KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY.

Young, beauteous, brave — the bravest of the brave —

Who loved not Oswin? All that saw him loved:

Aidan loved most, monk of Iona's Isle,

Northumbria's bishop next, from Lindisfarne

Ruling in things divine. One morn it chanced

That Oswin, noting how with staff in hand

Old Aidan roamed his spiritual realm, footbare,

Wading deep stream, and piercing thorny brake,

Sent him a horse — his best. The Saint was pleased;

But, onward while he rode, and, musing, smiled

To think of these his honours in old age,

A beggar claimed his alms.‘ Gold have I none,’

Aidan replied;‘ this horse be thine!’ The King,

Hearing the tale, was grieved.‘ Keep I, my lord,

No meaner horses fit for beggar's use

That thus my best should seem a thing of naught?’

The Saint made answer:‘ Beggar's use, my King!

What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare!

The least of men — the sinner — is God's child!’

Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried:

‘ Father, forgive me!’ As they sat at meat

Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale

His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow tears

In silence trickled down old Aidan's face:

These all men marked; yet no man question made.

At last to one beside him Aidan spake

In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them,

‘ God will not leave such meekness long on earth.’

Who loved not Oswin? Not alone his realm,

Dëira, loved him, but Bernician lords

Whose monarch, Oswy, was a man of storms,

Fierce King albeit in youth baptized to Christ;

At heart half pagan. Swift as northern cloud

Through summer skies, he swept with all his host

Down on the rival kingdom. Face to face

The armies stood. But Oswin, when he marked

His own a little flock‘ mid countless wolves,

Addressed them thus:‘ Why perish, friends, for me?

From exile came I: for my people's sake

To exile I return, or gladlier die:

Depart in peace.’ He rode to Gilling Tower;

And waited there his fate. Thither next day

King Oswy marched, and slew him.

Twelve days passed;

Then Aidan, while through green Northumbria's woods

Pensive he paced, steadying his doubtful steps,

Felt death approaching. Giving thanks to God,

The old man laid him by a church half raised

Amid great oaks and yews, and, leaning there

His head against the buttress, passed to God.

They made their bishop's grave at Lindisfarne;

But Oswin rested at the mouth of Tyne

Within a wave-girt, granite promontory

Where sea and river meet. For many an age

The pilgrim from far countries came in faith

To that still shrine — they called it‘ Oswin's Peace,’ —

Thither the outcast fled for sanctuary:

The sick man there found health. Thus Oswin lived,

Though dead, a benediction in the land.

What gentlest form kneels on the rain-washed ground

From Gilling's keep a stone's-throw? Whose those hands

Now pressed in anguish on a bursting heart,

Now o'er a tearful countenance spread in shame?

What purest mouth, but roseless for great woe,

With zeal to youthful lovers never known

Presses a new-made grave, and through the blades

Of grass wind-shaken breathes her piteous prayer?

Save from remorse came ever grief like hers?

Yet how could ever sin, or sin's remorse,

Find such fair mansion? Oswin's grave it is;

And she that o'er it kneels is Eanfleda,

Kinswoman of the noble dead, and wife

To Oswin's murderer — Oswy.

Saddest one

And sweetest! Lo, that cloud which overhung

Her cradle swathes once more in deeper gloom

Her throne late won, and new-decked bridal bed.

This was King Edwin's babe, whose natal star

Shone on her father's pathway doubtful long,

Shone there a line of light, from pagan snares

Leading to Christian baptism. Penda heard —

Penda, that drew his stock from Odin's loins,

Penda, that drank his wine from skulls of foes,

Penda, fierce Mercia's king. He heard, and fell

In ruin on the region. Edwin dead,

Paulinus led the widow and her babe

Back to that Kentish shore whereon had reigned

Its grandsire Ethelbert.

The infant's feet

Pattered above the pavement of that church

In Canterbury by Augustine raised;

The child grew paler when Gregorian chants

Shook the dim roofs. Gladly the growing girl

Hearkened to stories of her ancestress

Clotilda, boast of France, but weeping turned

From legends whispered by her Saxon nurse

Of Loke, the Spirit accursed that slanders gods,

And Sinna, Queen of Hell. The years went by;

The last had brought King Oswy's embassage

With suit obsequious,‘ Let the princess share

With me her father's crown.’ To simple hearts

Changes come gently. Soon, all trust, she stood

Before God's altar with her destined lord:

Adown her finger while the bride-ring ran

So slid into her heart a true wife's love:

Rooted in faith, it ripened day by day —

And now the end was this!

There as she knelt

A strong foot clanged behind her.‘ Weeping still!

Up, wife of mine! If Oswin had not died

His gracious ways had filched from me my realm,

The base so loved his meekness!’ Turning not

She answered low:‘ He died an unarmed man:’

And Oswy:‘ Fool that fought not when he might;

At least his slaughtered troop had decked his grave!

I scorned him for his grief that men should die;

And, scorning him, I hated; yea, for that

His blood is on my sword!’

The priests of God

Had faced the monarch and denounced his crime:

They might as well have preached to ocean waves:

He felt no anger: he but deemed them mad,

And smiling went his way. Thus autumn passed:

The queen — he knew it — when alone wept on:

Near him the pale face smiled; the voice was sweet;

Loving the service; the obedience full:

Neither by words, by silence, nor by looks

She chid him. Like some penitent she walked

That mourns her own great sin.

Yet Oswy's heart,

Remorseless thus, had moods of passionate love:

A warrior of his host, Tosti by name,

Lay low, plague-stricken: kith and kin had fled:

Whole days the king sustained upon his knees

The sufferer's head, and cheered his heart with songs

Of Odin, strangely blent with Christian hymns,

While ofttimes stormy bursts of tears descended

Upon that face upturned. Ministering he sat

Till death the vigil closed.

One winter night

From distant chase belated he returned,

And passed by Oswin's grave. The snow, new-fallen,

Whitened the precinct. In the blast she knelt,

While coldly glared the broad and bitter moon

Upon those flying flakes that on her hair

Settled, or on her thin, light raiment clung.

She heard him not draw nigh. She only beat

Her breast, and, praying, wept:‘ Our sin, our sin!’

There as the monarch stood a change came o'er him:

Old, exiled days in Alba as a dream

Redawned upon his spirit, and that look

In Aidan's eyes when, binding first that cross

Long by his pupil craved, around his neck,

He whispered:‘ He who serveth Christ, his Lord,

Must love his fellow-man.’ As when a stream,

The ice dissolved, grows audible once more,

So came to him those words. They dragged him down:

He knelt beside his wife, and beat his breast,

And said,‘ My sin, my sin!’ Till earliest morn

Glimmered through sleet that twain wept on, prayed on:—

Was it the rising sun that lit at last

The fair face upward lifted;— kindled there

A lovelier dawn than o'er it blushed when first

Dropped on her bridegroom's breast? Aloud she cried:

‘ Our prayer is heard: our penitence finds grace:’

Then added:‘ Let it deepen till we die!

A monastery build we on this grave:

So from this grave, while fleet the years, that prayer

Shall rise both day and night, till Christ returns

To judge the world — a prayer for him who died;

A prayer for one who sinned, but sins no more.’

Where Gilling's long and lofty hill o'erlooks

For leagues the forest-girdled plain, ere long

A monastery stood. That self-same day

In tears the penitential work began;

In tears the sod was turned. The rugged brows

Of March relaxed‘ neath April's flying kiss:

Again the violet rose, the thrush was loud;

Mayday had come. Around that hallowed spot

Full many a warrior met; some Christians vowed;

Some muttering low of Odin. Near to these

Stood one of lesser stature, keener eye,

More fiery gesture. Splenetic, he marked,

Christian albeit himself, those Christian walls

By Saxon converts raised:— he was a Briton.

Invisibly that morn a dusky crape

O'erstretched the sky; and slowly swayed the bough

Heavy with midnight rains. Through mist the woods

Let out the witchery of their young fresh green

Backed by the dusk of ruddy oaks that still

Reserved at heart the old year's stubbornness,

Yet blent it with that purple distance glimpsed

Beyond the forest alleys.

In a tent

Finan sang Mass: his altar was that stone

Which told where Oswin died. Before it knelt

The king, the queen: alone their angels know

Their thoughts that hour! The sacred rite complete,

They raised their brows, and, hand-in-hand, made way

To where, beyond the portal, shone blue skies,

Nature's long-struggling smile at last divulged.

The throng — with passion it had prayed for each —

Divided as they passed. In either face

They saw the light of that conceded prayer,

The peace of souls forgiven.

From that day forth

Hourly in Oswy's spirit soared more high

The one true greatness. Flaming heats of soul,

Through faith subjected to a law divine,

Like fire, man's vassal, mastering iron ore,

Learned their true work. The immeasurable strength

Had found at once its master and its end,

And, balanced thus while weighted, soared to God.

In all his ways he prospered, work and word

Yoked to one end. Till then the Kingdoms Seven,

Opposed in interests as diverse in name,

Had looked on nothing like him. Now, despite

Mercia that frowned, they named him king of kings,

Bretwalda; and the standard of the Seven

In peace foreran his feet. The Spirits of might

Before his vanguard winged their way in war,

Scattering the foe; and in his peacefuller years

Upon the aerial hillside high and higher

The golden harvest clomb, waving delight

On eyes upraised from winding rivers clear

That shone with milky sails. His feet stood firm,

For with his growing greatness ever grew

His penitence. Still sang the cloistered choir,

Year after year pleading o'er Oswin's tomb,

‘ To him who perished grant thy Vision, Lord;

To him the slayer, penitence and peace;

Let Oswin pray for Oswy:’ Oswin prayed.

What answered Penda when the tidings came

Of Oswy glorying in the yoke of Christ,

Of Oswy's victories next? Grinding his teeth,

He spake what no man heard. Then rumour rose

Of demon-magic making Oswy's tongue

Fell as his sword.‘ Within the sorcerer's court,’

It babbled,‘ stood the brave East Saxon king:

Upon his shoulder Oswy laid a hand

Accursed and whispered in his ear. The king,

Down sank, perforce, a Christian!’ Lightning flashed

From under Penda's gray and shaggy brows;—

‘ Forth to Northumbria, son,’ he cried,‘ and back;

And learn if this be true.’

That son obeyed,

Peada, to whose heart another's heart,

Alcfrid's, King Oswy's son, was knit long since

As David's unto Jonathan's. One time

A tenderer heart had leaned, or seemed to lean,

Motioning that way, Alfleda's, Alcfrid's sister,

Younger than he six years.‘ Twas so no more:

No longer on Peada's eyes her eyes

Rested well-pleased: not now the fearless hand

Tarried in his contented.‘ Sir and king,’

Peada thus to Oswy spake,‘ of old

Thy child — then child indeed — would mount my knee;

Now, when I seek her, like a swan she fleets

That arches back its neck‘ twixt snowy wings,

And, swerving, sideway drifts. My lord and king,

The child is maiden: give her me for wife!’

Oswy made answer:‘ He that serves not Christ

Can wed no child of mine.’ Alfleda then

Dropping her broidery lifted on her sire

Gently the dewy light of childlike eyes

And spake,‘ But he in time will worship Christ!’

Then, without blush or tremor, to her work

Softly returned. Silent her mother smiled.

That moment, warned of God, from Lindisfarne

Finan, unlooked for, entered. Week by week

Reverend and mild he preached the Saviour-Lord:

Grave-eyed, with listening face and forehead bowed,

The prince gave ear, not like that trivial race

Who catch the sense ere spoken, smile assent,

And in a moment lose it. On his brow

At times the apprehension dawned, at times

Faded. Oft turned he to his Mercian lords:—

‘ How trow ye, friends? He speaks of what he knows!

Good tidings these! Each evening while I muse

Distinct they shine like yonder mountain range;

Each morning, mists conceal them.’ Passed a month;

Then suddenly, as one that wakes from dream,

Peada rose:‘ Far rather would I serve

Thy Christ,’ he said,‘ and thus Alfleda lose,

Than win Alfleda, and reject thy Christ.’

He spake: old Finan first gave thanks to God,

Who grants the pure heart valour to believe,

Then took his hand and led him to that Cross

On Heaven-Field raised beneath the Roman Wall,

That cross King Oswald's standard in the fight,

That cross Cadwallon's sentence as he fell,

‘ That cross which conquered;’ — there to God baptized;

Likewise his thanes and earls.

