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CATHEDRAL VERSE
25
THE FRONT OF PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL
He reared the minster portal long ago,
The “Golden Borough's” chiefest architect,
Scooped in its rocky face three caverns deep,
Piled 'gainst their sides aspiring carven reeds,
Banded as those that stand in neighbour fens,
Raised o'er this work of his a soaring mass
Of pediment, and pinnacle, and tower,
And spire—then passed into the darkness whence
He sprang, and no man knoweth of his name.
The “Golden Borough's” chiefest architect,
Scooped in its rocky face three caverns deep,
Piled 'gainst their sides aspiring carven reeds,
Banded as those that stand in neighbour fens,
Raised o'er this work of his a soaring mass
Of pediment, and pinnacle, and tower,
And spire—then passed into the darkness whence
He sprang, and no man knoweth of his name.
Within the minster aisles lie abbots old,
Frowning in marble as they frowned in flesh,
And all who will may know them as they were;
But he that wrought the centuries' delight,
The glorious minster's crowning grace, lives not
In stiffly sculptured effigy like these,
Nor on cathedral fabric-rolls are writ
The letters of his name. What matters it?
He breathed one song, this singer of the past,
And all the air yet trembles to his tones;
He wrote his verse across the minster front
Where all the world might see, and not one line
The world has lost through centuries' sun and storm.
What matters that he left his verse unsigned?
What boots it how he looked to those who saw?
Frowning in marble as they frowned in flesh,
And all who will may know them as they were;
But he that wrought the centuries' delight,
The glorious minster's crowning grace, lives not
In stiffly sculptured effigy like these,
Nor on cathedral fabric-rolls are writ
The letters of his name. What matters it?
26
And all the air yet trembles to his tones;
He wrote his verse across the minster front
Where all the world might see, and not one line
The world has lost through centuries' sun and storm.
What matters that he left his verse unsigned?
What boots it how he looked to those who saw?
Ah! Peterborough's poet questionless
Knew well how scant the worth of name beside
Achievement's crowning skill. The little deed
May fitly claim the signature's reward
Scrawled underneath, but not the master's work
Needs blurring with the master's name, and thus
The triple gate of Peterborough gleams
Through all the ages from its maker's times
To these, as fair as only that is fair
Which has no need that men should ask “Who wrought?”
Knew well how scant the worth of name beside
Achievement's crowning skill. The little deed
May fitly claim the signature's reward
Scrawled underneath, but not the master's work
Needs blurring with the master's name, and thus
The triple gate of Peterborough gleams
Through all the ages from its maker's times
To these, as fair as only that is fair
Which has no need that men should ask “Who wrought?”
27
AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM
Builder and prelate, dust five hundred years,Who lent the Norman's handiwork such grace
The Norman never knew, that Walkelin's nave
Men call the nave of Wykeham, what dost thou
In some far world beyond our ken? Palm pressed
To palm five centuries have seen thee here
Enchantried, and from scholar lips thy praise
At Winton and at Oxford echoes still.
Dost somewhere rest, as this thy marble rests,
Or art thou, builder-bishop, evermore
Striving in other fields, in nobler toils,
Serenely glad the while as one that sees
From some high place, untouched by time, past good
Grow ever vaster as the centuries fall?
28
AT LINCOLN
When I went up the minster tower,
The minster clock rang out the hour;
The restless organ far below
Sent tides of music to and fro,
That rolled through nave and angel choir,
Whose builder knew what lines inspire,
And filled the lantern space profound
With climbing waves of glorious sound,
As I went up the minster tower
What time the chimes gave forth the hour.
The minster clock rang out the hour;
The restless organ far below
Sent tides of music to and fro,
That rolled through nave and angel choir,
Whose builder knew what lines inspire,
And filled the lantern space profound
With climbing waves of glorious sound,
As I went up the minster tower
What time the chimes gave forth the hour.
When I stood on the minster tower
The lark above me sent a shower
Of happy notes, that filtered through
The clouds that flecked the sky's soft blue,
And mingled with the nearer tones
Of jackdaw calls and stockdove moans,
While every breeze that round me swirled
Brought some sweet murmur from the world,
As I stood on the minster tower
What time the lark forsook her bower.
