The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

In sleep a funeral chant I heard
A ‘De profundis’ far below;
On the long grass the rain-drops stirr'd
As when the distant tempests blow:
Then slowly, like a heaving sea,
The graves were troubled all around;
And two by two, and three by three,
The monks ascended from the ground.

III

From sin absolved, redeem'd from tears
There stood they, beautiful and calm,
The brethren of a thousand years
With lifted brows and palm to palm!
On heaven they gazed in holy trance;
Low stream'd their beards and tresses hoar:
And each transfigured countenance
The Benedictine impress bore.

IV

By Angels borne the Holy Rood
Encircled thrice the church-yard bound;
They paced behind it, paced in blood,
With bleeding feet, but foreheads crown'd;
And thrice they breathed that hymn benign,
Which angels sang when Christ was born;
And thrice I wept, ere tower or shrine
Had caught the first white beam of morn.

175

V

Down on the earth my brows I laid;
In these, His Saints, I worshipp'd God:
And then return'd that grief which made
My heart since youth a frozen clod:
‘O ye,’ I wept, ‘whose woes are past
Look round on all these prostrate stones!
To these can Life return at last?
Can Spirit lift once more these bones?’

VI

The smile of him the end who knows
Went, luminous, o'er them as I spake;
Their white locks shone like mountain snows.
O'er which the orient mornings break:
They stood: they pointed to the West:
And lo! where darkness late had lain
Rose many a kingdom's citied crest
Reflected in a kindling main!

VII

‘Not only these, the fanes o'erthrown,
Shall rise,’ they said, ‘but myriads more;
The seed, far hence by tempests blown,
Still sleeps on yon expectant shore.
Send forth, sad Isle, thy reaper bands!
Assert and pass thine old renown:
Not here alone—in farthest lands
For thee thy sons shall weave the crown.’

VIII

They spake; and like a cloud down sank
The just and filial grief of years;

176

And I that peace celestial drank
Which shines but o'er the seas of tears.
Thy Mission flashed before me plain,
O thou by many woes anneal'd!
And I discern'd how axe and chain
Had thy great destinies sign'd and seal'd!

IX

That seed which grows must seem to die:
In thee, when earthly hope was none,
The heaven-born hope of days gone by
By martyrdom matured, lived on;
Conceal'd, like limbs of royal mould
In some Egyptian pyramid,
Or statued shape 'mid cities old
Beneath Vesuvian ashes hid.

X

For this cause by a power divine
Each temporal aid was frustrated:
Tyrone, Tirconnell, Geraldine—
In vain they fought; in vain they bled:
Successive, 'neath th' usurping hand
Sank ill-starr'd Mary; erring James:
Nor Spain nor France might wield the brand
Which, for her own, Religion claims!

XI

Arise, long stricken! mightier far
Are they who fight for God and thee
Than those that head the adverse war!
Sad prophet! lift thy face and see!
Behold, with eyes no longer wrong'd
By mists the sense exterior breeds,

177

The hills of heaven around thee throng'd
With fiery chariots and with steeds!

XII

The years baptized in blood are thine;
The exile's prayer from many a strand;
The woes of those this hour who pine
Poor aliens in their native land;
Angels and Saints from heaven down-bent
Watch thy long conflict without pause;
And the most Holy Sacrament
From all thine altars pleads thy cause!

XIII

O great through Suffering, rise at last
Through kindred Action tenfold great!
Thy future calls on thee thy past
Its soul survives to consummate!
Let women weep; let children moan:
Rise, men and brethren, to the fight:
One cause hath Earth, and one alone:
For it, the cause of God, unite!

XIV

Let others trust in trade and traffic!
Be ours, O God, to trust in Thee!
Cherubic Wisdom, Love Seraphic,
Beseem that land the Truth makes free.
The earth-quelling sword let others vaunt;
Such toys allure the youth, the boy:
Be ours for loftier wreaths to pant,
The Apostles' crown of Faith and Joy!

178

XV

Hope of my country! House of God!
All-Hallows! Blessed feet are those
By which thy courts shall yet be trod
Once more as ere the spoiler rose:
Blessed the winds that waft them forth
To victory o'er the rough sea foam:
That race to God which conquers earth
Can God forget that race at home?

University of Virginia Library

ALL-HALLOWS; OR, THE MONK'S DREAM.

A PROPHECY.

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