SAINT BALDRED OF THE BASS. PART I.

The Funeral.

I.

The requiem rises loud, but drear,

Within the Bass’s rocky isle;

Where watchful round St Baldred’s bier

The monks await the morning’s smile;

While torch-light reddens the lone cave,

And brightens every paler face,

Till in each feature, darkly grave,

Sorrow her gentle tear may trace.

II.

That day from Preston’s holy fane,

Three friars came the priest to claim;

For there, in Modred’s gloomy reign,

Before the Saxons were subdued,

18His foster-mother was a dame

Supposed the heir of high-born blood.

Three friars came from Aldham’s shrine

In quest of the revered man;

For there, among the Pictish line,

His pastoral charge at first began.

Three friars came from Tyningham

To claim the Saint’s much-hallow’d clay;

For there, enshrined in folds of balm,

His saintly predecessors lay,

The church-light of an earlier day.

III.

Th’ assembled friars stood amazed,

Speechless, and swollen with rage they gazed,

Till arms in angry mood were raised,

And crosier-staffs were broke;

When ripe for vengeance and for war,

They rent the cross-woven scapular,

And tore the scanty cloak;

From grasp and squeeze they pass’d to blows,

One took his neighbour by the nose,

Another by the hair;

Nor ceased to ply the dangerous art,

Till each could shew a wounded part,

And every back was bare!

19IV.

Alarm’d by the tumultuous roar

The solan left her rocky nest,

And travelling to the Fifean shore,

Like snowy curtains deck’d the west;

While monsters in the Forth were seen,

Disporting in the waters green,

With crested head, like horned owl,

O’erspread with film like Carmelite’s cowl;

Then all look’d ominous and drear

As if some great event was near;

And many saw pale Loda’s form,

Gleam in his meteor-clad array;

While others only heard the storm

As grief or terror held their sway.

V.

Dark grew the Warden’s cheeks of bloom,

Like wizard started from the tomb;

He blest each saint he knew!

And as his ruddy face grew pale,

His lips shook, quivering as the gale,

And pass’d from red to blue.

20By good St Mungo’s soul he swore,

(As evermore his locks he tore,

And fierce his blood did boil,)

That “ere they moved the old man’s bones,

“As easily they’d move the stones.

“Which propp’d the lofty isle!”

VI.

When, lo! a vessel near, they spy,

That proudly heaves in sight;

Fair blows the wind, serene the sky,

“Ho! boatmen, o’er the waters fly,

“And reach the land ere night;—

“To favouring breeze your canvass stretch,

“To Holy Island speed;

“And bid the Bishop cease to preach,

“And leave his miracles unwrought,

“And bring him here as swift as thought,

“To aid us in our need!”

VII.

Meanwhile a host upon the shore

Await the embassy’s return;

But when the herald struck his oar,

Their souls for vengeance burn:

21While gathering far, on Aldham’s height,

The rival parishes advance;

Now mingle in the deadly fight—

And hurl the sounding lance.

When forward rush’d an aged man,

So venerable in years,

That silence through the warriors ran,

And nerveless fell their spears;—

And thus, the Priest of Garmilton

Loud spake, while from his eyes there shone

Radiance, like lightning from a cloud,

Which backward awed the dusky crowd:—

“O mock not the decree of Heaven,

“In angry strife, to madness driven!

“But let the calm of peace prevail,

“Till supernatural powers be given

“To bless your deep excess of zeal.”

VIII.

But, frowning still in angry mood

Unmoved, the men of Aldham stood;

A hardy race nursed by the sea,

In manners haughty, fierce, and free;

22Again the smother’d murmur rung,

While they were seen to seek the shore;

For on their backs the corrock hung,

And in their hands the oar,

When rose the Priest of Garmilton,

With his prophetic eye,

“I swear by Hadda-Chuan’s stone,

“That storms are in the sky!

“Yes, by the tempest-saint I swear,

“Of green Iona’s isle!

