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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 choirs to fill.
   How Jesus must love Bardsey,
      And prize her sacred soil;
   Here Saints in countless numbers
      Have rested from earth's toil:
   Have laid aside the burden
      Of poor mortality,
   And entered on the Sabbath
      Of glad eternity.
   While thus I dream, the Organ
      Is pealing forth its wave,
   The Holy Monks are marching
      All slowly down the Nave.
   "Dear Angel! may I follow
      Them, down the Cloister still,
   And join their recreation,
      On yonder mossy hill?"
   The Angel smiled permission;
      I willed myself along,
   Until unseen, I joined me
      To th' happy, Virgin throng.
   Here, there were boys most lovely;
      And there, old hoary men;
   And youths, and those of mid-age;
      Here joyous boys again.
   I followed one young novice,
      Who held an old man's hand;
   I listened,--they were speaking,
      Of some dear, distant Land.
   The boy I saw was pointing
      Away, right out to sea,
   Where moonlight made a pathway,
      Of silver radiancy.
   The silver way seemed joining
      Together sea and sky,
   The stars seemed trembling o'er it,
      Like lightlets from on high.
   "Dear Father Cadfan, look now,"
      --Said the bright and lovely boy,--
   "I'm sure that silver roadway
      Leads to our Home of Joy."
   "No, no, my Son, t'is only
      An emblem of the way,
   Across time's changing storm-tide,
      To regions of the day."
   And then the old man turning,
      Towards Cambria's rock bound shore,
   Pointed the boy to Barmouth, {11}
      But then called Abermawr.
   "My son," said he, "'tis yonder,
      Long years ago I tried
   To bring poor souls to Jesus,
      Who once for sinners died.
   But there the Druids held them
      In error's iron chain, {12a}
   They would not hear of Jesus,
      And drove me thence again.
   Yet though at Abermawr I failed
      'Mid Towyn's marshes drear, {12b}
   The people bowed before the Cross,
      And sought the Saviour dear.
   My son, one day thou must away,
      If Father Abbot wills,
   And build a Shrine to Christ Divine,
      'Mid Barmouth's rocky hills.
   The idols which they worship
      Thou boldly must destroy,
   Promise old Father Cadfan this,
      My brave, my darling boy!"
   The boy's bright eyes were flashing,
      He grasped the old man's hand,--
   "Father, I will preach Jesus
      Upon that darkened strand.
   Only, my father, pray for me,
      When thou hast past the sea,
   And reignest with our Jesus,
      In the 'kingdom of the free.'"
   St. Cadfan smiled, and blessed the lad,
      His heart's desire seemed gained,
   From idol worship for the Lord
      Should Abermawr be claimed.
   The Compline Bell tolled solemnly
      From out St. Mary's Tower,
   Calling the Monks to worship
      At day's last hallowed hour.
   Dubritius, {14} the novice boy,
      Stood meekly in his stall,
   The fathers and the novices
      Chanted the Office all.
   But Father Cadfan was not there,
      Calmly his body lay;
   Upon the mound by Bardsey Sound,
      His spirit passed away.
   His work was done, his prize was won,
      The holy Monk was gone,
   To join the virgin song notes,
      Before th' Eternal Throne.

                                * * * * *

   The boy, so beautiful and pure,
      Grew up to manhood's bloom,
   And ofttimes visited for prayer
      The Blessed Cadfan's Tomb.
   One night the sun was sinking
      Behind the Western wave,
   Dubritius was kneeling
      Beside St. Cadfan's grave.
   The Compline chants were over,
      The twilight almost gone,
   The youth was startled by a voice
      Which cried--"My son! my son!"
   A gentle light shone round the grave,
      He raised his eyes, and lo!
   St. Cadfan stood beside him,
      Amid the weird-like glow;
   "My son, make haste, thy solemn vows
      Thou speedily must make,
   Then to the men of Abermawr
      The Cross of Jesus take.
   The Banner and the Gospel,
      With holy Chant and Psalm,
   Straight to the Druid's Temple go,
      Nor fear, nor feel alarm.
   For Jesus must be Cambria's God,
      The night must hie away,
   Thyself must be the harbinger
      Of Everlasting Day."
   The youth sprung forward to embrace
      The friend he loved so well,
   But he was gone; no sound was heard,
      Save the lone ocean's swell.

                                * * * * *

   How beautiful! how beautiful!
      Is now the Convent Choir;
   All deck'd for some high festival
      In exquisite attire.
   Most precious gems are gleaming
      Upon the frontal fair,
   The Mass Priests too are vested
      In garments passing rare.
   The sacred tapers glisten
      The Altar all along;
   The holy Monks are chanting
      Some sweet--some wedding song!
   And tall white lilies, scenting
      The Incense laden air,
   Are bending down their petals,
      T'wards a novice bow'd in prayer.
   Yes! there before the Altar,
      I see Dubritius bow,
   Pure as the virgin lilies,
      Encircling his fair brow.
   His vows are said--the Cowl is given,
      His live-long promise made;
   All earthly loves are buried now,
      Within the Cloister's shade.

                                * * * * *

   "Unfurl the sail! unloose the chain!
      That links us to the shore--
   To our own precious Island home
      Which we may see no more!"
   Thus spake Dubritius; and the tide
      Fast wafted him away,
   Out t'wards the rocky Cambrian coast
      Of Cardigan's fair bay.
   The sea was calmly resting,
      Lit by the summer's sun;
   In three short hours the Convent boat
      Her little voyage had run.
   Dubritius and his monkish band
      At once pursued their way,
   Reaching the town of Abermawr
      Just at the close of day.
   The evening's hush was resting
      So peacefully around,
   Alone was heard the shrill sea bird,
      And the waves' soft murmuring sound.
   When all at once through th' restful air,
      Dread shrieks of anguish rung
   From the idol temple near the town,
      While Druid choirs sung
   Fierce hymns to their false savage gods,
      Around the kindling flame,
   Prepared for sacrificial rites,
      Too terrible to name.
   A fair young mother brings her babe,
      A warrior brings his boy,
   The Druids bind their victims
      With fierce, fanatic joy!
   The weeping mother hears the wail
      Well from her darling's breast;
   The father sees the Druids bind
      His boy with savage zest.
   The lad was fair to look upon,
      Ah! must he really die,
   Oh! shall such sacrifice pollute
      That calm blue evening sky?
   The boy, though brave, is trembling now,
      He nears the dreadful fire,
   He feels its scorch, yet gives his life,
      To still the idol's ire.
   The father's cheek grows blanched and pale,
      The poor young mother stands,
   Yearning to snatch her precious one
      From the stern Druid's hands.
   High leaps the flame, loud swells the song,
      From the Druids' choirs around;
   But suddenly the evening wind
      Fills with another sound!
  