Sonnets of the Cross

NOTE

“IT is my feeling,” writes the Author, “that these sonnets belong to England and the English Church: and I feel that any emphasis on the unity of Britain at this time is most valuable. If through these poems I can turn any souls to those noble names—Joseph, Ninian, Patrick, Briget, Columba, Oswald—their purpose is more than fulfilled.

“If in any small way I can counteract the present wave of materialism and the rank denial of holy and noble things, I shall be happy.

“My one desire is to serve Him who is the centre of all great and good souls before and since His Incarnation.”

The Society of SS. Peter and Paul, recognizing the intrinsic merit of these poems, now offers them to English readers for the first time, by the kind permission of the Author. That there will be evinced a desire for a fuller measure of Mr. Jones’ work is beyond all doubt. A critic in America (whence the poems have come) has in a few words most adequately expressed their character.

“Reading the poems consecutively, one has the feeling of withdrawing deeper and deeper into some still place; a hush is upon everything as if one entered into a Sanctuary. It is a quiet altogether mystical, as if evoked for us by one who had found the serene beauty at the heart of Life. It is the mood which comes upon one who wanders alone into a wood, dreaming in a still autumnal peace.”

A.M.D.G.

I. YNISWITRIN

DIM watered vale whose clear streams seek the sea, At gray of dawn strange gods walked in the wood Before Saint Joseph’s wattled chapel stood Woven with green wands from some Druid tree; The fragrance of a lost simplicity Clings to the tomb of the white brotherhood That wandered through wild lands, yet found it good To linger here apart with Calvary

The feet of frost have touched you, now you wear Autumn’s rich mined splendour and soft haze— The memory of immemorial fires; But as you dream alone, the sea-winds bear A whispered promise from wide starry ways Of new songs that shall fill those fallen choirs,

II. THE FOREST

IN lonely thickets where the wood is deep The sickles of thin gold weave to and fro, Among the boughs of ghostly mistletoe Beneath a night of whispering leaves they reap And with the waning moon the Druids creep From knoll and hollow noiseless as the snow, Their white bulls pace about the pool and low Through mists of magic while walled cities sleep.

But when the wakened forest moves and gleams, They vanish at the singing of a bird And Ninian leaves his hidden resting-place; Still with the winged angel of his dreams Down empty groves he leads his savage herd, The light of dawn on his uplifted face.

III. OLD MAGIC

As light swings wide the mighty Eastern door He comes with crozier and a silver bell To bless the green wood where the Druids dwell Alone with coloured winds and starry lore; They hear his feet along the leafy floor And tremble when he nears their wizard-well, For shadows of a golden citadel No longer veil its deeps with faery ore.

All forest wisdom must give way to him: Never at evening will the speckled wren Foretell the ages from a dewy thorn, Nor gray priests watch until the moon grows dim The milk-white hounds slip through a silent glen And vanish up the flaming slopes of morn.

IV. CROAGH PATRICK

WHILE Patrick kneels upon the lonely height The mist dissolves, the sun sends out its beams On desolate wild moors, gray mountain streams, And wooded hills bleak as a northern night, Then down long water verges sinks from sight Of mortal shores and that lost land that dreams Within the ocean—now the sea-star gleams Through parted trees of gold and crimson light.

But still he waits, his head in reverence bowed, For birds of God on wings of fire and snow Fly singing from the sunset: as he prays They fold Croagh Aigli in a living cloud; Their triumph song foretells to isles below The coming of the Saints, the golden days!

V. THE POOL OF HEALING: IONA

DEW on thyme-sprinkled turf and heatherbell And smooth sea spaces stretching lone and gray, A quiet hill-top where a deep pool lay Like a pale star within a rocky shell And by the windless water of the well A woman waited for the dawn’s first ray— Lulled by the movement of the leaping spray She saw a vision of far Israel:

The Mother in the shadowy cattle-byre, So meek and patient that good Briget wept, Nor heard the gulls, nor watched the brightening sky; But from the East there shone a path of fire, And Mary bent above her while she slept In the clear golden sunrise on Dun-I.