“That to the depths of hell ye steer,

“Debarr’d from heaven’s smile!

“Backward St Baldred’s rock shall roll,

“And choke your navigation up,

“While fires shall riot on your soul,

“And sea-wolves on you sup,

“If ye despise my warning now!”

Thus spake the priest, and smote his brow.

While back the trembling men return,

As if the curse begun they feel;

And silent for that vengeance burn

Which they dare not reveal.

23IX.

The friars in the lonely isle

Like guards their watches keep;

Till most of them, o’ercome with toil,

Go piously to sleep;

While others, chatting o’er the bowl,

Simper beneath the monkish cowl

To see their fellows weep,

And quaff, in horns, from mountain still,

The liquor brew’d from heather-bell—

So changing is man’s wayward mood

From false to fair, from smooth to rude.

X.

O death! thou art a fearful thing,

Although ’tis said relief thou’lt bring,

The wretch without a friend or home,

Condemn’d in hungry rags to roam,

Will life’s last bitter chalice drain,

Sooner than mingle with thy train!

Thou strik’st the hermit in his cell,

Who long has bid the world farewell;

Thou strik’st the warrior in the field,

While charging squadrons round him yield;

24And rosy youth, and wrinkled age,

And motley fool, and cunning sage,

Alike before thy arrows fall,

Whose quiver has a barb for all.

XI.

Each left the corpse, save that dark man

Cormac, from Aberlady’s shore,

Who, deem’d a cunning artisan,

Had left Kilspindie’s cells at dawn,

Yet landed not till twilight hour.

Two black-hoods follow’d in his train,

Like shadows on the rock,

Who only deign’d to breathe amen!

As low their master spoke:

“Refugium peccatorum,

“Consolatrix afflictorum,

“Ora pro nobis.”

XII.

Yet, thought the soldiers of the Bass,

As slow the midnight moments pass,

Some demon horrid rites preferr’d,

To rend the rock asunder,—

For evermore they, shuddering, heard

Deep buried sounds like thunder;

25While underneath the waters boil’d,

As if Leviathan had coil’d

His monstrous shape around the base

The castellated isle to raise;

While started in the unfathom’d deep

The coral tenants from their sleep!

XIII.

At morning’s dawn the Bass appear’d,

Half hid in ocean’s mantle fold,

Shining as magic wand had rear’d

A mountain pearl in bed of gold.

Afar, impervious to the sun,

The woad-dyed groups, in shadows dun,

Along the summits steal;

While glad the Bishop’s barge they hail,

Seen, swan-like, urged by favouring gale

Westward the port of Bele.

Where high Tantallon’s castle stands,

Like vet’ran set to watch the deep,

Gleam’d nodding heads, and waving hands,

Wherever human foot might creep;

And rocky cave, and ocean bay,

Bore the loud shoutings far away,

That hail’d the monk of Lindisfarn

In friendship free—in virtue stern.

26XIV.

Chiming o’er Lothian’s sunny shore,

The chapel bells began to ring,

And still was echo’d more and more,

“Hail to the holy man ye bring!”

The sails are struck—the oars are plied—

The barge moor’d by the Bass’s side;

And as the Bishop trod the strand,

They forward press’d to kiss his hand:

Enough of worldly bliss for them

To see him ere they die;

To touch that garment’s hallow’d hem

Which he did sanctify.

XV.

Down to the castle’s caves they wend,

With hesitating steps and slow,

And, fearful, one by one descend,

As if Vesuvius yawn’d below;

The first sent up a horrid sound,

His glaring torch fell to the ground;

Another, and another fell—

Some vow’d to heav’n, some thought of hell;

And as the smouldering flame upbroke,

They shudder’d as they saw

27The devil tow’ring o’er the smoke,

Seize Baldred, and, with agile bound,

Leap o’er North Berwick Law!

That hill, which in a latter day,

By witchcraft near was borne away,

When the Gyre Carling strode the mast,

And, like a huntress, rein’d the blast.

