THE HOLY ISLE;
A Legend of Bardsey Abbey.

By IGNATIUS, O.S.B.

Dedicated, without permission, to Lord Newborough, and to the
Rev. Hugh Roberts, Vicar of Aberdaron, Carnarvonshire.

LONDON:
G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.

1870.

THE HOLY ISLE.
A Legend of Bardsey Abbey.

I watched the sea waves ebbing,
   Beneath the crimson glow,
Which sunset light was pouring,
   Upon their soft, sweet flow.
The wavelets looked liked dancers,
   Upon the sun-lit sea,
They sung in whispering chorus,—
   I thought they sung to me
Of fair and far off landscapes
   Beyond that molten tide,
Of better joys, and gladness
   Beyond those waters wide.
The wavelets all seemed passing
   On, to some other strands,
And following the sun’s-glow,
   To ever sun-lit lands.
But as I thought these fancies,
   Again I raised mine eyes
And saw the sunset tinting
   The glorious western skies.
Now ’mid the farewell glories
   “Of Sol’s departing ray,”
I saw an Island resting
   Upon his golden way.
There, misty mid the Sunshine,
   The far off Isle appears,
Right out among the sea waves
   Its rocky coast uprears.
And as I gaze, the sunset
   Seems lighting up its shore,
Bathing the isle in glory
   And then is seen no more.
Sweet, soothing calm fell o’er me
   I watched the Islet still,
All round me heard I voices
   Which seemed the air to fill.
Said one, “That Isle is holy,
   For Saints are sleeping there,
Now lonely and deserted,
   T’was once an Isle of prayer.”
“O Man! say would’st thou tremble,
   To come away and see,
In vision, strange, sweet pictures
   Which I can shew to thee?”
The Angel was so lovely,
   So sweet the Angel’s smile,
I easily consented,—
   He pointed to the Isle!
“Then will I bear thee thither,
   One thousand years ago;—
I speak to aid thy weakness,
   No time can Angels know.
The present, past, and future,
   All one they are to me,
I pass along their boundaries,
   Unlimited, and free.”
A strange, calm change stole o’er me,
   My spirit seemed to rise
In gentle, tireless motion,
   Just as the sea-bird flies.
My Angel-guide was leading
   My spirit o’er the sea
One moment—and we rested,
   Upon the Islet’s lea.
Soft gloaming filled the air,
   Deep peace lay all around,
Hushed voices seemed to whisper,
   A wavelike, murmuring sound.
“Sweet Angel, say, where am I,—
   Say me the Island’s name,
And tell me why such glory,
   Enwraps it as a flame?
Say, too, what is that chanting,
   So sweet, so very near,
The strangeness of this beauty
   It fills my soul with fear?”
“This Holy Place is Bardsey,
   Jesus, He loves it well,
’Tis wrapped in God’s own brightness,
   Safe from the power of Hell.
Those voices are the Virgins,
   In yonder Abbey Choir,
Praises to Jesus singing,
   Of which they never tire.
Hush! mid the shades of evening,
   How restfully they sing,
Their Vesper praise-wreaths bringing
   To Jesus Christ their King.
’Mid lights of sunset glowing,
   St. Mary’s Abbey stands;
But see! t’is wrapped in glories,
   From far off better Lands.”
I looked again, and started,
   For lo! another scene.
The Convent is surrounded
   With Heaven’s own brightest sheen.
And choirs of Angels hover
   High in the sunset air,
While th’ holy monks are chanting
   Their peaceful, evening prayer.
The Monastery is glowing,
   Like heaps of molten gold;
The walls seem all transparent,
   With majesty untold.
T’is strange; my spirit enters
   St Mary’s Sacred Shrine,
I see the cowlèd figures,
   In many a white rob’d line, [6]
Filling the stalls, but facing
   The hallow’d Altar Throne,
Where Jesus makes His dwelling,
   Untended and alone.
O peaceful, happy Bardsey,
   Sweet Islet of the Sea!
I would for ever rest me,
   All joyfully in thee!
O dear St. Marys Abbey,
   On Bardsey’s northern shore;
Would I could bide within thee,
   And part from thee no more!
O happy Monks and Virgins,
   Singing by night and day,
Your hymnals to Sweet Jesus,
   In dearest, fondest lay!
How can I speak your glory,
   How can I tell your worth?
Ye are the Church’s safeguard;
   Ye are the “Salt of earth.”
Ye live the life of Angels;
   Ye never cease from praise,
To Heaven your intercedings
   For sinners ceaseless raise.
Ah! well may throngs of sinners
   Seek this most Sacred Isle,
Well may ten thousand pilgrims
   Visit St. Mary’s pile.
Well may’st thou, Aberdaron, [8]
   Loving to Bardsey be,
And daily turn thy glances
   To the Islet out at sea.
For Bardsey is the lighthouse
   Of many a shipwrecked soul;
To many a way-worn wanderer
   Is Bardsey’s Isle the goal.
The glow of Bardsey’s brightness,
   Illumes wild Cambria’s shores,
Across the Irish Channel,
   Her Heavenly light she pours.
And blessed saints in thousands
   Have dwelt on Bardsey’s hill,
Sending her countless Virgins
   Celestial choirs to fill.
How Jesus must love Bardsey,
   And prize her sacred soil;
Here Saints in countless numbers
   Have rested from earth’s toil:
Have laid aside the burden
   Of poor mortality,
And entered on the Sabbath
   Of glad eternity.
While thus I dream, the Organ
   Is pealing forth its wave,
The Holy Monks are marching
   All slowly down the Nave.
“Dear Angel! may I follow
   Them, down the Cloister still,
And join their recreation,
   On yonder mossy hill?”
The Angel smiled permission;
   I willed myself along,
Until unseen, I joined me