It was a calm sweet festal, In joyous, summer time, And Bardsey’s Abbey bell-notes Rang out a merry chime. The Island seem’d rejoicing, With holy joy and mirth, The Monks are going to honour St. John the Baptist’s birth. For John shines forth as Primate Of Monkish Choirs above, On earth he dwelt in deserts, And knew no earthly love. The poor, the sad, the orphans, All love St. Mary’s shrine, And venerate her Cloister, Fill’d with the Love Divine. The Fathers, and the Novices, They count as loving friends, Whom Jesus in His Mercy, The poor and helpless sends. They teach their children sweetly, The Gospel’s glorious tales, And tend their sick and dying With care that never fails. No poor’s rates, and no workhouse, Were needed in those days, The monks were all they wanted, They work’d for Jesu’s praise. The Holy Mass was over, The Abbot seeks his cell, His heart is strangely trembling, Wherefore he cannot tell. ’Tis some foreboding sorrow That makes his spirit sad, Though all around is sunshine And everything seems glad. A strange, a chill forewarning, Shakes the old man with fear, Some dread, some dire affliction, Too surely must be near. That night, ere hushful Compline Had closed the sacred day, Two boats the Point were rounding, Of Aberdaron’s Bay. In one brief hour there landed, On Bardsey’s holy shore, Ten men from Windsor, bringing Tidings most sad and sore. They seek at once admission, Telling the news they bring, The Monks must, ere the morrow, Surrender to the king The Abbey and its treasures, Its Church, its relics rare, Its Vestments and its Chalices, Its Shrines with jewels fair. The Monks _must_ sign surrender, Acknowledge many a sin They never could have dreamt of, If they would safety win. And call the tyrant merciful, For driving them away, Making them leave their Abbey To ruin and decay. {48} The Compline Bell was tolling Its last dear Compline call, To-morrow death-like ruin Would o’er the Convent fall. That night the holy Fathers Held consultation long, And all agreed—Surrender Would be unjust and wrong. “Then die we at God’s Altar, Sooner than yield the right Which God Himself has given us, To sacrilegious might.” And true to their confession The holy Monks remained, And with their virgin life-blood The Altar-steps are stained. The poor arose right bravely, Their much-loved Monks to aid, And many thus right gladly Their lives a forfeit made. Now having done all thoroughly, Their work of cruel wrong, They left the Island weeping, All hushed the Holy Song, Which for so many ages, By night as well as day,