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