CIX.VALE CRUCIS ABBEY.
I
Here, where wet winds autumnal rains may fling,
And pallid ash-trees in the transept lean,
The gentle-mannered monks were wont to sing
The Son of God, the Help of the unclean;
And, from Cistercian service books, to hymn
The blissful Mother, as the nights grew dim.
II
Here, not unmindful of the public good,
Dwelt some poor beadsmen of the stainless Mary,
Bosomed, like monkish spots, in coves of wood,
That morn and eve, with mystic commentary,
Might for meek hearts re-join the broken threads,
Hid in Church books like ore in jealous beds.
III
And at this hollow, and in vales like this,
The winds took in good lading, and a freight
Of precious boons, dispensing balm and bliss,
Lifting from England's Saxon fields the weight
Of sins, that sprung in such prolific brood
From the perverseness of her Norman blood.
IV
Still, within hearing, at pale matin-time
There comes a soul into these ruins lone,
Where the clean-watered Dee his woodland chime
Steers with sweet skill from rich Edeyrnion,
Leaving on shady rock and mountain bending
Shreds of faint echo waked in his descending.
V
Oft, when chill winds the compline hour have tolled,
The broken East is fairly lighted yet,
Ever when in yon Gothic marigold
The harmless moon her full white orb hath set,
While, on the field beyond, her trembling fire
Streams mildly through the triple-windowed choir.
VI
Thou visitor of ruins! thou mayst come
To worn portcullis and green-hooded wall,
Where some rude baron held his festal home
In moated fortalice or hunting-hall—
There thou mayst come, when placid nights are wearing,
To learn of earth her art of soft repairing.
VII
But other thoughts and deeper must be thine,
When by poor abbeys, tightly ivied o'er,
Thou dream'st that England, leaving Christian shrine,
Hath turned herself to druid rite once more,—
Fearing in wakeful thoughts lest, heathen grown,
She should not miss the Cross when it is gone.
