A Mirror of Faith Lays and Legends of the Church in England. By the Rev. J. M. Neale |
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| II. |
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| V. | V.
The Pilgrimage of S. Etheldreda.
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| XX. |
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| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXX. |
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| XXXVII. |
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| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
 | A Mirror of Faith |  |
V. The Pilgrimage of S. Etheldreda.
Circ. A. D. 670.
19
Her pilgrimage is rough and long,
She lays her down to sleep:
But angel guards, a bright-winged throng,
Their vigils o'er her keep:
Her pilgrim's scrip is near her spread;
Her oaken staff is at her head:
Yet guards of such immortal sheen,
Had never king nor prince, I ween.
She lays her down to sleep:
But angel guards, a bright-winged throng,
Their vigils o'er her keep:
Her pilgrim's scrip is near her spread;
Her oaken staff is at her head:
Yet guards of such immortal sheen,
Had never king nor prince, I ween.
20
Perchance she dreameth of the time,
Her father filled the throne;
And she had beauty's pride and prime,
And royalty her own:
Those happy hours are passed away;
Her step is weak, her hair is grey;
An exile now, her life at stake,
And all for Holy Church's sake.
Her father filled the throne;
And she had beauty's pride and prime,
And royalty her own:
Those happy hours are passed away;
Her step is weak, her hair is grey;
An exile now, her life at stake,
And all for Holy Church's sake.
There is no leaf to shade her head,
No breeze to fan the heat;
The fiercest rays that noon can shed,
Upon the pilgrim beat:
At once the staff in earth takes root;
Rises the sap, the branches shoot:
And breezes, as they dance that way,
Amidst a giant chesnut play.
No breeze to fan the heat;
The fiercest rays that noon can shed,
Upon the pilgrim beat:
At once the staff in earth takes root;
Rises the sap, the branches shoot:
And breezes, as they dance that way,
Amidst a giant chesnut play.
Scorn ye the tale our fathers told?
Believe its moral still;
God never left His Saints of old,
And us He never will!
Is there a creature that we feel
Can less than other work our weal?
The barren staff becomes a tree,
And blossometh abundantly.
Believe its moral still;
God never left His Saints of old,
And us He never will!
21
Can less than other work our weal?
The barren staff becomes a tree,
And blossometh abundantly.
| A Mirror of Faith | |