Præstet fides supplementum,
      Sensuum defectui.”
“O Jesus! my sweet Jesus!”
   The warrior-monk doth pray,
“Shew her Thine Own great Beauty,
   Make her Thine Own to-day;
Be Thou her glorious Bridegroom,
   Be Thou her only Choice,
Ravish her with Thy Beauty,
   Make her to hear Thy voice.”
But as the long procession
   Did wind its joyous way,
Making the evening twilight
   Almost as bright as day,
The countless tapers glittered
   Like hosts of meteors round,
And sent a glow of radiance
   Athwart the Bardsey Sound.
Right round the Islet pealing,
   The gladsome songs ascend,
And with the evening breezes
   The clouds of incense blend.
But what was Mabel doing,
   Where was the maiden now?
O joy! at Mary’s altar,
   She plights another vow!
Yes! while the girl was weeping,
   Her Rudolph lost and gone,
The Sacred Host drew near her,
   There from strange glory shone.
And there as if in vision,
   All wondrous, and most clear,
Mabel beheld the Saviour,
   His voice fell on her ear.
“Arise, my love, my fair one,
   Arise, and come away;
The winter’s past, the rain gone,”
   The sunbeams strew thy way.
In lily vales the virgins
   Are waiting now for thee,
“Arise my love, my fair one,
   Arise, and follow Me.”

* * * * *

Hush! softly in the distance,
   I hear the nuns’ sweet song,
’Tis floating through the Cloister,
   Its fretted roofs along.
And mingling with the echoes
   Of nature’s own sweet praise,
Which the lowing herd, and the sweet song-bird,
   With insects hum doth raise.
How peacefully, how restfully,
   Such sounds as these combine
To soothe the weary spirit,
   A weary one like mine.
But now my spirit wanders,
   Woo’d by that distant hymn,
Through the hallow’d door, o’er the storied floor,
   To the steps of the chancel dim.
The nuns’ sweet hymn was dying
   In faintest tones away,
While prostrate at the altar,
   A maiden’s figure lay.
Two years had pass’d since Mabel
   Had heard the Bridegroom’s voice,
In Bardsey’s Holy Island,
   And made her happy choice.
And now before His Altar,
   She lays her young life down,
And from the hands of Rudolph
   Receives the virgin crown!
Yes! Father Rudolph blesses,
   The Virgin-Crown and Veil
Adorn the brow of Mabel,
   With wreaths of lilies pale.
Her vows, like his, are plighted,
   For ever and for aye,
To One Whose Love and Beauty
   Can change not or decay.
O happy youths and virgins!
   In cloister homes that dwell,
For ever and for ever
   Your joyous songs shall swell—
Upon the soft sweet breezes
   Of Zion’s sun-lit lands—
Upon the lily hill-slopes,
   With all the virgin bands.

* * * * *

And so Carnarvon Convent
   Enclosed another bride,
For Jesus Christ, the Bridegroom,
   The Virgins Joy and Pride.

* * * * *

It was a calm sweet festal,
   In joyous, summer time,
And Bardsey’s Abbey bell-notes
   Rang out a merry chime.
The Island seem’d rejoicing,
   With holy joy and mirth,
The Monks are going to honour
   St. John the Baptist’s birth.
For John shines forth as Primate
   Of Monkish Choirs above,
On earth he dwelt in deserts,
   And knew no earthly love.
The poor, the sad, the orphans,
   All love St. Mary’s shrine,
And venerate her Cloister,
   Fill’d with the Love Divine.
The Fathers, and the Novices,
   They count as loving friends,
Whom Jesus in His Mercy,
   The poor and helpless sends.
They teach their children sweetly,
   The Gospel’s glorious tales,
And tend their sick and dying
   With care that never fails.
No poor’s rates, and no workhouse,
   Were needed in those days,
The monks were all they wanted,
   They work’d for Jesu’s praise.

The Holy Mass was over,
   The Abbot seeks his cell,
His heart is strangely trembling,
   Wherefore he cannot tell.
’Tis some foreboding sorrow
   That makes his spirit sad,
Though all around is sunshine
   And everything seems glad.
A strange, a chill forewarning,
   Shakes the old man with fear,
Some dread, some dire affliction,
   Too surely must be near.
That night, ere hushful Compline
   Had closed the sacred day,
Two boats the Point were rounding,
   Of Aberdaron’s Bay.
In one brief hour there landed,
   On Bardsey’s holy shore,
Ten men from Windsor, bringing
   Tidings most sad and sore.
They seek at once admission,
   Telling the news they bring,
The Monks must, ere the morrow,
   Surrender to the king
The Abbey and its treasures,
   Its Church, its relics rare,
Its Vestments and its Chalices,
   Its Shrines with jewels fair.
The Monks must sign surrender,
   Acknowledge many a sin
They never could have dreamt of,
   If they would safety win.
And call the tyrant merciful,
   For driving them away,
Making them leave their Abbey
   To ruin and decay. [48]
The Compline Bell was tolling
   Its last dear Compline call,
To-morrow death-like ruin
   Would o’er the Convent fall.
That night the holy Fathers
   Held consultation long,
And all agreed—Surrender
   Would be unjust and wrong.
“Then die we at God’s Altar,
   Sooner than yield the right
Which God Himself has given us,
   To sacrilegious might.”
And true to their confession
   The holy Monks remained,
And with their virgin life-blood
   The Altar-steps are stained.
The poor arose right bravely,
   Their much-loved Monks to aid,
And many thus right gladly
   Their lives a forfeit made.
Now having done all thoroughly,
   Their work of cruel wrong,
They left the Island weeping,
   All hushed the Holy Song,
Which for so many ages,
   By night as well as day,
Had praised the Love of Jesus,
   In one long ceaseless lay.
And now the poor are seeking,
   Among the ruins drear,
The bodies of the Martyrs,
   So holy, and so dear.
Ah! there before the Altar,
   The brave old Abbot lies;
And there, too, Father Rudolph,
   With fixed and glassy eyes.
But oh! a calm serenest
   Enfolds the