The lark above me sent a shower
Of happy notes, that filtered through
The clouds that flecked the sky's soft blue,
And mingled with the nearer tones
Of jackdaw calls and stockdove moans,
While every breeze that round me swirled
Brought some sweet murmur from the world,
As I stood on the minster tower
What time the lark forsook her bower.
29
When I came down the minster tower,
Again the chimes proclaimed the hour,
Again the mighty organ rolled
Its thunders through the arches old,
While blended with its note so strong
Soft rose and fell the evensong:
And all the earth, it seemed to me,
Was still by music held in fee,
As I came down the minster tower
What time the clock chimed slow the hour.
Again the chimes proclaimed the hour,
Again the mighty organ rolled
Its thunders through the arches old,
While blended with its note so strong
Soft rose and fell the evensong:
And all the earth, it seemed to me,
Was still by music held in fee,
As I came down the minster tower
What time the clock chimed slow the hour.
30
EVENSONG AT NORWICH CATHEDRAL
Quickly 'midst these arches gray
Dies the short November day;
Through the nave the shadows march,
Muffling column, pier and arch,
Filling huge triforium
With their forces fast they come;
Sweeping through the long clerestory,
Blotting from the sight the hoary
Ribbed and sculptured roof at last
Whence the day more slowly past;
While the great choir windows' glimmer
Grows each moment fainter, dimmer,—
Now the gloom hides everything!
Dies the short November day;
Through the nave the shadows march,
Muffling column, pier and arch,
Filling huge triforium
With their forces fast they come;
Sweeping through the long clerestory,
Blotting from the sight the hoary
Ribbed and sculptured roof at last
Whence the day more slowly past;
While the great choir windows' glimmer
Grows each moment fainter, dimmer,—
Now the gloom hides everything!
Sudden, then, the tower bells ring,
And along that mighty nave,
Dark before as deepest cave,
Lines of light start forth and burn,
Sharp revealing every turn,
Curve, or line, though far aloof
In the groins of yonder roof,
Carved by chisel mediæval,
Smile of saint or leer of devil.
Under these clear lines of fire
Move the purple-cassocked choir,
As through aisles and arcades long
Rolls the tide of evensong,
And the organ's undertone
Trembles through the walls of stone,
While the anthem note is telling,
“Oh, how amiable Thy dwelling.”
And along that mighty nave,
Dark before as deepest cave,
Lines of light start forth and burn,
Sharp revealing every turn,
Curve, or line, though far aloof
In the groins of yonder roof,
Carved by chisel mediæval,
Smile of saint or leer of devil.
31
Move the purple-cassocked choir,
As through aisles and arcades long
Rolls the tide of evensong,
And the organ's undertone
Trembles through the walls of stone,
While the anthem note is telling,
“Oh, how amiable Thy dwelling.”
Swells and falls the song of praise
In the mellow music maze,
Echoes from each far arcade
Like the songs by seraphs made,
Wanders on from wall to wall,
Fainter seems, then ceases all,
Till the chanter from his seat
Murmurs benedictions sweet.
Then the organ peals once more
While across the footworn floor
Choir and hooded canons go,
Two by two and moving slow,
Till the last white robe is made
Invisible in columned shade,
And a moment after then,
Floats a solemn, sweet “Amen!”
In the mellow music maze,
Echoes from each far arcade
Like the songs by seraphs made,
Wanders on from wall to wall,
Fainter seems, then ceases all,
Till the chanter from his seat
Murmurs benedictions sweet.
Then the organ peals once more
While across the footworn floor
Choir and hooded canons go,
Two by two and moving slow,
Till the last white robe is made
Invisible in columned shade,
And a moment after then,
Floats a solemn, sweet “Amen!”
32
Soon the lines of fire die out,
Darkness folds its arms about
All within these mighty walls.
When the last faint echo falls
Night and silence join their files
In the long cathedral aisles.
Darkness folds its arms about
All within these mighty walls.
When the last faint echo falls
Night and silence join their files
In the long cathedral aisles.
IN THE GALILEE AT DURHAM
CONFESSION
We have erred and strayed from Thy ways:We have followed too much our desires,
While we hid from Thy heart-searching gaze.
We have erred and strayed from Thy ways,
And have wandered in sin many days,
Where no breath from Thy presence inspires.
We have erred and strayed from Thy ways:
We have followed too much our desires.
33
IN WALTHAM ABBEY
Here is the temple he builded, he, Harold, the bravest of Saxons.
Somewhere near it he lies, where once rose the canons' high altar.
Altar and rood and choir walls indeed have long crumbled to ruin;
Only the nave abides yet, with its double arcade of huge columns,
Carven eight centuries since with deep groovings of spiral and chevron.
Here when the traitorous Tostig, his brother, had failen at Stamford,
Hard by Northumbrian Derwent, with Harold Hardrada, the Norseman,
Came, with a few in his train, the victor, King Harold, the Saxon.
Afar in the north the foes of his England were broken and flying;
Anear in the south the foes of his England were gathered together.
There in the north had he shivered the might of fierce Harold Hardrada;
Now in the south must he scatter the armies of William the Norman,
He that would make England free, he, Harold, the great son of Godwin.
So, as he entered the fane that in happier time he had builded,
Slowly he trod the long nave till he came before the high altar,
There bowed him down to the pavement, and tarried prostrate and silent.
Somewhere near it he lies, where once rose the canons' high altar.
Altar and rood and choir walls indeed have long crumbled to ruin;
Only the nave abides yet, with its double arcade of huge columns,
Carven eight centuries since with deep groovings of spiral and chevron.
Here when the traitorous Tostig, his brother, had failen at Stamford,
Hard by Northumbrian Derwent, with Harold Hardrada, the Norseman,
Came, with a few in his train, the victor, King Harold, the Saxon.
Afar in the north the foes of his England were broken and flying;
Anear in the south the foes of his England were gathered together.
34
Now in the south must he scatter the armies of William the Norman,
He that would make England free, he, Harold, the great son of Godwin.
So, as he entered the fane that in happier time he had builded,
Slowly he trod the long nave till he came before the high altar,
There bowed him down to the pavement, and tarried prostrate and silent.
Shadows of morning had shortened to midday and once more had lengthened
Ere he rose up from the stones, that, it may be, had heard his petitions,
God and they only, for no human ear heard aught in that silence.
Who may tell what were the thoughts of the king in those hours of abasement?
Better than he knew no one the power of the Norman invader,
Better than he who should know the strength or the weakness of England?
Was it foretold, as he lay there in humble, silent entreaty,
What was to hap on the morrow, who was to win in the conflict?
Was it revealed that the day at Senlac should be William's, not Harold's,
Or was it left in the veil of the future, dark wrapt from foreknowledge?
This only is told us: That when the long vigil was ended and Harold,
Rising, had passed down the nave to the door at the westward, and turning,
Faced yet again the high altar, the great rood before it moved slowly,
Leaned itself forward, then bowed as in pity, to Harold.
Ere he rose up from the stones, that, it may be, had heard his petitions,
God and they only, for no human ear heard aught in that silence.
Who may tell what were the thoughts of the king in those hours of abasement?
35
Better than he who should know the strength or the weakness of England?
Was it foretold, as he lay there in humble, silent entreaty,
What was to hap on the morrow, who was to win in the conflict?
Was it revealed that the day at Senlac should be William's, not Harold's,
Or was it left in the veil of the future, dark wrapt from foreknowledge?
This only is told us: That when the long vigil was ended and Harold,
Rising, had passed down the nave to the door at the westward, and turning,
Faced yet again the high altar, the great rood before it moved slowly,
Leaned itself forward, then bowed as in pity, to Harold.
36
So runs the legend of Waltham concerning that day ere the battle.
Forth from the abbey he went on that evening in early October,
Mustered his legions together at London and marched to the southward,
On to the hill of Senlac, where he pitched his camp on the morrow,
On to the gloom of defeat and of death at the hands of the Norman,
On to the glory of death for the earldom of Wessex and England!
Forth from the abbey he went on that evening in early October,
Mustered his legions together at London and marched to the southward,
On to the hill of Senlac, where he pitched his camp on the morrow,
On to the gloom of defeat and of death at the hands of the Norman,
On to the glory of death for the earldom of Wessex and England!
This is the shrine of his building: Here his footsteps awakened the echoes
(Echoes reverberate still through eight centuries lost in the darkness)
On that far distant day when he moved 'mid these arches in anguish of spirit.
(Echoes reverberate still through eight centuries lost in the darkness)
On that far distant day when he moved 'mid these arches in anguish of spirit.
37
IN THE CRYPT AT WINCHESTER
DE PROFUNDIS
Out of the deep I cry to Thee
Who notest e'en the sparrow's fall:
O Lord, be merciful to me!
Who notest e'en the sparrow's fall:
O Lord, be merciful to me!
I may not rise unless set free
From burdens that my soul enthrall:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee.
From burdens that my soul enthrall:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee.
I strive, yet fail, and seem to be
The sport of fate, while doubts appall:
O Lord, be merciful to me!
The sport of fate, while doubts appall:
O Lord, be merciful to me!
Dark is my path; I may not see
How good is yet the fruit of all:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee.
How good is yet the fruit of all:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee.
O let my way with Thine agree;
(My way, o'erhung as with a pall:)
O Lord, be merciful to me!
(My way, o'erhung as with a pall:)
O Lord, be merciful to me!
Incline Thine ear unto my plea;
Break not the reed, but hear my call:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee,
O Lord, be merciful to me!
Break not the reed, but hear my call:
Out of the deep I cry to Thee,
O Lord, be merciful to me!
38
ON A GRAVE IN CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS
Turning from Shelley's sculptured face aside,And pacing thoughtfully the silent aisles
Of the grey church that overlooks the smiles
Of the glad Avon hastening its tide
To join the seaward-winding Stour, I spied
Close at my feet a slab among the tiles
That paved the minster, where the sculptor's files
Had graven only “Died of Grief,” beside
The name of her who slept below. Sad Soul!
A century has fled since kindly death
Cut short that life which nothing knew but grief,
And still your fate stirs pity. Yet the whole
Wide world is full of graves like yours, for breath
Of sorrow kills as oft as frost the leaf.
39
MISERRIMUS
[_]
This is the sole inscription on the stone which covers the remains of the Reverend Thomas Morris, in the north walk of the cloisters at Worcester Cathedral. He was a Minor Canon of Worcester who refused to take the oath of allegiance to William III., and was consequently reduced to great poverty. He died at the age of eighty-eight, and at his request this single word was placed upon his tombstone.
“Most wretched one!” No, not to him belongs
Misery's preeminence in this sad world's sight
Who suffereth for conscience and the right,
As he deems right. To him the scourging thongs
Of adverse fortune and the countless wrongs
His fellows cast upon him are too light
Afflictions to endure forever. Spite
Has never hushed one note of heavenly songs.
Misery's preeminence in this sad world's sight
Who suffereth for conscience and the right,
As he deems right. To him the scourging thongs
Of adverse fortune and the countless wrongs
His fellows cast upon him are too light
Afflictions to endure forever. Spite
Has never hushed one note of heavenly songs.
But he that gains the plaudits of the crowd
For deeds unworthy, hears men name his sins
As virtues, and thereof wax emulous,—
He only that such shameful honour wins,
(Not this non-juring priest), should cry aloud
Past hope, “Miserrimus! Miserrimus!”
For deeds unworthy, hears men name his sins
As virtues, and thereof wax emulous,—
He only that such shameful honour wins,
(Not this non-juring priest), should cry aloud
Past hope, “Miserrimus! Miserrimus!”
40
AT THE GRAVE OF JANE CARLYLE
HADDINGTON ABBEY
Here on your grave as evening falls,
Sunk 'mid the turf and daisies,
Within these roofless abbey walls,
I read a husband's praises,
Sunk 'mid the turf and daisies,
Within these roofless abbey walls,
I read a husband's praises,
Of you to whom in life he showed
So little love and kindness,
But on your gravestone overflowed
In vain remorse for blindness.
So little love and kindness,
But on your gravestone overflowed
In vain remorse for blindness.
Not for his pain my eyes are wet,
But for your lot so bitter.
What is to me his weak regret?
His silence had been fitter.
But for your lot so bitter.
What is to me his weak regret?
His silence had been fitter.
41
THE BURNING OF CONRAD'S CHOIR, A. D. 1174
Gervase, a monk of Christ Church, Canterbury, speaks:
Ninety long years have I dwelt here, and much have I seen in that space.
I was the least of the monks when first I came to this place.
Now is there none in the convent that numbers more years than I;
An' God wills I may call them a hundred before my time comes to die.
I can remember the building of Conrad's great, glorious choir;
Conrad, the wonderful mason, and, after Ernulphus, our prior.
