Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE MONKS OF ELY. |
 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
216
THE MONKS OF ELY.
[_]
[It is recorded in an old chronicle, that as a certain Saxon king was returning from a victory, and rowing past the towers of Ely, he bade his oarsmen rest for a moment, that he might hear the holy chants of the monks.]
Past the stately towers of Ely
Row King Canute and his Thanes,
Where the saints and where the martyrs
Moulder in the sun and rains;
Twice a hundred burning summers
Have shone full upon those panes.
“Row ye slowly past the abbey,
Softer, softer, O ye Thanes.”
Row King Canute and his Thanes,
Where the saints and where the martyrs
Moulder in the sun and rains;
Twice a hundred burning summers
Have shone full upon those panes.
“Row ye slowly past the abbey,
Softer, softer, O ye Thanes.”
Hark! the holy brothers' hymn,
From the cloister dark and dim—
Like the death-prayer of a saint,
Comes the murmur low and faint,
Walking not the swallow's young,
In the belfry turret hung;
Where like flinty mountain peak,
Yonder towers blue heaven seek,
And as swift as jet of fire,
Leaps towards the clouds the spire.
From the cloister dark and dim—
Like the death-prayer of a saint,
Comes the murmur low and faint,
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In the belfry turret hung;
Where like flinty mountain peak,
Yonder towers blue heaven seek,
And as swift as jet of fire,
Leaps towards the clouds the spire.
“All the dyes of Paradise
Bloom unfading in each pane;
Perfumes of eternal April
On the marble pavements rain,
Like a temple from the ocean,
From those seas of golden grain,
Rise the turrets; steer then softly
Past the twilight porch again.”
Bloom unfading in each pane;
Perfumes of eternal April
On the marble pavements rain,
Like a temple from the ocean,
From those seas of golden grain,
Rise the turrets; steer then softly
Past the twilight porch again.”
Stately as the mountain's height,
Rise the towers in sun and light,
Though they laugh to scorn the thunder,
That doth howl and mutter under,
Yet they shelter safe and warm,
From the wind and from the storm,
Where the massy bells are swung,
The wild dove and her white young,
In the battlement so high,
When the hurricane is nigh.
Rise the towers in sun and light,
Though they laugh to scorn the thunder,
That doth howl and mutter under,
Yet they shelter safe and warm,
From the wind and from the storm,
Where the massy bells are swung,
The wild dove and her white young,
In the battlement so high,
When the hurricane is nigh.
218
“All day long from yonder turret,
Murmur birds their ceaseless psalm;
All night long the convent garden,
Fragrant with the breath of balm,
Echoes with the bird rejoicing,
Like a martyr with his palm.
Row then softly, may the angels
Shield us all from sin and harm.”
Murmur birds their ceaseless psalm;
All night long the convent garden,
Fragrant with the breath of balm,
Echoes with the bird rejoicing,
Like a martyr with his palm.
Row then softly, may the angels
Shield us all from sin and harm.”
Like a silver frothing fountain,
The carved pinnacles are mounting,
All is dark and dusk within,
O'ershaded, as man's life, with sin,
Chequered with the dreadful gloom
Of the very day of doom,
Barr'd with all the light and shade
That on life itself is laid,
Light comes only through the pane,
Blazon'd with Christ's crimson stain.
The carved pinnacles are mounting,
All is dark and dusk within,
O'ershaded, as man's life, with sin,
Chequered with the dreadful gloom
Of the very day of doom,
Barr'd with all the light and shade
That on life itself is laid,
Light comes only through the pane,
Blazon'd with Christ's crimson stain.
“Past the solemn towers of Ely,
Slowly floats the royal galley;
Past the corn slopes and the meadows,
Past the holt, and moor, and valley,
Where the weary reapers resting,
With their laughing children dally;
Row then softer, O my vassals,
Past the orchard, through the valley.”
Slowly floats the royal galley;
Past the corn slopes and the meadows,
Past the holt, and moor, and valley,
Where the weary reapers resting,
With their laughing children dally;
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Past the orchard, through the valley.”
Round those niches long ago,
Did the stone-flowers bud and blow,
Now in frost and snow and rain,
Mouldering to earth again,
So man's hopes do all decay,
As the rose melts into clay.
Yet God's praises do not cease,
Nor the flowers of earth decrease;
Earth is just as full of sun,
As ere death had yet begun.
Did the stone-flowers bud and blow,
Now in frost and snow and rain,
Mouldering to earth again,
So man's hopes do all decay,
As the rose melts into clay.
Yet God's praises do not cease,
Nor the flowers of earth decrease;
Earth is just as full of sun,
As ere death had yet begun.
“Though we've passed the towers of Ely,
Still I hear the chant within,
Faint as whisper in the bosom,
Warning one of shame and sin,
Like the lark's voice o'er a city,
Spite of all the war and din.
Softly row our gilded galley,
Till the monks have hush'd within.”
Still I hear the chant within,
Faint as whisper in the bosom,
Warning one of shame and sin,
Like the lark's voice o'er a city,
Spite of all the war and din.
Softly row our gilded galley,
Till the monks have hush'd within.”
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |