Walter Scott ( )


The Monks of Bangors March


WHEN the heathen trumpets clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangors fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestrias vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee.
O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doomed to feel unhallowed hand!
Such was the Divine decree,
O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill;
Woe to Brockmaels feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrids bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,
O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered down by heathen blade,
Bangors peaceful monks are laid;
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,
Sing, O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! oer the murder wail!
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shattered towers and broken arch
Long recalled the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!



Walter Scott's other poems:
  1. On Ettrick Forests Mountains Dun
  2. The Maid of Isla
  3. On the Massacre of Glencoe
  4. Lines Addressed to Ranald Macdonald, Esq., of Staffa
  5. The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill


 . Poem to print (Print)

: 1031



To English version


@Mail.ru

. eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru