_SAINT FRIDESWIDA, OR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OXFORD_.
Frideswida flies from the pursuit of a wicked king, invoking the Divine aid and the prayers of St. Catherine and St. Cecilia. She escapes; and at the hour of her death those Saints reveal to her that in that place, near the Isis, where she has successively opened a blind man's eyes and healed a leper, God will one day raise up a seat of Learning, the light and the health of the realm.
'One love I; One: within His bridal bower My feet shall tread: One love I, One alone: His Mother is a Virgin, and His Sire The unfathomed fount of pureness undefiled: Him love I Whom to love is to be chaste: Him love I touched by Whom my forehead shines: Whom she that clasps grows spotless more and more: Behold, to mine His spirit He hath joined: And His the blood that mantles in my cheek: His ring is on my finger.' Thus she sang; Then walked and plucked a flower: she sang again: 'That which I longed for, lo, the same I see: That which I hoped for, lo, my hand doth hold: At last in heaven I walk with Him conjoined Whom, yet on earth, I loved with heart entire.' Thus carolled Frideswida all alone, Treading the opens of a wood far spread Around the upper waters of the Thames. Christian almost by instinct, earth to her Was shaped but to sustain the Cross of Christ. Her mother lived a saint: she taught her child, From reason's dawn, to note in all things fair Their sacred undermeanings. 'Mark, my child, In lamb and dove, not fleshly shapes,' she said, 'But heavenly types: upon the robin's breast Revere that red which bathed her from the Cross With slender bill striving to loose those Nails!' Dying, that mother placed within her hand A book of saintly legends. Thus the maid Grew up with mysteries clothed, with marvels fed, A fearless creature swift as wind or fire: But fires of hers were spirit-fires alone, All else like winter moon. The Wessex King Had gazed upon the glory of her face, And deemed that face a spirit's. He had heard Her voice; it sounded like an angel's song; But wonder by degrees declined to love, Such love as Pagans know. The unworthy suit, She scorned, from childhood spoused in heart to Christ: She fled: upon the river lay a boat: She rowed it on through forests many a mile; A month had passed since then. Midsummer blazed On all things round: the vast, unmoving groves Stretched silent forth their immemorial arms Arching a sultry gloom. Within it buzzed Feebly the insect swarm: the dragon-fly Stayed soon his flight: the streamlet scarce made way: In shrunken pools, panting, the cattle stood, Languidly browsing on the dried-up sprays: No bird-song shook the bower. Alone that maid Glided light-limbed, as though some Eden breeze, Hers only, charioted the songstress on, Like those that serve the May. Beneath a tree Low-roofed at last she sank, with eyes up-raised On boughs that, ivy-twined and creeper-trailed, Darkened the shining splendour of the sky:-- Between their interspaces, here and there, It flashed in purple stars. Enraptured long, For admiration was to her as love, The maiden raised at last her mother's book, And lit upon her childhood's favourite tale, Catherine in vision wed to Bethlehem's Babe Who from His Virgin-Mother leaning, dropped His ring adown her finger. Princely pride, And pride not less of soaring intellect, At once in her were changed to pride of love: In vain her country's princes sued her grace; Kingdoms of earth she spurned. Around her seat The far-famed Alexandrian Sages thronged, Branding her Faith as novel. Slight and tall, 'Mid them, keen-eyed the wingless creature stood Like daughter of the sun on earth new-lit:-- That Faith she shewed of all things first and last; All lesser truths its prophets. Swift as beams Forth flashed such shafts of high intelligence That straight their lore sophistic shrivelled up, And Christians they arose. The martyr's wheel Was pictured in the margin, dyed with red, And likewise, azure-tinct on golden ground, Her queenly throne in heaven. 'Ah shining Saint!' Half weeping, smiling half, the virgin cried; 'Yet dear not less thy sister of the West; For never gaze I on that lifted face, Or mark that sailing angel near her stayed, But straight her solemn organs round me swell; All discords cease.' Then with low voice she read Of Rome's Cecilia, her who won to Christ, (That earlier troth inviolably preserved) Her Roman bridegroom, wondering at that crown Invisible itself, that round her breathed Rose-breath celestial; her that to the Church Gave her ancestral house; and, happier gift, Devotion's heavenliest instrument of praise; Her that, unfearing, dared that Roman sword; And when its work was done, for centuries lay Like marble, 'mid the catacombs, unchanged, In sleep-resembling death.