When not great Arthur's tomb nor holy Joseph's grave From sacrilege had power their sacred bones to save? For reverence to that seat which had ascribéd been, green. Michael Drayton. THE BALLAD OF GLASTONBURY. GLASTONBURY, anciently called Avalon, is a place much celebrated both in tradition and history. It was here, according to old legends, when the neighboring moors were covered by the sea, that St. Joseph of Arimathea landed, and built the first church in England. It was here that the glorious king Arthur was buried, with the inscription: Hic jacet Arturus, rex quondam, rexque futurus. HE hills have on their royal robes THE Of purple and of gold, And over their tops the autumn clouds Below them spreads the fairest plain That British eye may see, From Quantock to the Mendip range, As from those barriers, gray and vast, So roll, thou ancient chronicler, Give me an hour of vision clear, At once the flood of the Severn sea And a hundred capes, with huts and trees, "T is water here and water there, And the lordly Parret's way Hath never a trace on its pathless face, Of shining sails that thronged that stream But a little ship to that inland sea Comes bounding in alone; With stretch of sail and tug of oar It comes full merrily, And the sailors chant, as they pass the shore, Tibi gloria, Domine. By this the vessel had floated nigh Were ranged, and, kneeling there, Gave blessing to the God of heaven In a lowly chanted prayer. Then over the brow of the seaward hill In their order blest they pass, At every change in the psalmody Till they come where they may see full near That pointed mountain rise, Darkening with its ancient cone The light of the eastern skies. "This staff hath borne me long and well," Then spake that saint divine, Over mountain and over plain, On quest of the Promise-sign; For aye let it stand in this western land, If there ring not out from this realm about, A cloud is on them, - the vision is changed, And voices of melody, And a ring of harps, like twinkles bright, Comes over the inland sea; Long and loud is the chant of praise, The hallowed ages glide; And once again the mist from the plain Rolls up the Mendip side. With mourning stole and solemn step, There moved of ladies and of knights There went before an open bier, With face to heaven and folded palms It is the winter deep, and all They carry him where from chapel low Rings clear the angel-bell, He was the flower of knights and lords, So chant the requiem well: His wound was deep, and his holy sleep Shall last him many a day, Till the cry of crime in the latter time Shall melt the charm away. A cloud is on them, the vision fades, And cries of woe and fear, And sounds unblest of neighboring war, Are thronging on mine ear: Long and loud was the battle-cry, And the groans of them that died; And once again the mist from the plain Rolls up the Mendip side. From the postern-door of an abbaye pile, A soldier-king in humble mien, Slow past the king that seaward brow, Then a pealing shout and a silence long, And rolling next on high Dark vapor, laced with threads of flame, Angered the twilight sky. The cloud comes on, the vision is changed, And songs of victory, And hymns of praise to the Lord of Peace, Come over the inland sea; The waters clear, the fields appear, The plain is green and wide; And once again the mist from the plain Rolls up the Mendip side. The plats were green with lavish growth, And, like a silver cord, Down to the northern bay the Brue Its glittering water poured. |