WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, Veiled nun and friar grey March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; High their holy anthem sounds, Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, Floating down the silvan Dee, @3O miserere, Domine!@1 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 Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand? Such was the Divine decree, @3O miserere, Domine!@1 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, @3O miserere, Domine!@1 Weltering amid warriors slain, Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, Slaughter'd 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, @3miserere, Domine!@1 Bangor! o'er the murder wail! Long thy ruins told the tale, Shatter'd towers and broken arch Long recall'd the woful march: On thy shrine no tapers burn, Never shall thy priests return; The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, @3O miserere, Domine!@1 |