VI. CLONARD

THE river meads of vanished Clonard hold Forgotten dreams, white memories pure as dew, Of fragrant days when scholars wandered through The marshy grass and hearts had not grown old; Beneath her purple hills a saint once told A starry tale, a story strange and new Brought from the dawn-lands—and all Eire drew Around his moat to hear the words of gold.

There stands no cross, or tower, or ancient wall Mellow with simple peace men used to know, And from the fields no courtly town has sprung: Only along green hanks the blackbirds call, Just as they did a thousand years ago In morning meadows when the world was young.

VII. THE BATTLE OF THE BOOK

BENEATH bronze chariot wheels the torn earth steamed A mighty death-mist, Druids called in vain Their forest gods, across the battle plain The savage stallions of Diarmuid screamed For on Columba’s men a brightness streamed Keener than whistling sword-flame or fierce rain Of whirling brands, and high above the slain Invisible with light mailed Michael gleamed.

The armies bowed like grass on windy weirs Before the unknown foeman’s burning shield,— Then from the silence rose hoarse triumph cries And brass walls wavered under rattling spears, As wild Tyr-Conall’s prince swept down the field Led by the lone white warrior of the skies.

VIII. SAINT COLUMBA

THE murmuring tide foams slowly up the sands, Behind a veil of gold lost Ireland lies, And with the sunset in his yearning eyes Alone on Colum-kill Columba stands; He frees the white bird from his tender hands, Beyond a changing violet sea it flies, A streak of mist against the burnished skies It vanishes in far green Western lands.

The tides still whisper through the waning light, Wings still find rest along that wave-worn place, But he will climb the cold gray rocks no more; And yet ye know that from a fairer height He watches across deeps of star-filled space The well-loved outline of his Irish shore.

IX. SAINT ORAN

SAINT ORAN told them while the West grew dim About lone islands whither he had gone, And how he saw the orchards of the dawn Lying beyond the green earth’s burnished rim; Upon that golden wall walked Cherubim Whose shadows were a snow-light on the lawn, And ere their gentle wonder was withdrawn One pitying held a starry branch toward him.

The cowled monks listened, and at vesper bell They left him in a quiet place to dream By garden-ways where grasses drift like fleece; But when they reached the central ivied cell Across the altar moved the crimson gleam Of that wild fruit of flame whose taste is peace.

X. THE FAREWELL

COLUMBA sat upon an ancient mound Watching the gulls fly toward a distant sea, Their tameless wings impatient to be free Far from the narrow waters of the Sound And as he dreamed alone, an old horse found That quiet place beneath the quicken-tree, And with his head against his master’s knee His tears fell slowly on the thymy ground.

The memory of morning’s quenchless power, Fierce Pictish kings subdued before the Cross, Wild heathen countries white-robed monks had gained— All were forgotten in that parting hour: Even the angels vanished from the Ross, And only silent human love remained.

XI. SAINT BRENDAN

IN simple days before the gods were old A bishop left the warring forest bands, And on the beach there grew beneath his hands A silver coracle with oars of gold; It bore him where the sea and sky enfold Long dewy marges of the moon-white lands, A mist of stars around those dreaming strands Lifted a moment that he might behold.

Then swifter than the wind a shaft of fire Fled from the quivering bow-strings of his heart, To find the ever-hidden entrance there; And now in answer to a saint’s desire The island waits, held by that flaming dart, Upon the burnished edges of the air.

XII. THE HEAVENLY FIELD

THE dawn that woke a wild Northumbrian hill Shone on a golden youth; the meadow-lea Bore grim Cadwallon’s flaming host, but he Beside a wooden cross was firm and still For holy dreams fed Oswald’s heart until His eyes looked past the kingdoms toward the sea Whence vision came, and he was fain to free The savage land of all its ancient ill.

Unlike the Roman lords whose ruined wall Frowned on the field, unlike dread ocean kings He kept lone vigil with the crimson mom; And archangelic rang his battle call Against mailed might and fierce dark Pagan things From that red height where Chivalry was born.