I was the least of the monks when first I came to this place.
Now is there none in the convent that numbers more years than I;
An' God wills I may call them a hundred before my time comes to die.
I can remember the building of Conrad's great, glorious choir;
Conrad, the wonderful mason, and, after Ernulphus, our prior.
Month after month wrought the workmen, and year after year rang the blows
Of hammer and trowel on stonework till all that fair building arose.
When they had end King Henry, and David king of the Scots,
Came hither with bishops in train each bringing from holiest spots
Some priceless relic to lay in that mighty cathedral of ours.
Never since Solomon hallowed the Temple to Heavenly Powers
Did mortal behold such a sight as I saw on that far distant day
As twice round the walls with loud chanting passed the gorgeous and endless array.
Of hammer and trowel on stonework till all that fair building arose.
When they had end King Henry, and David king of the Scots,
Came hither with bishops in train each bringing from holiest spots
Some priceless relic to lay in that mighty cathedral of ours.
42
Did mortal behold such a sight as I saw on that far distant day
As twice round the walls with loud chanting passed the gorgeous and endless array.
Forty years after I watched all one night with the rest in this place,
While beside us tall candles threw flickers of light on a murdered man's face.
Becket, our bishop, it was, by those knights so wickedly slain
Just as the bell rang for vespers and we had assembled again.
From behind Saint Benedict's altar I saw the foul murder begun,
And there, with his half-severed arm, fled Grim when the murder was done.
Never thought I a far woefuller sight than this to behold
Only a few years after, ere the summer had quite waxen old.
Feeble indeed is our wisdom and we know not what shall betide.
While above and beneath and around us the hosts of Almighty abide.
While beside us tall candles threw flickers of light on a murdered man's face.
Becket, our bishop, it was, by those knights so wickedly slain
Just as the bell rang for vespers and we had assembled again.
From behind Saint Benedict's altar I saw the foul murder begun,
And there, with his half-severed arm, fled Grim when the murder was done.
Never thought I a far woefuller sight than this to behold
Only a few years after, ere the summer had quite waxen old.
Feeble indeed is our wisdom and we know not what shall betide.
While above and beneath and around us the hosts of Almighty abide.
43
Midnight had come and the prior had bidden me watch till the day,
After our habit at Christ Church, where the bones of the great Dunstan lay.
So through the cloister I went at the hour my watch should begin
Till I came to where Becket was slain by those terrible minions of sin.
There, as I stayed for a moment, to say a short prayer for the dead,
I saw a red glow 'mid the arches, and on through the transept I sped
And up the long steps to the choir: ah, woe for the terrible sight!
From the steps to the shrine of Saint Dunstan the choir was ruddy with light,
For flames had curled round the stalls and stretched themselves up to the roof,
And, e'en as I gazed, caught the rafters and roared as the sea up aloof.
They leaped from one beam to another, and the carven work melted like snow;
They surged up around the shrine pillars that bent like a tightly stretched bow;
And onward they rolled in vast billows; the place was a horror of fire:
The holiest spot in all England, our Conrad's glorious choir.
Anon came the prior and the brothers: the people streamed in through the nave
And they looked at the fiery tempest, and a horrible cry they gave
That rang through the great nave arches, and rose o'er the dull roar of flame,
As they called on the Lord in their madness and cursed his most reverend name.
Still the surges of fire whirled upward till the choir roof crashed to the floor,
And the flames mounted up to the heavens while the people blasphemed yet the more.
They tore out their hair in their frenzy; they beat at the walls with their hands,
And they caught at the stones in the pavement as the wild waves clutch at the sands;
They dashed their heads 'gainst the pillars till blood was sprent over the space;
And they burst into terrible singing, as demons had stood in their place.
After our habit at Christ Church, where the bones of the great Dunstan lay.
So through the cloister I went at the hour my watch should begin
Till I came to where Becket was slain by those terrible minions of sin.
There, as I stayed for a moment, to say a short prayer for the dead,
I saw a red glow 'mid the arches, and on through the transept I sped
And up the long steps to the choir: ah, woe for the terrible sight!
From the steps to the shrine of Saint Dunstan the choir was ruddy with light,
For flames had curled round the stalls and stretched themselves up to the roof,
And, e'en as I gazed, caught the rafters and roared as the sea up aloof.
