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A Mirror of Faith

Lays and Legends of the Church in England. By the Rev. J. M. Neale

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. The Death of Bishop Kidder.
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
  


146

XXXVII. The Death of Bishop Kidder.

(The Night of November 26-27, 1703.)

The Cathedral chime tolls curfew time,
But you scarce can hear the bells;
For the storm is loud, and the thunder-cloud
Is over the Towers of Wells.

147

In heaven above, and in earth below,
There is sound of conflict sore:
That was a night, amidst nights of woe
To be chronicled evermore.
Many lay down to their last long sleep,
That never thought of ill:
Many a skiff was in the deep
That in the deep is still;
Navies that past with pennon'd mast
From conquest of the foe,
Fought their last fight with the sea that night,
And now its secrets know.
On moor, and coast, and mountain-path,
Woods, waters, and tempests roar'd;
And from Land's End, as far as wild Cape Wrath,
The Vengeance of God is pour'd:
But the storm that swells round the Palace of Wells
With heavier wrath is stored.
A Bishop is there, in S. Andrew's Chair,
That there hath little right;
And sounds of fear are around his ear,
And his conscience awoke that night.

148

Never the roar of the tempest ceas'd:
Heavier wax'd the shower:
The wind it grappled like some ill beast
On the roof of the Virgin's Tower;
And he thought of the wrong he had done his soul
By flattering usurped power.
He knew the offence that had driven from thence
A Bishop without a friend;
And he called, in his fear, his servants near
To ask if the night would mend;
And as he spake, great oak trees brake,
As a flame of fire snaps tow;
And as answer they made, the lightning play'd
With brighter and fiercer glow.
Then the Bishop knelt, for his sins he felt,
And his heart was sore afraid:
And he laid his head on his lordly bed,
And a hurried prayer he pray'd,
And he knew not, as he laid him down,
That his latest prayer was said.

149

All at the hour of Matins, shone
A horrible lightning flash;
Men said that they heard a single moan
At the end of a fearful crash:
And in that hour, and on that spot,
The Bishop passed away:
And whether his soul is at peace, or not,
Will be known in the Judgment-day:
But He on the Cross That redeem'd our loss
To the uttermost rescue may!
“Judge not,” saith the Lord, “that ye be not judg'd,”
And we would not herein offend;
But we know what the guilt of the Bishop was,
And we cannot forget his end.
 

The Cathedral Church of Wells is dedicated in honour of this Saint; from S. Andrew's Wells the Town derives its name.

The Virgin's Tower is a small turret in the Palace.