XIII. CAEDMON

FROM feast and song the simple cowherd crept: Again the harp had passed him on its way And he was mute—now in the fragrant hay Alone with dumb and patient beasts he wept; The oxen, ass, and timid sheep all kept Winter’s harsh cold from reaching where he lay, Their humid breath rose like an incense gray As on the Eve when Christ among them slept.

But ere the stars were folded in rose flame A Voice like a great wind rang clear and high, “Sing, Caedmon, of Creation’s radiant birth And when the first flushed light of morning came A hymn to God upsoared into the sky, And a new speech was given to the earth.

XIV. SAINT ALPHEGE

UPON the octave of green Easter Day From sorrowing London came the heathen host With their great hostage—off the Kentish coast Black Danish warships like a storm-cloud lay And there at feast, his head half turned away, Unshaken by fierce taunt or furious boast, Most resolute when he was threatened most, Brave Alphege looked across the windy bay.

An April dusk hid sunny Greenwich town, And cuckoos called from woods along the shore: He heard them, though the ox-skulls whistled by, Beholding ere the battle-axe flashed down His country’s future—Britain free once more! Then fell the Saxon saint content to die.

XV. THE CATHEDRAL

EACH lonely haunt where vanished tribes have dwelt Still holds a time-worn god long overthrown, Or ruined temple where dark woods have grown, With whose cola shrines warm earth has kindly dealt, For through all passing ages man has felt He has not wandered aimless or alone, And here within these walls of hallowed stone At last before Love’s very Presence knelt.

No blood of victims round the altar clings, Where He whose guerdon was a thorny crown Is sacrificed for men perpetually; And gifts of gold are dimmed by greater things,— The Bread in pity shared, the Life laid down That they who sit in darkness may be free.

XVI. HUGH OF SAINT VICTOR

THE sun sinks lower in the cypress-trees, A flower of light gleams through the fountain’s spray, And down green paths a hundred lilies sway Lifting their gold and silver to the breeze; But he who lingers there upon his knees Heeds not the bell that marks the closing day, Nor prayers low chanted within walls of gray Before an altar’s holy mysteries.

To him all music merges in one tone, All colours blend until each lovely hue, A veil of pure transparent brightness weaves; There on the ground he kneels, but not alone,— Silent as star-rise or the fall of dew God moves among bowed grass and trembling leaves.

XVII. SAINT FRANCIS

THE mossy paths that bore the patient herd Had led him far beyond the burning town By quiet pools where leaping sunbeams drown, And as he passed the lambs knew him and stirred; From out the tangled boughs each shy wild bird Like loosened leaves came fluttering slowly down Upon his ragged robe of dusty brown To hear the gentle music of his word.

But when the night sighed through the cloudy pine The green wood trembled with a seraph’s wings,— A moment flamed the Vision, then was gone! Long, long he lay beneath the matted vine, So still amid the song of waking things, And on his body Christ’s Wounds red as dawn.

XVIII. A WELL-SIDE

A SILVER chiming broke the tranquil spell That broods above wide wastes of amber brown, Then at the green edge of a shining town Knelt ten strange camels, and each bore a bell One after one thin topaz shadows fell, A star shone—then a maiden wandered down Wearing her gleaming pitcher like a crown, And pitied them so thirsty by the well.

When she gave drink, her tender unveiled face Was as a Spring moon in the twilight hour Upon the earth-cooled water far below; How little dreamed she of that unborn race— Mother of Israel, gathered like a flower From golden lands long centuries ago!

XIX. THE SPIRIT AND THE LAW

UPON lone mountain-sides they stood apart One on immortal stone did roughly trace Laws that still shape the conscience of a race As the bright North Star shapes a seaman’s chart; Then came another, He whose tender art Moved multitudes to seek through time and space The brooding Love that craves a dwelling-place Within the mystery of the human heart.

The grass that blows along the country ways, The little leaves between the earth and sky, The deepened lustres of an April dove Own light the only law of their brief days And as in light all colours folded lie, The Prophets and the Law are lost in Love.

