as the crab-tree, but, at the same time, as fresh as its blossom. Their
brief touches reveal all the passions of the Barbaric races; but the
chief human affections, things far deeper than the passions, are yet
more abundantly illustrated by them.[23] It was a time when those
affections were not frozen by conventionalities and forced to conceal
themselves until they forgot to exist. In the narrative of Bede we find
also invaluable illustrations of a higher but not less real range of
human affections, viz. the affections of 'Christianised Humanity,'
affections grounded on divine truths and heavenly hopes, and yet in
entire harmony with affections of a merely human order, which lie
beneath them in a parallel plane. Occasionally the two classes enter
into conflict, as in the case of the monks of Bardeney who found it so
difficult to reconcile their reverence for a Saint with their patriotic
hatred of a foreign invader; but almost invariably the earthly and the
heavenly emotions are mutually supplemental, as in those tender
friendships of monk with monk, of king and bishop, grounded upon
religious sympathy and co-operation; so that the lower sentiment without
the higher would present, compared with the pictures now bequeathed to
us, but an unfinished and truncated image of Humanity. Here, again, the
semi-barbaric age described by Bede rendered the delineation more vivid.
In ages of effeminate civilisation the Christian emotions, even more
than those inherent in unassisted human nature, lose that ardour which
belongs to them when in a healthy condition--an ardour which especially
reveals itself during that great crisis, a nation's conversion, when,
beside a throng of new feelings and new hopes, a host of new Truths has
descended upon the intelligence of a whole people, and when a sense of
new knowledge and endless progress is thus communicated to it, far
exceeding that which is the boast of nations devoted chiefly to physical
science. The sense of progress, indeed, when such a period reaches its
highest, is a rapture. It is as though the motion of the planet which
carries us through space, a motion of which we are cognisant but which
we yet cannot feel, could suddenly become, like the speed of a
racehorse, a thing brought home to our consciousness.
Such ardours are scarcely imaginable in the later ages of a nation; but
in Bede's day a people accepting the 'glad tidings' was glad; and,
unambitious as his style is of the ornamental or the figurative, it is
brightened by that which it so faithfully describes. His chronicle is
often poetry, little as he intended it to be such; nay, it is poetry in
her 'humanities' yet more than in her distinctively spiritual province,
and better poetry than is to be found in the professed poetry of a
materialistic age, when the poet is tempted to take refuge from the
monotony of routine life, either amid the sensational accidents to be
found on the byeways, not the highways, of life, or in some sickly
dreamland that does not dare to deal with life, and belongs neither to
the real nor to the ideal. In nothing is Bede's history of that great
age, to which our own owes all that it possesses of real greatness,
more striking than in that spirit of unconscious elevation and
joyousness which belongs to the Christian life it records, a joyousness
often so strikingly contrasted with the sadness--sometimes a heroic
sadness--to be found in portions of his work describing pagan manners.
With all its violences and inconsistencies, the seventh century was a
noble age--an age of strong hearts which were gentle as well as strong,
of a childhood that survived in manhood, of natures that had not lost
their moral unity, of holy lives and of happy deaths. Bede's picture of
it is a true one; and for that reason it comes home to us.
To some it may seem a profaneness to turn those old legends into verse.
I should not have attempted the enterprise if they were much read in
prose. The verse may at least help to direct the attention of a few
readers to them. From them the thoughtful will learn how to complete a
'half-truth' often reiterated. Those who have declared that 'the wars of
the Heptarchy are as dull as the battles of kites and crows,' have not
always known that the true interest of her turbulent days belonged to
peace, not to war, and is to be found in the spiritual development of
the Anglo-Saxon race.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ODIN THE MAN 1
KING ETHELBERT OF KENT AND ST. AUGUSTINE 13
THE CONSECRATION OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY 32
THE PENANCE OF ST. LAURENCE 47
KING SIGEBERT OF EAST ANGLIA, AND HEIDA THE PROPHETESS 66
KING SIGEBERT OF ESSEX, OR A FRIEND AT NEED 84
KING OSWALD OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE BRITON'S REVENGE 100
CEADMON THE COWHERD, THE FIRST ENGLISH POET 117
KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY 142
THE VENGEANCE OF THE MONKS OF BARDENEY 162
HOW SAINT CUTHBERT KEPT HIS PENTECOST AT CARLISLE 176
SAINT FRIDESWIDA, OR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OXFORD 208
THE BANQUET HALL OF WESSEX, OR THE KING WHO COULD SEE 223
EPILOGUE: BEDE'S LAST MAY 259
NOTES 283
PROLOGUE.