Retreated all as best they might,

Each sought to save himself in flight;

Nor did the Bishop stoop to kneel—

Unlike St Serf, the church’s keel,

Who with his prayers the dragon slew,

St George eclipsing—if ’tis true!

XVI.

Surprise upon each brow had striven,

As dread conjecture ran,

When they beheld, as dropt from heav’n,

That lone Aemonian,

The hermit of Inch-Colme’s isle,

Whose face ne’er lighten’d with a smile;

Yet was his temper framed so mild,

In innocence he walk’d a child;

The untamed tenants of the moor

Roam’d in his daily haunts secure;

28For brute and man alike were shewn

That mercy claim’d this priest her own;

But him they question’d not,

So scriptural his answers were,

Long prefaced by a tedious prayer,

The subject he forgot;—

Ere the proeme had been begun,

Another day had seen the sun!

XVII.

The Warden stood in fierce array,

Like savage of St Julian’s bay,

By nature form’d for martial fray,

In stature towering high;

As trunk of oak his massy limb,

Though muscular, yet moulded trim;—

His visage pointed, long, and grim,

Lank cheeks and hollow eye.

Unlike the carpet-race we boast

The soldier’s jest, though fashion’s toast,

Who leave Castalian springs for wine,—

Whose greatest glory is—to dine!

XVIII.

Men often show least signs of fear

When certain danger hovers near:

29The Pict conceal’d his wrath—

He craved the Bishop’s benison,

Then went like Roman denizen

To victory or death!

His zone with iron hoops was braced;

His buckler on his arm was placed,

Made of the buffalo’s hide;

While, punctured, on his breast appear’d

The monster, fierce as when ’twas spear’d;

Now raising high his sounding lance

He bade the trembling crowds advance,

And march’d with martial stride;

But none durst follow in the van

With that gigantic-bodied man!—

XIX.

Then fell an awful pause, as when

The Indian striplings fearless run

To slay the tiger in his den,

In caves that never saw the sun:

Meanwhile the Warden had his fears

When he beheld the friars dying,

And, side by side, survey’d three biers

Whereon the saint in state was lying.

Each load was borne most pompously,

Deck’d with its cross and rosary;

30While, one by one, three corpses lay

Like twin-brothers transform’d to clay,

Moulded so nicely like each other,

The eye no difference might discover;

And as the tapers flicker’d dim,

The features look’d uncouth:

Each countenance appear’d more grim,

And seem’d to ope its mouth.

Recovering soon, the Warden raised

His voice, to urge them on, who gazed:

They forward press—they kneel and pray—

While, lacking faith, some steal away,

As starting from their fearful swoon

The astonish’d friars leap to their feet;

The stoled biers look wildly on,

And deem the vision is complete:

Till by a glimpse of reason’s beam

They wake to a substantial dream!—

XX.

“Mother of God!” the Bishop cried,

“Thy aid is never sought in vain!

“To crush the paynim in his pride,

“Thy spirit walks on earth again!—

“Where’er thy dove-like presence strays

“Among the bowers of human wo,

31“O teach our harps to sing thy praise

“In strains that seraphs only know!”

XXI.

They raised the sheet from Baldred’s face,

They turn’d the corpses where they lay,

In each his features clearly trace,

Crown’d with a tuft of silvery gray.

They deem’d his bright ethereal flame

Which mortal form could not control,

From heav’n had held a trio frame

To suit his zealous warmth of soul;

That he might stray in paynim lands,

A pilgrim lone in Palestine;

Now tread the desert’s burning sands—

Now preach the faith by Pictish Tyne;

With that sweet angel for his guide,

Who led St Serf by Bosphorus’ strand,

Attendant duteous by his side,

Like earth and heaven hand in hand!

XXII.

But, hark! the Bass’s chapel bell

Again its mournful music plies,

And Aldham’s chimes the breezes swell,

And Tyningham as soft replies.

32While o’er the lake in dark parade

The painted chiefs are seen to glide,

From verdant Tyne’s green holly shade

To dwarfish Peffers’ sandy side.

