English Poetry. Anne Bannerman. The Festival of St. Magnus the Martyr. Энн Баннерман.

Anne Bannerman (Энн Баннерман)

The Festival of St. Magnus the Martyr

THE first time Sir Ewaine ahunting went,
The light spring leaves were on the tree,
And the Ladie Ellenor sat in her hall,
That gallant train to see....

When Sir Ewaine return'd from that hunting,
The summer fruits were past and gone;
But Josceline had seen his lord
At St. Magnus the Martyr's stone...

The next time Sir Ewaine a hunting went,
The autumn leaves had left the tree,
And the Ladie Ellenor sat in her hall,
And she wept bitterlie.

'Twas past the hour that Josceline
Had left his watch below;
'Twas past the hour for the chancel vault,
Where her lord was wont to go.

"Keep thee in thy bower, ladie!
That hunting train are gone;
Two by two, they passed through,
Sir Ewaine rode alone!

"Keep thee in thy bower, ladie,
Till the deep, deep night be come,
And I shall be in the Martyr's aisle,
By good St. Magnus' tomb.

"I have kept the watch till now,
In the arch that opens on the sea,
And have strewn the steps, to the chancel door,
With the dry earth of the lea!

"And, two by two, that hunting train
Shall part at yon hilly heath:
But thy lord shall cross the Martyr's aisle,
To the chancel underneath....

"No foot can go, or back return,
But the print will stamped be,...
Watch ! and guard it as thy life,
Thou speak not once to me!

"Stop not in the Martyr's aisle,
Tho' me you may not see:...
Shrink not at that hollow tomb,
Alone thou wilt not be."...

Dark and darker fell the eve,
Till the deep, deep night was come;
That ladie is in the Martyr's aisle,
By good St. Magnus' tomb:...

She look'd athwart the dim arches,
All lengthening and drear!
She look'd around for Josceline,
But all was silent there.

Twice she turn'd her shrinking feet,
Ere she pass'd that hollow tomb;
Though she knew the shadow was her own,
That waved in the gloom!

In the last arch she rested once,
The heavy air fell damp,...
It prest upon the hazy flame
That burned in the lamp.

She shiver'd as she reach'd the place
The stair that arched over head,...
And she search'd along, and step by step,
Where the earth was scattered.

On the first step the clay was moist,
Where the prints were plain of footsteps three;
But, on the rest, to the chancel door,
Was the dry earth of the lea!

She raised, in her death-white hand,
The hard-prest clay below;
And dark-red was the colouring,
Where it was matted so!...

'Twas neither the damp from the deep, deep moss,
Nor the salt brine from the sea,
That had moisten'd, on the outer step,
The dry earth of the lea!

Josceline is in the tomb,
The eerie hours are slow:
That ladie is not return'd again
From the chancel vault below:...

On the morn was St. Magnus' festival,
And they rung the matin bells;
And there came to mass the Monks of the choir,
And the Nuns of Drakenfels:

The Bishop Hubert bore in his hands
The image of the Saint:
Hubert was seventy years and nine,
And his sight had waxed faint.

As he knelt upon the cushion-seat,
In that blessed Martyr's aisle,
And a priest stood by, to read the prayers
For that sacred festival.

It came to pass, as the priest had done
The prayer for the sin of blood,
When a Nun had given the last response
For the holy sisterhood,

That the bishop rose, and wav'd his hand,
To cease,...and it was done,...
Save the long aisles, that gave again
The shrill voice of the Nun!...

Still'd was every earthly sound,
As every breath would fail;
The blood, that fled from Hubert's face,
Had left it ghastly pale...

Still'd was every earthly sound,
As life itself had fled:
That last response, that echoes yet,
Is the shrill voice of the dead!...

Onward came that veiled Nun,
Onward came with heavy tramp!
Twice she shook the misty flame
That flutter'd in her lamp:

She pass'd that bishop side by side,
As he stood upon the floor ;
She pass'd the arch of St. Magnus' tomb,
To the under chancel door;

There she turn'd, and rent the veil
That cover'd her from view,...
That face is the Ladie Ellenor's,
That face of ashen hue!...

She stoop'd, and raised in her hand
The hard-prest clay below;
And pointed to the red colour,
Where it was matted so!

Then she blew upon the lamp,
And its misty flame expir'd,
While, long beneath that deep chancel,
Her heavy tramp was heard:...

And still at St. Magnus' Festival,
When "blood for blood" is read,
The last response, that echoes it,
Is the shrill voice of the dead!

Anne Bannerman’s other poems:

1. The Penitent’s Confession
2. The Prophetess of the Oracle of Seam
3. The Prophecy of Merlin
4. Basil
5. The Black Knight of the Water

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