who sees that face, already Half hears the tempest singing through the pines That shade thy gulfs hill-girt.' The stranger guest Answered, not rising: 'Yea, from lands of storm And seas cut through by fiery lava floods I come, a wanderer. Ye, meantime, in climes Balm-breathing, gorge the fat, and smell the sweet: Ye wed the maid whose sire ye never slew, And bask in unearned triumph. Feeble spirits!

Endless ye deem the splendours of this hour, And call defeat opprobrious! Sirs, our life Is trial. Victory and Defeat are G.o.ds That toss man's heart, their plaything, each to each: Great Mercia knows that truth--of all your realms Faithfullest to Odin far!'

'Nay, minstrel, sing,'

Once more, not wroth, they clamoured. He replied: 'Hear then my song; but not those songs ye sing: I have against you somewhat, Wess.e.x men!

Ye are not as your fathers, when, in youth, I trod your coasts. That time ye sang of G.o.ds, Sole theme for manlike song. On Iceland's sh.o.r.es We keep our music's virtue undefiled: While summer lasts we fight; by winter hearths, Or ranged in sunny coves by winter seas, Betwixt the snow-plains and the hills of fire, Singing we feed on legends of the G.o.ds: Ye sing but triumphs of the hour that fleets; Ye build you kingdoms: next ye dash them down: Ye bow to idols! O that song of mine Might heal this people's wound!'

Then rose the bard And took his harp, and smote it like a man; And sang full-blooded songs of G.o.ds who spurn Their heaven to war against that giant race Throned 'mid the mountains of old Jotunheim That girdle still the unmeasured seas of ice With horror and strange dread. Innumerable, In ever-winding labyrinths, glacier-thronged, Those mountains raise their heads among the stars, That palsied glimmer 'twixt their sunless bulks, O'er-shadowing seas and lands. O'er Jotunheim The glittering car of day hath never shone: There endless twilight broods. Beneath it sit The huge Frost-Giants, sons of orgelmir, Themselves like mountains, solitary now, Now grouped, with knees drawn up, and heads low bent Plotting new wars. Those wars the Northman sang; And thunder-like rang out the vast applause.

That hour Birinus whispered one close by: 'Not casual this! Ill spirits, be sure, this day, And impious men will launch their fiercest bolts To crush Christ's Faith for ever!'

Jocund songs The bard sang next: how Thor had roamed disguised Through Jotunheim, and found the giant-brood Feasting; and how their king gave challenge thus: 'Sir, since you deign us visit, show us feats!

Behold yon drinking horn! with us a child Drains it at draught.' The G.o.d inclined his head And swelled his lips; and three times drank: yet lo!

Nigh full that horn remained, the dusky mead In mockery winking! Spake once more the king: 'Behold my youngest daughter's chief delight, Yon wild-cat grey! She lifts it: lift it thou!'

The G.o.d beneath it slipped his arm and tugged, And tugging, ever higher rose and higher; The wild cat arched her back and with him rose;-- But one foot left the ground! Last, forward stept A haggard, lame, decrepid, toothless crone, And cried, 'Canst wrestle, friend?' He closed upon her: Firm stood she as a mountain: she in turn Closed upon Thor, and brought him to one knee: Lower she could not bend him. Thor for rage Clenched both his fists until his finger-joints Grew white as snow late fallen!

Loud and long The laughter rose: the minstrel frowned dislike: 'I have against you somewhat, Wess.e.x men!

In laughter spasms ye reel, or shout applause, Music surceased. Like rocks your fathers sat; In every song they knew some mystery lay, Mystery of man or nature. Greater G.o.d Is none than Thor, whom, witless, thus ye flout.

That giant knew his greatness, and, at morn, While vexed at failure through the gates he pa.s.sed, Addressed him reverent: 'Lift thy head, great Thor!

Disguised thou cam'st; not less we knew thee well: Brave battle fought'st thou, seeming still to fail: Thy foes were phantoms! Phantasies I wove To snare thine eyes because I feared thy hand, And pledged thy strength to tasks impossible.

That horn thou could'st not empty was the sea!

At that third draught such ebb-tide stripp'd the sh.o.r.e As left whole navies stranded! What to thee Wild-cat appeared was Midgard's endless snake Whose infinite circle clasps the ocean round: Then when her foot thou liftedst, tremour went From iron vale to vale of Jotunheim: Hadst thou but higher raised it one short span, The sea had drowned the land! That toothless crone Was Age, that drags the loftiest head to earth: She bent thy knee alone. Come here no more!

On equal ground thou fight'st us in the light: In this, our native land, the stronger we, And mock thee by Illusions!'

After pause, With haughty eye cast round, the minstrel spake: 'Now hear ye mysteries of the antique song, Though few shall guess their import!' Then he sang Legends primeval of that Northern race, And dread beginnings of the heavens and earth, When, save the shapeless chaos, nothing was: Of Ymer first, by some named orgelmir, The giant sire of all the giant brood:-- Him for his sins the sons of Bor destroyed; Then fashioned of his blood the seas and streams, And of his bones the mountains; of his teeth The cliffs firm set against the aggressive waves; Last, of his skull the vast, o'er-hanging heaven; And of his brain the clouds.

'Sing on,' they cried: Next sang he of that mystic shape, earth-born, The wondrous cow, Auhumla. Herb that hour Was none, nor forest growth; yet on and on She wandered by the vapour-belted seas, And, wandering, from the stones and icebergs cold That creaked forlorn against the grey sea-crags, She licked salt spray, and h.o.a.ry frost, and lived; And ever where she licked sprang up, full-armed, Men fair and strong!

Once more they cried, 'Sing on!'

Last sang the minstrel of the Night and Day: Car-borne they sweep successive through the heaven: First rides the dusky maid by men called Night; Sleep-bringing, pain-a.s.suaging, kind to man; With dream-like speed cleaving the starry sphere: Hrimfaxi is her horse: his round complete Foam from his silver bit bespangles earth, And mortals call it 'Morn.' Day follows fast, Her brother white: Skinfaxi is his horse: When forth he flings the splendours from his mane Both G.o.ds and men rejoice.

Thus legends old The Northman sang, till, fleeting from men's eyes, The present lived no longer. In its place He fixed that vision of the world new formed, Which on the childhood of the Northern mind Like endless twilight lay;--s.p.a.ces immense; Unmeasured energies of fire and flood; Great Nature's forces, terrible yet blind, In ceaseless strife alternately supreme, Or breast to breast with dreadful equipoise In conflict pressed. Once more o'er those that heard He hung that old world's low, funereal sky: Before their eyes he caused its cloud to stream Shadowing infinitude. He spake no word Like Heida of that war 'twixt Good and Ill; That peace which crowns the just; that G.o.d unknown: Enough to him his Faith without its soul!

With glorying eye he marked that panting throng; Then, sudden, changed his note. Again of war He sang, but war no more of G.o.ds on G.o.ds; He sang the honest wars of man on man; Of Odin, king of men, ere yet, death past, He flamed abroad in G.o.dhead. Field on field He sang his battles; traced from realm to realm His conquering pilgrimage: then ended, fierce: 'What G.o.d was this--that G.o.d ye honoured once?