Meantime, far off

In Penda's palace-keep the revel raged,

High feast of rites impure. At banquet sat

The monarch and his chiefs; chant followed chant

Bleeding with wars foregone. The day went by,

And, setting ere its time, a sanguine sun

Dipped into tumult vast of gathering storm

That soon incumbent leant from tower to tower

And shook them to their base. As high within

The gladness mounted, meeting storm with storm,

Till cried that sacrificial priest whose knife

Had pierced the warrior victim's willing throat

That morn,‘ Already with the gods we feast!

Hark! round Valhalla swell the phantom wars!’

Ere ceased the shout applausive, from his seat

Uprose the warrior Saxo, in his hand

The goblet, in the other Alp, his sword,

Pointing to heaven.‘ To Odin health!’ he cried;

‘ Would that this hour he rode into this hall!

He should not hence depart till blood of his

Had reddened Sleipner's flank, his snow-white steed:

This sword would shed that blood!’ Warriors sixteen

Leaped up in wrath, and for a moment rage

Rocked the huge hall. But Saxo waved his sword,

And, laughing, shouted,‘ Odin's sons, be still!

Count it no sin to battle with high gods!

Great-hearted they! They give the blow and take!

To Odin who was ever leal as I?’

As sudden as it rose the tumult fell:

So ceased the storm without: but with it ceased

The rapture and the madness, and the shout:

The wine-cup still made circuit; but the song

Froze in mid-air. Strange shadow hung o'er all:

Neighbour to neighbour whispered: courtiers slid

Through doors scarce open. Rumour had arrived,

If true or false none knew.

The morrow morn

From Penda's court the bravest fled in fear,

Questioning with white lips,‘ Will he slay his son?’

Or skulked at distance. Penda by the throat

Catching a white-cheeked courtier, cried:‘ The truth!

What whisper they in corners?’ On his knees

That courtier made confession. Penda then,

‘ Live, since my son is yet a living man!

A Christian, say'st thou? Let him serve his Christ!

That man whom ever most I scorned is he

Who vows him to the service of some god,

Yet breaks his laws; for that man walks, a lie.

My son shall live, and after me shall reign:

Northumbrian realm shall die!’

Thus Penda spake

And sent command from tower and town to blow

Instant the trumpet of his last of wars,

Fanning from Odin's hall with airs ice-cold

Of doom the foes of Odin.‘ Man nor child,’

He sware,' henceforth shall tread Northumbrian soil,

Nor hart nor hind: I spare the creeping worm:

My scavenger is he,’ The Mercian realm

Rose at his call, innumerable mass

Of warriors iron-armed. East Anglia sent

Her hosts in aid. Apostate Ethelwald,

Though Oswy's nephew, joined the hostile league,

And thirty chiefs beside that ruled by right

Princedom or province. Mightier far than these

Old Cambria, brooding o'er the ancestral wrong,

The Saxon's sin original, met his call,

And vowed her to the vengeance.

Bravest hearts

Hate most the needless slaughter. Oswy mused:

‘ Long since too much of blood is on this hand:

Shall I for pride or passion risk once more

Northumbria, my mother;— rudely stain

Her pretty babes with blood?’ To Penda then,

Camped on the confines of the adverse realms,

He sent an embassage of reverend men,

Warriors and priests. Before them, staff in hand,

Peaceful, with hoary brows and measured tread,

Twelve heralds paced. Twelve caskets bare they heaped

With gems and gold, and thus addressed the King:

‘ Lord of the Mercian realm, renowned in arms!

Our lord, Northumbria's monarch, bids thee hail:

He never yet in little thing or great

Hath wronged thy kingdom; yet thy peace he woos:

Accept the gifts he sends thee, and, thus crowned,

Depart content.’ Penda with backward hand

Waved them far from him, and vouchsafed no word.

In sadness they returned: but Oswy smiled

Hearing their tale, and said:‘ My part is done:

Let God decide the event,’ He spake, and took

The caskets twelve, and placed them, side by side,

Before the altar of his chiefest church,

And vowed to raise to God twelve monasteries,

In honour of our Lord's Apostles Twelve,

On greenest upland, or in sylvan glade

Where purest stream kisses the richest mead.