XXIII.

Afar upon the spangled deep

The barges move in solemn show;

The oars their regular cadence keep,

As ’twixt each pause a sob of wo

Bursts from the sailor, and a tear

Falls down unseen on ocean’s breast;

While, in their gloomy livery drest,

The sable nodding biers appear

Reflected in the waters clear,

Like plumes upon a silver crest!

XXIV.

The seal lay on the scarry shore,

As charm’d to hear the distant oar;

The tarrock left Craig Leith’s rough breast,

To crown the isles like feathery crest;

And every rock that gemm’d the deep

Was peopled like the grassy steep;

Some launch the skiff, while others brave

The swelling surface of the wave;

33Anxious to join the funeral train:

And, but for weeds that pictured pain,

’Twas like a festive holiday,

When princes short-lived visits pay,

And the high rulers of the earth

A jubilee give to lowly mirth.

XXV.

Soon reach’d the pebbly-studded strand,

The oars are struck—the mourners land

In Aldham’s pleasant bay;

Upon the beach three chieftains stood,

With litters form’d of laurel-wood,

And crown’d with rosemary;

On these St Baldred’s relics laid,

With other honours duteous paid,

They forward march’d in sad parade;

Where all were willing—those were blest,

To whom were given the high behest

To bear the corpse away;

Preceded by six vestals fair,

Who tore the long dark glossy hair

That fell upon their shoulders bare

As clouds on mountain snow;

Anon their lily hands they wrung,

And mournfully the requiem sung

In plaintive notes of woe.

34Hymn.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy

Awaits thee in the halls of Thor,

Where earthly sorrows ne’er destroy,

Where heavenly hearts are never sore.

Did thy mother, in midnight dreams,

Call thee from this land of care,

To sail on heaven’s transparent streams

With Jhules, the angels of the air?

Save us from pale Loda’s power,

When in the gale his form appears;

Cheer us in affliction’s hour,

And shield us in the strife of spears.

Spirit of bliss! a cup of joy

Awaits thee in the halls of Thor,

Where pleasure charms without alloy,

Where tempests never wreck the shore.

XXVI.

Up Aldham’s flowery steep the biers

Ascend, in a long dusky line,

Where, tow’ring o’er their dark compeers,

The warriors’ glancing helms shine;

35And golden mitres lustre shed

Upon each bishop’s ancient head.

First solemn walk’d, behind the pall,

Conwal, that priest austere and tall,

Who dwelt by Clutha’s winding stream;

His loins were girdled round with hair:

For such like penance he did deem

Useful to fit his soul for prayer.

He was St Baldred’s friend in youth,

St Mungo train’d them both to truth;

And ne’er do tears sincerer flow

Than those which early friends bestow,

When weeping o’er some parted shade

In life’s luxuriant prime decay’d.

Ah! who would wish to linger here

When those who made life sweet are gone,

When loves and friendships disappear

Beneath the dark sepulchral stone;

And all we know of sage and fair,

Is the dull record that—they were!

Upon his right, with martial brow,

Appeared the young Prince Derili,

Who wept in Baldred’s relics now

A lost preceptor, and did sigh

36While running o’er instructive hours—

Which now, alas! too quick had sped—

As oft in Dirleton’s ivied towers

He listen’d to the honour’d dead,

And heard truths morally sublime,

That purified his soul from crime,

And bade him afterwards atone

For errors that were not his own;

And in Loch Leven’s lonely isle

To heaven bequeath a holy pile.

St Conwal, on his left, was led

By Asaph—soon to suffering bred,

A zealous man, who did adorn

The holy church, for which he’d borne

The martyr’s faggot-blaze;

Unburthening his soul of guilt

Three hundred times a-day he knelt

In silent deeds of praise;

So oft he’d paced the altar’s bound,

His steps had worn the marble ground!

He was supported by that sage,

Who ’midst the others shone

So venerable in his age,

The Priest of Garmilton.

