

credit



Transcribed from the 1870 G. J. Palmer edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                      IN OMNIBUS GLORIFICETUR DEUS.

                                  --_Regula_, _S. Benedicti_, _Cap. lvij_.

                  [Picture: Decorative graphic of cross]





                              THE HOLY ISLE;
                        A Legend of Bardsey Abbey.


                           By IGNATIUS, O.S.B.

  _Dedicated_, _without permission_, _to Lord Newborough_, _and to the_
       _Rev. Hugh Roberts_, _Vicar of Aberdaron_, _Carnarvonshire_.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                  G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
                          LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS.

                                  1870.

                  [Picture: Decorative graphic of cross]




THE HOLY ISLE.
A Legend of Bardsey Abbey.


   I WATCHED the sea waves ebbing,
      Beneath the crimson glow,
   Which sunset light was pouring,
      Upon their soft, sweet flow.
   The wavelets looked liked dancers,
      Upon the sun-lit sea,
   They sung in whispering chorus,--
      I thought they sung to me
   Of fair and far off landscapes
      Beyond that molten tide,
   Of better joys, and gladness
      Beyond those waters wide.
   The wavelets all seemed passing
      On, to some other strands,
   And following the sun's-glow,
      To ever sun-lit lands.
   But as I thought these fancies,
      Again I raised mine eyes
   And saw the sunset tinting
      The glorious western skies.
   Now'mid the farewell glories
      "Of Sol's departing ray,"
   I saw an Island resting
      Upon his golden way.
   There, misty mid the Sunshine,
      The far off Isle appears,
   Right out among the sea waves
      Its rocky coast uprears.
   And as I gaze, the sunset
      Seems lighting up its shore,
   Bathing the isle in glory
      And then is seen no more.
   Sweet, soothing calm fell o'er me
      I watched the Islet still,
   All round me heard I voices
      Which seemed the air to fill.
   Said one, "That Isle is holy,
      For Saints are sleeping there,
   Now lonely and deserted,
      T'was once an Isle of prayer."
   "O Man! say would'st thou tremble,
      To come away and see,
   In vision, strange, sweet pictures
      Which I can shew to thee?"
   The Angel was so lovely,
      So sweet the Angel's smile,
   I easily consented,--
      He pointed to the Isle!
   "Then will I bear thee thither,
      One thousand years ago;--
   I speak to aid thy weakness,
      No _time_ can Angels know.
   The present, past, and future,
      All one they are to me,
   I pass along their boundaries,
      Unlimited, and free."
   A strange, calm change stole o'er me,
      My spirit seemed to rise
   In gentle, tireless motion,
      Just as the sea-bird flies.
   My Angel-guide was leading
      My spirit o'er the sea
   One moment--and we rested,
      Upon the Islet's lea.
   Soft gloaming filled the air,
      Deep peace lay all around,
   Hushed voices seemed to whisper,
      A wavelike, murmuring sound.
   "Sweet Angel, say, where am I,--
      Say me the Island's name,
   And tell me why such glory,
      Enwraps it as a flame?
   Say, too, what is that chanting,
      So sweet, so very near,
   The strangeness of this beauty
      It fills my soul with fear?"
   "This Holy Place is Bardsey,
      Jesus, He loves it well,
   'Tis wrapped in God's own brightness,
      Safe from the power of Hell.
   Those voices are the Virgins,
      In yonder Abbey Choir,
   Praises to Jesus singing,
      Of which they never tire.
   Hush! mid the shades of evening,
      How restfully they sing,
   Their Vesper praise-wreaths bringing
      To Jesus Christ their King.
   'Mid lights of sunset glowing,
      St. Mary's Abbey stands;
   But see! t'is wrapped in glories,
      From far off better Lands."
   I looked again, and started,
      For lo! another scene.
   The Convent is surrounded
      With Heaven's own brightest sheen.
   And choirs of Angels hover
      High in the sunset air,
   While th' holy monks are chanting
      Their peaceful, evening prayer.
   The Monastery is glowing,
      Like heaps of molten gold;
   The walls seem all transparent,
      With majesty untold.
   T'is strange; my spirit enters
      St Mary's Sacred Shrine,
   I see the cowled figures,
      In many a white rob'd line, {6}
   Filling the stalls, but facing
      The hallow'd Altar Throne,
   Where Jesus makes His dwelling,
      Untended and alone.
   O peaceful, happy Bardsey,
      Sweet Islet of the Sea!
   I would for ever rest me,
      All joyfully in thee!
   O dear St. Marys Abbey,
      On Bardsey's northern shore;
   Would I could bide within thee,
      And part from thee no more!
   O happy Monks and Virgins,
      Singing by night and day,
   Your hymnals to Sweet Jesus,
      In dearest, fondest lay!
   How can I speak your glory,
      How can I tell your worth?
   Ye are the Church's safeguard;
      Ye are the "Salt of earth."
   Ye live the life of Angels;
      Ye never cease from praise,
   To Heaven your intercedings
      For sinners ceaseless raise.
   Ah! well may throngs of sinners
      Seek this most Sacred Isle,
   Well may ten thousand pilgrims
      Visit St. Mary's pile.
   Well may'st thou, Aberdaron, {8}
      Loving to Bardsey be,
   And daily turn thy glances
      To the Islet out at sea.
   For Bardsey is the lighthouse
      Of many a shipwrecked soul;
   To many a way-worn wanderer
      Is Bardsey's Isle the goal.
   The glow of Bardsey's brightness,
      Illumes wild Cambria's shores,
   Across the Irish Channel,
      Her Heavenly light she pours.
   And blessed saints in thousands
      Have dwelt on Bardsey's hill,
   Sending her countless Virgins
      Celestial cho