God gave the Monks the victory, The power of Jesus’ Name Prevailed among those savage hearts, Put out the cruel flame; Rescued the boy, and snatched the babe From that dread altar’s side; Plunged them in gentle mercy’s stream, The blest Baptismal tide. The days and weeks passed swiftly, New converts owned the Lord, Ere long, all Abermawr became Obedient to the Word. * * * * * Seventy long years had flown away, See! Aberdaron weeps; Forth from her Church beside the shore, {23a} A long procession sweeps. See crowds of pilgrims waiting From all Carnarvon round, The hushing of the sea roar, To cross the dangerous sound. {23b} The Church at Aberdaron Is wet with mourners’ tears; Dubritius has entered Upon the Eternal years. His body rests so calmly Before the Altar high, The Priests are softly wailing The mournful Requiem’s sigh. Upon the Altar glisten The waxen tapers tall, And summer flowers are lying Upon the snow-white pall. Sweet Incense clouds are rising Around the hallowed bier; From many an eye is falling The sad, the loving tear. Dubritius left Bardsey, His lov’d—his peaceful home, For fifty years mid war-strife, This valiant Saint did roam. But now, in peace, he cometh, In Bardsey’s Isle to rest, His spirit calmly dwelling In regions of the blest. Lower your crest, ye foam waves, Wail adverse winds no more, Dubritius must pass over To Bardsey’s sainted shore. ’Tis evening, and the sun glow Is lighting up the sea: The tiny waves are dancing, For merriment and glee. They bore Dubritius to toil, To the fight at Abermawr, And now they sing his lullaby, And hush their noisy roar. The boats are filling quickly At Aberdaron’s quay, The Bardsey bells are pealing, Across the crimson sea. The Aberdaron Canons {25} Are chanting their sweet Psalm, The blessed Saint is passing Across those waters calm. The Bay of Aberdaron Seems full of peace and life, Dubritius the Warrior, As victor from the strife, Is coming full of glory, To his Island Home again; The welcome bells are ringing, Athwart the calm blue main. Hark! how the chant is rising From a hundred boats and mo’, Mingling its soft sweet requiem, With the murmuring wavelet’s flow. And now the fleet of mourners Reaches the haven still, And th’ Monks’ slow, sad procession Is winding down the hill. The sacred banners waving, In th’ restful evening air, Borne by some weeping novices, Wrought in devices rare. And Incense-clouds ascending, And many a taper’s light, Burst on the pilgrims’ vision, A fair and holy sight. “Requiem æternam,” The aged Abbot sings;