His vow recorded, sudden through the church

Ran with fleet foot a lady mazed with joy,

Crying,‘ A maiden babe! and lo, the queen

Late dying lives and thrives!’ That eve the king

Bestowed on God the new-born maiden babe,

Laying her cradled‘ mid those caskets twelve,

Six at each side; and said:‘ For her nor throne

Nor marriage bower! She in some holy house

Shall dwell the Bride of Christ. But thou, just God,

This day avenge my people!’

Windwaed field

Heard, distant still, that multitudinous foe

Trampling the darksome ways. With pallid face

Morning beheld their standards, raven-black —

Penda had thus decreed, before him sending

Northumbria's sentence. On a hill, thick-set

Stood Oswy's army, small, yet strong in faith,

A wedge-like phalanx, fenced by rocks and woods;

A river in its front. His standards white

Sustained the Mother-Maid and Babe Divine:

From many a crag his altars rose, choir-girt,

And crowned by incense wreath.

An hour ere noon,

That river passed, in thunder met the hosts;

But Penda, straitened by that hilly tract,

Could wield not half his force. Sequent as waves

On rushed they: Oswy's phalanx like a cliff

Successively down dashed them. Day went by:

At last the clouds dispersed: the westering sun

Glared on the spent eyes of those Mercian ranks

Which in their blindness each the other smote,

Or, trapped by hidden pitfalls, fell on stakes,

And died blaspheming. Little help that day

Gat they from Cambria. She on Heaven-Field height

Had felt her death-wound, slow albeit to die.

The apostate Ethelwald in panic fled:

The East Anglians followed. Swollen by recent rains,

And choked with dead, the river burst its bound,

And raced along the devastated plain

Till cry of drowning horse and shriek of man

Rang far and farther o'er that sea of death,

A battle-field but late. This way and that

Briton or Mercian where he might escaped

Through flood or forest. Penda scorned to fly:

Thrice with extended arms he met and cursed

The fugitives on rushing. As they passed

He flung his crownèd helm into the wave,

And bit his brazen shield, above its rim

Levelling a look that smote with chill like death

Their hearts that saw it. Yet one moment more

He sat like statue on some sculptured horse

With upraised hand, close-clenched, denouncing Heaven:

Then burst his mighty heart. As stone he fell

Dead on the plain. Not less in after times

Mercian to Mercian said,‘ Without a wound

King Penda died, although on battle-field,

Therefore with Odin Penda shares not feast.’

Thus pagan died old Penda as he lived:

Yet Penda's sons were Christian, kindlier none;

His daughters nuns; and lamb-like Mercia's House,

Lion one while, made end. King Oswy raised

His monasteries twelve: benigner life

Around them spread: wild waste, and robber bands

Vanished: the poor were housed, the hungry fed:

And Oswy sent his little new-born babe

Dewed with her mother's tear-drops, Eanfleda,

Like some young lamb with fillet decked and flower,

Yet dedicated not to death, but life,

To Hilda sent on Whitby's sea-washed hill,

Who made her Bride of Christ. The years went by,

And Oswy, now an old king, glory-crowned,

His country from the Mercian thraldom loosed

And free from north to south, in heart resolved

A pilgrim, Romeward faring with bare feet,

To make his rest by Peter's tomb and Paul's.

God willed not thus: within his native realm

The sickness unto death clasped him with hold

Gentle but firm. Long sleepless, t'ward the close

Amid his wanderings smiling, from the couch

He stretched a shrivelled hand, and pointing said,

‘ Who was it fabled she had died in age?

In all her youthful beauty holy and pure,

Lo, where she kneels upon the wintry ground,

The snow-flakes circling round her, yet with face

Bright as a star!’ so spake the king, and taking

Into his heart that vision, slept in peace.

His daughter, abbess then on Whitby's height,

Within her church interred her father's bones

Beside her grandsire's, Edwin. Side by side

They rested, one Bernicia's king, and one

Dëira's — great Northumbrian sister realms;

Long foes, yet blended by that mingling dust.