37Idan came next of Lindisfarn,

In demon-conflicts bold,

Who, on the gloomy rocks of Fern

Did secret vigils hold,

And afterwards, upon that shore,

The bishop’s pastoral crosier bore.

While Eta, abbot of Melrose,

The bishop’s stoled ranks did close.

Then follow’d those of less degree,

Yet not less famed for sanctity;

There stalk’d Dricthelmus the austere,

Who one dread night in death’s arms slept,

And saw Heaven’s mystic visions fair,

As o’er the golden walls he crept,

When, lo! a weight of earthly sin,

Like Eden-cherub’s flaming brand,

Just as he leap’d to enter in,

Drove him to this terrestrial land!—

There also walk’d those monks profound,

With eye devout upon the ground,

The followers of St Benedict,

In sanctimonious manners strict.

While wander’d in the rabble’s van,

That sadly lone Aemonian!

Where’er this gentle hermit went

Still followed him a sacred cow,

38Whether he trod the sandy bent,

Or clomb the mountain’s heathery brow.

XXVII.

For those who sail’d on Forth’s green wave,

It was a splendid sight to view

The cavalcade, as dark and grave

It gave the cliffs a chequer’d hue;

While evermore the torches threw

A sparkling glare among the crowd,

As stars will hide their eyes of blue

In dawning morning’s dusky cloud;

Then first by Aldham’s holy shade

The solemn pageant paused the while,

As in the church’s holy pile

One body of the Saint was laid

Beneath a yew’s undying bloom,

Emblem of tenant of the tomb.

This tree a holy calm diffused

O’er passing strangers, as they mused

Upon the nicely sculptured scroll,

That told its moral to the soul.

XXVIII.

Low chanted in the house of God,

On high the choir’s full measure flow’d,

39While the soft echo of a sigh,

Dimm’d the bright lustre of each eye.

Requiem First.

1.

Be hallow’d the place of thy rest,

O soft be thy bed in the tomb!

Thou’rt gone to the land of the blest,

With the souls of the happy to roam:

As planets in loveliness roll,

And light the lone wanderer’s way,

Thou beam’d on the night of the soul,

And left us at dawning of day.

2.

With bay we’ll embroider that stone,

That tells us of glory and thee!

While the changes of seasons roll on,

Thy memory unfading shall be.

Though fled on the seraphim’s wing,

And left us in darkness to mourn,

With earliest blossoms of spring

We duly will garland thy urn.

40XXIX.

O who is he, with locks of grey,

That bids the pressing crowds recede,

As backward rolls the ocean’s spray,

Where canvas-crowned galleys glide?

A scallop-shell the stranger wears,

St Peter’s keys in red he bears

Wrought in his scapular;

The Pictish lances rattling sound,

And far the waving pennons float,

The bishop’s palfreys paw the ground,

And startle at the war-horn’s note,

While mingling voices loud exclaim,

“Ho! pilgrim, with your cross of flame!

“Come ye for peace or war?

“Or why upon our march intrude,

“In humble guise, but forward mood.”—

XXX.

“O let short-breathing space be given,”

The way-worn stranger cried:

“Three moons have scarcely waned in heaven,

“Since Baldred, in Loretto’s shrine,

“Was kneeling at my side.

41“Before the virgin and her son,

“Where silver lamps for ever shine,

“He drank the Eucharistal wine,

“And said—‘My earthly task is done!’

“I turn’d to bid the old man hail—

“And saw his face was waxing pale

“As monumental bust—

“I turn’d; but, lo! the priest was gone,

“And I fell humbled in the dust!”

XXXI.

“Beloved of heaven!” the bishop cried,

“Mary! maiden-mother, fair!

“Who lovest to crush the paynim’s pride,

“And hear the lowly pilgrim’s prayer,

“Again to thee on earth be given,

“That homage which ascends to heaven!

“Holy pilgrim! speed the while,

“Rest thee in the rocky isle,

“Till the morning’s purple light

“Gilds Dumpender’s verdant height;

“Onward then, Heaven be your guide,

“As it has ever been;

“When wafting o’er the western tide,

“O tell by lone Iona’s side

“The mysteries you have seen!”—

42XXXII.

’Twas noon, when o’er the Thistly Moor

The funeral held its mazy route,

When roused by sounds unheard before

The wily fox was on the scout;

The woodcock plied his jetty wing,

The red deer made his lofty spring,

A moment view’d the dark array,

Next fleetly bounding shot away,

Just stopp’d to slake his thirst in Tyne,

Then, arrow-like, straight onward flew,

Till on the horizon’s farthest line

His antlers pierced the heaven’s blue!—

XXXIII.

Eastward of Binning’s beauteous wood

Stood Baldred’s mossy cell,

Where in communion deep with God

The patriarch loved to dwell,

What time the summer breezes bland

Were wafting perfume o’er the land;

And so serene the ocean lay,

It pictured headland-rock and bay;

And heaven’s veil of azure hue

Was only speck’d by grey curlew.

43Here often, tame as Rylston’s doe,

The chase-driven deer would stand,

And lick the hermit’s palm of snow,

And eat from gentle hand.

And here, before the altar’s mound,

Which time-worn hieroglyphics graced,

His canonized bones they placed,

And sanctified the ground;

And holily they sprinkled o’er

His grave, as sung the pious choir.

Requiem Second.

1.

When death meets the chieftain ’midst victory’s hum,

His fall is deplored by the trumpet and drum;

But softer the music, and warmer the sighs,

That waft pious soul’s to their throne in the skies.

2.

O drear were our walks in the shadow of death,

Till the star of Balclutha illumined our path!

Like the planet of Bethel it gilded the night,

Till it set in a halo of heavenly light.

443.

Let bay deck the turf where the saint lowly lies,

Like the symbol we scatter, his leaf never dies;

For his fame in its innocence beauteously ’ray’d,

Like the rose-bud of Jericho, never will fade.

XXXIV.

The dying sounds had scarcely ceased,

The prayer, half-mutter’d by the priest,

When round, the congregated crowd

Was parted like the thunder-cloud;

Some grasp the sword, some couch the lance,

Backward recoil, or firm advance;

Then quiver’d as with earthquake’s shock

St Baldred’s cradle in the rock,

And Whitberry’s rugged point was broke;

And, lo! (as old traditions’ say)

That boat of stone in Aldham’s bay,

Yclept the Saint’s, was seen to sail

As chaff before the mountain gale;

And all beneath fair Preston’s fane

The Tyne began to boil amain!

Until it foam’d o’er Linton linn,

Whence rose that loud horrific din,

45As if another Tityus lay

Chain’d with the vulture at his heart,

Wailing his soul in groans away

O’er agonies that must ne’er depart!

XXXV.

A knight comes on a lofty steed,

With spear reversed and helmless head,

A branch of olive in his hand.

The bishop bids the mourners stand,

When lighting by St Baldred’s side,

“A boon! a boon!” the warrior cried,

Craving to see the illustrious dead,

As if affiance he might trace

In the old man’s pale ghastly face;

Then roll’d his eyes from earth to heav’n,

Swore, as he hoped to be forgiven,

That, lately, on the Flemish shore,

He met the saint in Antwerp’s choir,

What time the vesper prayers were said:—

“Nay, father! do not doubt my word,

“I do not deal in gasconade,

“But wear a still untainted sword,

“That ever is unsheathed for God,

“Aye ready at the church’s nod;

46“Behold my doublet’s lightsome sheen,

“It once was dervise-pennon green,

“Hard won in Canaan’s holy land,

“When combating the Jews accurst;

“To mount the breach with sword or brand

“St Baldred knew I was the first!

“And thrice he blest me where I stood,

“And thrice he sign’d the holy rood;

“Then press’d my hand—it felt like flame—

“Behold! it left his hallow’d name!

