THOU, the godfather of a lofty race,
In daily prayer kneeling within thy cell,
Lived in humility beside a well -
Which since relieves afflictions of the face.
And ever, when the suff'rer wends to dip
Into its crystal depths, his sight revives,
He blesses thee, who art his Hope - his "Ship
Of Promise " - he but trusts in thee and thrives.
Thou, who did write in the far years long past
THE RITUAL OF DIVINE DUTY (for all
Of future ages, who in doubt should fall)
A golden deed, the meed whereof shall last.
It guides the Christian in his darkest hour
It comforts him when dolour o'er him hangs,
In time of tribulation 'tis a tower,
Shelters him from the Serpent and his fangs.
Thou, who when tried thyself withstood all ill,
And dared the Tempter - though in woman's guise
He plied thee with the cunningest device
Tried to pollute thy fountain at the rill -
Albeit triumphant, still thy life thou lost.
Relentless foes slew thee when stricken down,
Despatching thee to join the Heavenly Host,
Winning for thee for aye the Martyr's Crown.
Thine ashes peaceful were not let to rest
Scattered by pagan Norsemen o'er La France,
In many burials came to earth, perchance
O'er all a hallowed fame each spot doth test.
Guard thou thy Name, o'er it keep watch and ward!
Protect thy gens, shield them from every taint!
This is the prayer of those who serve thy Lord
Evangelist and Hermit! Martyr ! Saint!
Land of the whirlpool torrent - foam,
Where oceans meet in maddening shock;
The beetling cliff - the shelving holm,
The dark, insidious rock:
Land of the bleak, the treeless moor
The sterile mountain, sered and riven:
The shapeless cairn, the ruined tower,
Scathed by the bolts of heaven:
The yawning gulf - the treacherous sand.
I love thee still, lily native land.
Land of the dark - the Runic rhyme.
The mystic ring - the cavern hoar;
The Scandinavian seer - sublime
In legendary lore:
Land of a thousand Sea-kings' graves.
Those tameless spirits of the past,
Fierce as their subject Arctic waves,
Or hyperborean blast:
Though polar billows round thee foam,
I love thee! Thou wert once my home.
With glowing heart, and island lyre,
Ah! would some native bard arise
To sing with all a poet's fire
Thy stern sublimities;
The roaring flood - the rushing stream,
The promontory wild and bare,
The pyramids where sea-birds scream
Aloft in middle air;
The Druid temple on the heath,
Old, even beyond traditions breath.
Though I have roamed through verdant glades,
In cloudless climes, 'neath azure skies:
Or plucked from beauteous orient meads
Flowers of celestial dyes.
Though I have laved in limpid streams,
That murmur over golden sands;
Or basked amid the fulgid beams
That flame o'er fairer lands;
Or stretched me in the sparry grot,
My country! Thou wert ne'er forgot.