44
They surged up around the shrine pillars that bent like a tightly stretched bow;
And onward they rolled in vast billows; the place was a horror of fire:
The holiest spot in all England, our Conrad's glorious choir.
Anon came the prior and the brothers: the people streamed in through the nave
And they looked at the fiery tempest, and a horrible cry they gave
That rang through the great nave arches, and rose o'er the dull roar of flame,
As they called on the Lord in their madness and cursed his most reverend name.
Still the surges of fire whirled upward till the choir roof crashed to the floor,
And the flames mounted up to the heavens while the people blasphemed yet the more.
45
And they caught at the stones in the pavement as the wild waves clutch at the sands;
They dashed their heads 'gainst the pillars till blood was sprent over the space;
And they burst into terrible singing, as demons had stood in their place.
“Now a curse on Saint Wilfred of Ripon, and a curse on Saint Blasius of Rome!
And curse upon curse light on Dunstan; the deep pit of hell be his home.
May Saint Ouen lie with him in torment; Saint Swithun be doomed to despair;
And the rest who are snugly enshrined here be torn by the fiends of the air.
For they sleep, and the glory of Conrad is past in a moment of time:
They sleep, and the enemy cometh and despoileth the altar sublime.
And curse upon curse light on Dunstan; the deep pit of hell be his home.
May Saint Ouen lie with him in torment; Saint Swithun be doomed to despair;
And the rest who are snugly enshrined here be torn by the fiends of the air.
For they sleep, and the glory of Conrad is past in a moment of time:
They sleep, and the enemy cometh and despoileth the altar sublime.
46
“And a curse upon God in His heaven, who suffers such evils to be;
And curses, too, on His Son, who refuseth our anguish to see;
And a curse on the Holy Spirit, that to save lifts never an arm;
And a thrice bitter curse upon Mary, who will not defend from such harm
The temple that Conrad hath builded in honour of Jesus, her Son;
And curses, too, on the angels; away with them, every one!
For the glory of Conrad is passing; our God is as stubble or stone;
Let us turn from His worship forever, and bow us to Satan alone!”
And curses, too, on His Son, who refuseth our anguish to see;
And a curse on the Holy Spirit, that to save lifts never an arm;
And a thrice bitter curse upon Mary, who will not defend from such harm
The temple that Conrad hath builded in honour of Jesus, her Son;
And curses, too, on the angels; away with them, every one!
For the glory of Conrad is passing; our God is as stubble or stone;
Let us turn from His worship forever, and bow us to Satan alone!”
And now through the open choir roof a wind from the seaward there drave
That lashed the flames into fury and swept them forth to the nave;
And the people fled before them as chaff when a whirlwind is blown,
Or as leaves in the front of a tempest hurried on betwixt high cliffs of stone.
And hushed was the voice of blaspheming while high rose the roar of the flames
Where the people had stood in their madness reviling the thrice holy names.
That lashed the flames into fury and swept them forth to the nave;
47
Or as leaves in the front of a tempest hurried on betwixt high cliffs of stone.
And hushed was the voice of blaspheming while high rose the roar of the flames
Where the people had stood in their madness reviling the thrice holy names.
When the fearsome night past and the morning shone down on our convent once more,
“Ichabod,” murmured our prior, “the glory of Conrad is o'er;
He smiteth, and we are sore humbled; He scourgeth our pride with His fire;
He sendeth His wrath out amongst us and abaseth our glorious choir.
O, who can fathom His purpose, or who can read straightway His plan?
The Lord's ways are never as our ways, and foolish before Him is man!”
“Ichabod,” murmured our prior, “the glory of Conrad is o'er;
He smiteth, and we are sore humbled; He scourgeth our pride with His fire;
He sendeth His wrath out amongst us and abaseth our glorious choir.
O, who can fathom His purpose, or who can read straightway His plan?
The Lord's ways are never as our ways, and foolish before Him is man!”
In the year 1174, the choir of Canterbury Cathedral was destroyed by fire, and according to Gervase, the monkish chronicler of these events, and himself a witness of what he describes, “The people were astonished that the Almighty should suffer such things, and maddened with excess of grief and perplexity, they tore their hair, and beat the walls and pavement of the church with their hands and heads, blaspheming the Lord and His saints, the patrons of His church.”
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