“And now I come this boon to crave,

“That I may lower him in the grave,

“That some last relic you’ll bestow,

“’Twill bear me foremost ‘midst the brave,

“’Twill raise me when my arm is low!”

The bishop waved his hand on high,

And gave propitious reply—

“Gentle knight, thy claim is won;

“Priests and mourners! onward, on!”

XXXVI.

The sun, beyond the Pentland’s ridge,

Had given the skies a rainbow hue,

When crossing Tyne on osier bridge

The crowd the funeral’s march pursue;

47The evening dews are falling chill,

The mountain cock with crimson eye,

And jetty wing, has sought the hill

Where mists are shadowing far the sky;

While in the skirts of Lammermoor

The tod peeps from his den secure,

And sees afar the dusky crowd

Move on, like summer’s passing cloud,

In slow and stately majesty,

When scarce a breeze is wafting by;

And as they pass near ancient Cnolle,

Fair Preston’s bell begins to toll,

For they have almost reach’d the goal

Of this eventful day;

And, as by winding Tyne they turn,

Clearer the funeral torches burn,

Seen through the twilight’s grey.

XXXVII.

They have made St Baldred’s grave

Under Preston’s sculptured nave,

Where forgotten ’scutcheons wave

Of those who’ve pass’d away!

Gentle space, and mossy stone,

Tell of him who dazzling shone

The meteor of his day!

48He, whom nations could not bound,

Lies in a few feet of ground!

And he, whom kings wou’d bleed to save,

Will lie forgotten in the grave!

They have borne the saint’s last pall,

And placed his statue in the wall;

Dust to dust the bell is tolling,

As it must toll for all;

While through the aisles the anthem’s rolling,

Lovely in its dying fall,

Fanning, with melodious breath,

The solitary house of death!

Requiem Third.

1.

The waves lie smooth when storms have fled,

Beneath St Abb’s high rocky head;

The green-capp’d islands of the deep

Are lovely when the breezes sleep,

Viewless upon their beds of balm;

But, ah! this is a treacherous calm!

For here the dove no rest can find

While storms are lingering in the wind.

492.

The fairest scenes of earth’s dull round

Trail their dark shadows on the ground;

The thorny rose—the honied sting—

The winter’s cold—the blight of spring:—

While Love’s chill frown, and Hope’s deceit,

And Friendship changing oft to hate,

Prove that the dove no rest can find

Where man to man still proves unkind.

3.

Beyond yon bright cerulean skies

Elysium’s land of promise lies:

Her sun no clouds are ever shading;

Her fruits and flowers are never fading;

Her hearts are pure as those that bear them,

The blight of sin cannot come near them:

Oh! there the dove its rest may find,

And taste that heaven at least is kind.

XXXVIII.

Thus closed the quire their lyric strain,

In sounds that oft were woke again;

For still the requiem’s notes were sung,

The echoes of the aisles still rung

50The chanted dirge—the fervent prayer

For him who lay embalmed there.

Since then these shores have never seen

So much funereal pomp and show,

Save when the priests of holy mien,

Wander’d o’er Soutra’s chilly brow,

In fair Melrose’s shrine to place

The relics of the great De Vaux,

To sleep with many a nameless race

Till Heaven’s own awful trumpets blow!

XXXIX.

Still on the Hebrew’s purim day,

(That day that tells of Haman’s fall)

In after ages, blithe and gay,

Was held St Baldred’s festival.

At earliest morn the swains would go

To deck his loved and hallow’d shrine,

With blooming bay and misletoe,

Cull’d from the daisied banks of Tyne.

The chapel’s Saxon windows dight

So artfully with boughs were drest,

That tuneful birds, decoyed, would light,

To build their temporary nest.

51But now the yellow crocus flower

Sprouts blooming on the breast of Spring,

And blithe in every shady bower

The minstrels of the forest sing;

While, Tyningham! thy chapel bell

Is heard no more these shades among;

For, Time, alas! has ceased to swell

The saintly Baldred’s funeral song!

END OF PART FIRST.

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