_ODIN, THE MAN_.
Odin, a Prince who reigned near the Caspian Sea, after a vain
resistance to the Roman arms, leads forth his people to the forests
north of the Danube, that, serving God in freedom on the limits of
the Roman Empire, and being strengthened by an adverse climate,
they may one day descend upon that empire in just revenge; which
destiny was fulfilled by the sack of Rome, under Alaric, Christian
King of the Goths, a race derived, like the Saxon, from that
Eastern people.
Forth with those missives, Chiron, to the Invader!
Hence, and make speed: they scathe mine eyes like fire:
Pompeius, thou hast conquered! What remains?
Vengeance! Man's race has never dreamed of such;
So slow, so sure. Pompeius, I depart:
I might have held these mountains yet four days:
The fifth had seen them thine--
I look beyond the limit of this night:
Four centuries I need; then comes mine hour.
What saith the Accursed One of the Western World?
I hear even now her trumpet! Thus she saith:
'I have enlarged my borders: iron reaped
Earth's field all golden. Strenuous fight we fought:
I left some sweat-drops on that Carthage shore,
Some blood on Gallic javelins. That is past!
My pleasant days are come: my couch is spread
Beside all waters of the Midland Sea;
By whispers lulled of nations kneeling round;
Illumed by light of balmiest climes; refreshed
By winds from Atlas and the Olympian snows:
Henceforth my foot is in delicious ways;
Bathe it, ye Persian fountains! Syrian vales,
All roses, make me sleepy with perfumes!
Caucasian cliffs, with martial echoes faint
Flatter light slumbers; charm a Roman dream!
I send you my Pompeius; let him lead
Odin in chains to Rome!' Odin in chains!
Were Odin chained, or dead, that God he serves
Could raise a thousand Odins--
Rome's Founder-King beside his Augur standing
Noted twelve ravens borne in sequent flight
O'er Alba's crags. They emblem'd centuries twelve,
The term to Rome conceded. Eight are flown;
Remain but four. Hail, sacred brood of night!
Hencefore my standards bear the Raven Sign,
The bird that hoarsely haunts the ruined tower;
The bird sagacious of the field of blood
Albeit far off. Four centuries I need:
Then comes my day. My race and I are one.
O Race beloved and holy! From my youth
Where'er a hungry heart impelled my feet,
Whate'er I found of glorious, have I not
Claimed it for thee, deep-musing? Ignorant, first,
For thee I wished the golden ingots piled
In Susa and Ecbatana:--ah fool!
At Athens next, treading where Plato trod,
For thee all triumphs of the mind of man,
And Phidian hand inspired! Ah fool, that hour
Athens lay bound, a slave! Later to Rome
In secrecy by Mithridates sent
To search the inmost of his hated foe,
For thee I claimed that discipline of Law
Which made her State one camp. Fool, fool once more!
Soon learned I what a heart-pollution lurked
Beneath that mask of Law. As Persia fell,
By softness sapped, so Rome. Behold, this day,
Following the Pole Star of my just revenge,
I lead my people forth to clearer fates
Through cloudier fortunes. They are brave and strong:
'Tis but the rose-breath of their vale that rots
Their destiny's bud unblown. I lead them forth,
A race war-vanquished, not a race of slaves;
Lead them, not southward to Euphrates' bank,
Not Eastward to the realms of rising suns,
Not West to Rome and bondage. Hail, thou North!
Hail, boundless woods, by nameless oceans girt,
And snow-robed mountain islets, founts of fire!
