Silent, with gloomy brows in conclave sat The monks of Bardeney, nigh the eastern sea;-- Rumour, that still outruns the steps of ill, Smote on their gates with news: 'Osthryda comes To bury here her royal uncle's bones, Northumbrian Oswald.' Oswald was a Saint; Had loosed from Pagan bonds that Christian land His own by right. But Oswald had subdued Lindsay, a Mercian province; and the monks Were sons of Mercia leal and true. Osthryda, Northumbrian born, had wedded Mercia's King; Therefore the monks of Bardeney pondered thus: 'This Mercian Queen spurns her adopted country! Must Mercia therefore build her conqueror's tomb? Though earth and hell cried "Ay," it should not be!' Thus mused the brethren till the sun went down: Then lo! beyond a vista in the woods Drew nigh a Bier, black-plumed, with funeral train: Thereon the stern monks gazed, and gave command To close the Abbey's gate. Beside that gate Tent-roofed that Bier remained. Before them soon Stood up the royal herald. Thus he spake: 'Ye sacred monks of Bardeney's Abbey, hail! Osthryda, wife of Ethelred our King, Prays that God's peace may keep this House forever. The Queen has hither brought, by help of God, King Oswald's bones, and sues for them a grave Within this hallowed precinct.' Answer came: 'King Oswald, living, was Northumbria's King; King Oswald, by the pride of life seduced, Wrested from Mercia's sceptre Lindsay's soil; Therefore in Lindsay's soil King Oswald, dead, May never find repose.' Before them next Three earls advanced full-armed, and spake loud-voiced: 'Our Queen is consort of the Mercian King; Ye, monks, are Mercian subjects! Sirs, beware! Our King and Queen have loved you well till now, And ranked your abbey highest in their realm: But hearts ingrate can sour the mood of love; And Ethelred, though mild as summer skies When mildly used, once angered'----Answer came: 'We know it, and await our doom, content: If Mercia's King contemns his realm, more need That Mercia's priests her confessors should die: In Bardeney's church King Oswald ne'er shall rest: Ye have your answer, Earls!' Through that dim hall Ere long a gentler embassage made way, Three priests; arrived, they knelt, and, reverent, spake: 'Fathers and brethren, Oswald was a Saint! He loosed his native land from pagan thrall: Churches and convents everywhere he built: His relics, year by year, grow glorious more Through miracles and signs. Fathers revered, Within this sanctuary beloved of God Vouchsafe his dust interment!' They replied: 'We know that Oswald is a Saint with God: We know he freed his realm from pagan thrall; We know that churches everywhere he built;