XX. THE THREE MOTHERS

BEHIND man silent stand the mighty three: The great dim earth whose eager life up pressed To live a little hour upon her breast, Forgetful of its frail mortality; And Eve that with the fruit of Eden’s tree Started mankind upon the weary quest To find once more that long-lost place of rest, The Garden gained by piteous Calvary;

Last the meek Virgin, she who wondering heard An angel’s voice low on the trancèd air Greet her with heavenly music, “Mary, hail!” O Holy Mother of the Incarnate Word Who gave white Christmas to a world’s despair, We kneel to thee, the Lily of death’s vale.

XXI. THE REVELATION

BELOVÈD Saint, for you on Patmos shone The deathless One whose footsteps bright as brass Led from far Hell to where the sea of glass Surged without sound beneath the rainbowed throne; You saw the stars like seeds in autumn blown, The earth and sky fade like midsummer grass, And down from God the Holy City pass Radiant with gold and pearl and jasper-stone.

Amid the thunder of stupendous dooms And burning mystery of the Spirits Seven, Stood He whose Heart once beat beneath your head; And through the blinding lights and awful glooms You heard how Love unbars the Gate of Heaven Where pain shall cease and tears be comforted.

XXII. ACCORDING TO SAINT MARK

THE way was steep and wild; we watched Him go Through tangled thicket, over sharp-edged stone That tore His Feet until He stood alone Upon the summit where four great winds blow; Fearful we knelt on the cold rocks below, For the o’erhanging cloud had larger grown, A strange still radiance through His Body shone Whiter than moonlight on the mountain snow.

Then two that flamed amber and amethyst Were either side Him, while low thunder rolled Down to the ravens in their deep ravine; But when we looked again, as through a mist We saw Him near us.—Like a pearl we hold Close to our hearts what we have heard and seen.

XXIII. JERUSALEM

THE way of palms He passed in simple state And they that hailed Him knew a breathless awe, The lame leapt at His side, the blind eyes saw That Heaven descended to the desolate But where the temple rises chief priests wait— And He in whom the Roman found no flaw, Whose Love was greater than the ancient Law, Rides to His death beyond the city gate.

Jerusalem, what can efface the stain! Not full six days since He has entered in, And now the nails of Calvary pierce Him through; Yet wronged, forsaken, bearing mortal pain, Immortally He pardons your dark sin: Forgive them for they know not what they do.

XXIV. IN THE GARDEN

AT dusk of dawn the fragrant garden slept Full of a mystery the night had known, When Mary entered, trembling and alone, And as she trod the grassy way she wept; But from the place of deepest shadow crept A light most radiant—there was no stone! And the cold rock in which He rested shone Where two archangels holy vigil kept.

Wondering she saw the flame-white seraphim At that dark entrance bidding her rejoice, Yet on the flowers her tears fell one by one; Then turning comfortless in search of Him She heard the quiet music of a Voice, And Christ stood there against the rising sun.

XXV. THE ROAD TO EMMAUS

As they were hastening from Jerusalem There came a Man whose footfall gave no sound Nor left a trace upon the dusty ground, And He made plain all mysteries to them: The prophet line that led to Bethlehem Aflame with vision, and the Love unbound In that still dawn when life immortal crowned The lonely death upon the dark Tree-stem.

The little town was reached at eventide, And as He sate and blessed the food there seemed A light upon them, though the day was dead; They saw then Who had journeyed by their side Only to lose Him—and each thought he dreamed: But on the table lay the broken bread.

XXVI. THE PARTING

THAT He might better of Love’s mystery tell Into a lonely mountain they withdrew, Day’s golden fire cooled in deep wells of dew About His Head with softened splendour fell; And in each heart that heard the last farewell A quickening joy and deepening sorrow grew, And all were hushed—even the doubtful knew His was the power of Heaven and of Hell.

When He had ceased, a mighty wind rushed by From far beyond the sunset’s cloudless rim, And over them a glory seemed to bend Then like a star He rose into the sky, Sadly they watched the glowing light grow dim And heard the echoes ring, “Until the End.”