Four hundred years! I know that awful North:
I sought it when the one flower of my life
Fell to my foot. That anguish set me free:
It dashed me on the iron side of life:
I woke, a man. My people too shall wake:
They shall have icy crags for myrtle banks,
Sharp rocks for couches. Strength! I must have strength;
Not splenetic sallies of a woman's courage,
But hearts to which self-pity is unknown:
Hard life to them must be as mighty wine
Gladdening the strong: the death on battle fields
Must seem the natural, honest close of life;
Their fear must be to die without a wound
And miss Life's after-banquet. Wooden shield
Whole winter nights shall lie their covering sole:
Thereon the boy shall stem the ocean wave;
Thereon the youth shall slide with speed of winds
Loud-laughing down the snowy mountain-slope:
To him the Sire shall whisper as he bleeds,
'Remember the revenge? Thy son must prove
More strong, more hard than thou!'
Four hundred years!
Increase is tardy in that icy clime,
For Death is there the awful nurse of Life:
Death rocks the cot. Why meet we there no wolf
Save those huge-limbed? Because weak wolf-cubs die.
'Tis thus with man; 'tis thus with all things strong:--
Rise higher on thy northern hills, my Pine!
That Southern Palm shall dwindle.
House stone-walled--
Ye shall not have it! Temples cedar-roofed--
Ye shall not build them! Where the Temple stands
The City gathers. Cities ye shall spurn:
Live in the woods; live singly, winning each,
Hunter or fisher by blue lakes, his prey:
Abhor the gilded shrine: the God Unknown
In such abides not. On the mountain's top
Great Persia sought Him in her day of strength:
With her ye share the kingly breed of Truths,
The noblest inspirations man hath known,
Or can know--ay, unless the Lord of all
Should come, Man's Teacher. Pray as Persia prayed;
And see ye pray for Vengeance! Leave till then
To Rome her Idol fanes and pilfered Gods.
I see you, O my People, year by year
Strengthened by sufferings; pains that crush the weak,
Your helpers. Men have been that, poison-fed,
Grew poison-proof: on pain and wrong feed ye!
The wild-beast rage against you! frost and fire
Rack you in turn! I'll have no gold among you;
With gold come wants; and wants mean servitude.
Edge, each, his spear with fish-bone or with flint,
Leaning for prop on none. I want no Nations!
A Race I fashion, playing not at States:
I take the race of Man, the breed that lifts
Alone its brow to heaven: I change that race
From clay to stone, from stone to adamant
Through slow abrasion, such as leaves sea-shelves
Lustrous at last and smooth. To _be_, not _have_,
A man to be; no heritage to clasp
Save that which simple manhood, at its will,
Or conquers or re-conquers, held meanwhile
In trust for Virtue; this alone is greatness.
Remain ye Tribes, not Nations; led by Kings,
Great onward-striding Kings, above the rest
High towering, like the keel-compelling sail
That takes the topmost tempest. Let them die,
Each for his people! I will die for mine
Then when my work is finished; not before.
That Bandit King who founded Rome, the Accursed,
Vanished in storm. My sons shall see me die,
Die, strong to lead them till my latest breath,
Which shall not be a sigh; shall see and say,
'This Man far-marching through the mountainous world,
No God, but yet God's Prophet of the North,
Gave many crowns to others: for himself
His people were his crown.'
Four hundred years--
Ye shall find savage races in your path:
Be ye barbaric, ay, but savage not:
Hew down the baser lest they drag you down;
Ye cannot raise them: they fulfil their fates:
Be terrible to foes, be kind to friend:
Be just; be true. Revere the Household Hearth;
This knowing, that beside it dwells a God:
Revere the Priest, the King, the Bard, the Maid,
The Mother of the heroic race--five strings
Sounding God's Lyre. Drive out with lance for goad
That idiot God by Rome called Terminus,
Who standing sleeps, and holds his reign o'er fools.
The earth is God's, not Man's: that Man from Him
Holds it whose valour earns it. Time shall come,
It may be, when the warfare shall be past,
The reign triumphant of the brave and just
In peace consolidated. Time may come
When that long winter of the Northern Land
Shall find its spring. Where spreads the black morass
Harvest all gold may glitter; cities rise
Where roamed the elk; and nations set their thrones;
Nations not like those empires known till now,
But wise and pure. Let such their temples build
And worship Truth, if Truth should e'er to Man
Show her full face. Let such ordain them laws
If Justice e'er should mate with laws of men.
Above the mountain summits of Man's hope
There spreads, I know, a land illimitable,
The table land of Virtue trial-proved,
Whereon one day the nations of the world
Shall race like emulous Gods. A greater God
Served by our sires, a God unknown to Rome,
Above that shining level sits, high-towered:
Millions of Spirits wing His flaming light,
And fiery winds among His tresses play:
When comes that hour which judges Gods and men,
That God shall plague the Gods that filched His name,
And cleanse the Peoples.
When ye hear, my sons,
That God uprising in His judgment robes
And see their dreadful crimson in the West,
Then know ye that the knell of Rome is nigh;
Then stand, and listen! When His Trumpet sounds
Forth from your forests and your snows, my sons,
Forth over Ister, Rhenus, Rhodonus,
To Moesia forth, to Thrace, Illyricum,
Iberia, Gaul; but, most of all, to Rome!
Who leads you thither leads you not for spoil:
A mission hath he, fair though terrible;--
He makes a pure hand purer, washed in blood:
On, Scourge of God! the Vengeance Hour is come.
I know that hour, and wait it. Odin's work
Stands then consummate. Odin's name thenceforth
Goes down to darkness.
Farewell, Ararat!
How many an evening, still and bright as this,
In childhood, youth, or manhood's sorrowing years,
Have I not watched the sunset hanging red
Upon thy hoary brow! Farewell for ever!
A legend haunts thee that the race of man
In earliest days, a sad and storm-tossed few,
From thy wan heights descended, making way
Into a ruined world. A storm-tossed race,
But not self-pitying, once again thou seest
Into a world all ruin making way
Whither they know not, yet without a fear.
This hour--lo, there, they pass yon valley's verge!--
In sable weeds that pilgrimage moves on,
Moves slowly like thy shadow, Ararat,
That eastward creeps. Phantom of glory dead!
Image of greatness that disdains to die!
Move Northward thou! Whate'er thy fates decreed,
At least that shadow shall be shadow of man,
And not of beast gold-weighted! On, thou Night
Cast by my heart! Thou too shalt meet thy morn!
LEGENDS
_KING ETHELBERT OF KENT AND SAINT AUGUSTINE._
Ethelbert, King of Kent, converses first with his Pagan Thanes, and
next with Saint Augustine, newly landed on the shores of Thanet
Island. The Saint, coming in sight of Canterbury, rejoices greatly,
and predicts the future greatness of that city.
Far through the forest depths of Thanet Isle,
That never yet had heard the woodman's axe,
Rang the glad clarion on the May-day morn,
Blent with the cry of hounds. The rising sun
Flamed on the forests' dewy jewelry,
While, under rising mists, a host with plumes
Rode down a broad oak alley t'wards the sea.
King Ethelbert rode first: he reigned in Kent,
Least kingdom of the Seven yet Head of all
Through his desert. That morn the royal train,
While sang the invisible lark her song in heaven,
Pursued the flying stag. At times the creature,
As though he too had pleasure in the sport,
Vaulted at ease through sunshine and through shade,
Then changed his mood, and left the best behind him.
Five hours they chased him; last, upon a rock
High up in scorn he held his antlered front,
Then took the wave and vanished.
Many a frown
Darkened that hour on many a heated brow;
And many a spur afflicted that poor flank
Which panted hard and smoked. The King alone
Laughed at mischance. 'The stag, with God to aid,
Has left our labour fruitless! Give him joy!
He lives to yield us sport some later morn:
So be it! Waits our feast, and not far off:
On to the left, 'twixt yonder ash and birch!'