Вальтер Скотт (Walter Scott)

The Monks of Bangor’s March

WHEN the heathen trumpet’s clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangor’s fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria’s 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 Brockmael’s feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid’s bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,
                O miserere, Domine!

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

Bangor! o’er 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!

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