Hymns and Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come, all of you, and sit around,
And listen while I tell
A tale from ancient chronicles
About St. Kenelm's well:
But first, good Christians, one and all,
Upon the Saint in glory call.

Chorus

O sweet St. Kenelm,
O sweet St. Kenelm,
Pray for us! Pray for us,
O sweet St. Kenelm.

St. Kenelm's well, St. Kenelm's well,
How calm and clear it flows!
As when a thousand years ago
By miracle it rose:
So flows the stream of Faith sublime,
For ever clear in every time.

This land was ancient Mercia,
Which far and wide you see;
And Kenelm he became its king
When seven years old was he:
A fairer little prince, I ween,
A holier child, was never seen.

But oh! what will not envy do?
This good and gracious boy
A cruel sister had, who sigh'd
His kingdom to enjoy;
And so, to gain her wicked will,
She plotted this sweet lamb to kill.

St. Kenelm rose at early dawn,
And prayed his little prayer;

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But from his tender infant cheek
Had fled the roses fair;
Then signing with the Cross his breast,
He thus his aged nurse address'd:

‘O Ella, dear, this morn I dreamt
I stood upon a tree,
All in a flush of blossoms bright,
When down it fell with me;
And like a bird I soar'd away:—
Now read to me the dream, I pray.’

‘Ah, sweetest child, the dream I read,’—
Thus made the nurse reply;
‘Cut off in virtue's early bloom,
I fear me thou must die;
But like a bird thy soul shall mount,
To sip and sing at glory's fount.’

St. Kenelm clapp'd his little hands,
‘God speed the time,’ quoth he;
‘I've often pray'd that I might go
With holy Mary to be.
One sight of Christ in glory clear
Is better than a kingdom here.’

That eve they led him sporting forth
Across the woodland wild,
And there, beneath a hawthorn tree,
They slew the royal child;
And buried him, with witness none,
Except the eye of God alone.

O long and long was search around
For Mercia's monarch made;
But the cowslips they had mantled thick
Above where he was laid;
And nought remain'd to lend a trace
Of little Kenelm's resting-place.

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But not in vain the blood of Saints
Upon the earth is sown;
And though their grave be hid from men,
It is to Angels known;
For holy Angels love the just,
And keep a watch above their dust.

Far off, a thousand miles away,
Across the land and main,
The Pope was chanting solemn mass
In Peter's holy fane;
When Heav'n to him the spot reveal'd,
So long from British eye conceal'd.

Lo! down beside the altar floats
A dove on azure wings,
Who in her beak a golden scroll
Of mystic import brings:
‘Of his fair head St. Kenelm shorn
Is sleeping low beneath a thorn.’

To England straight the tidings fly,
The hawthorn soon is found;
And crowds on crowds, to see their king,
Flock in from all around;
As incorrupt in death he lay,
Like one who scarce was dead a day.

See now the Peers and Bishops wend
In long funereal line,
With incense, cross, and silken pall,
To Winchcomb's royal shrine,
And there in consecrated shade
The son is with his father laid.

But on his sister justice came,
Pursuing close behind;

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And all amidst her queenly state
She pined, and pined, and pined;
Till in their sockets, day by day,
Her eyes had wasted both away.

Meanwhile, to show to all below
His glory in the skies,
Up from the spot where he had lain
Did this fair spring arise;—
Memorial of the sacred sod
Where rested once a Saint of God.

Here miracles of might are wrought
On deaf, and lame, and blind;
Here all who only come in faith
A benediction find.—
St. Kenelm! for the pilgrims pray,
Who in thy praise are met to-day.