No. L. ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY. In the Reliques of Ancient Poetry, is the following—" Owaine Myles is a Ballad, giving an account of the wonders of St. Patrick's Purgatory. This is a translation into verse, of the story related in Mat. Paris's Hist. sub Ann. 1152.”—The version which is here offered to the Public is evidently modern: I am ignorant of the Author. I think the 19th stanza, in particular, has a great degree of merit. -"Now enter in!"-the Prior cried, 66 Many there are who reach this shore, "But few who venture to explore "St. Patrick's Purgatory." Adown the deep and dark descent And many a pray'r he pour'd; Nor grasp'd he shield or sword. The earth was moist beneath his tread, The damps fell heavy on his head, And sudden shudd'rings o'er him came, And he could feel through all his frame At length a dim and doubtful light Th' advent'rer hasten'd on. And now the warrior's steps attain With gem-born radiance shone. -"Come, enter here!"-the Warden cried, "And God, oh Pilgrim, be 66 your guide, "Since you have reach'd this bourne! Enter, and take assistance due ""Twill then be time to welcome you, "If ever you return." Sir Ouvain pass'd the open gate, The Warden him conducted straight To where a coffin lay: The train around in silence stand, With fun'ral torches in their hands, That gave a gloomy day. -"Few pilgrims ever reach this bourne, Stranger! but fewer still return: "Receive assistance due! 66 Stranger, a dreadful hour is near: "Cast off all mortal feelings here, "This coffin is for you. "Lie here, while we with pious breath "Shall o'er you chaunt the dirge of death,— "Best aid that we can give : "The rites that wait the Christian dead "Shall never o'er your corpse be said— "Receive them while you live." Sir Ouvain in a shroud was drest, He held the cross upon his breast, And down he laid his head; The funeral train enclos'd him round, And sung with deep and solemn sound The service of the dead. "Now, go your way," the Warden cried, "And God, oh Pilgrim, be your guide! "Commend you to the Lord!" Adown the deep and dark descent, With cautious step, the warrior went, And many a pray'r he pour'd. Now deeper grew the dark descent, With timid step Sir Ouvain went 'Twas silence all around; Save his own echoes through the cell, And the thick damps that frequent fell, But colder now he felt the cell, Those heavy damps no longer fell, Thin grew the piercing air : And on the advent'rer's aching sight Far rose a pale and feeble light,— Th' advent'rer hasten'd there. And now at length emerged to light, A desart waste and wide; Where rocks of ice piled mountain high, That towered into the sunless sky, Appear'd on every There side. many a wretch, with deadly fear, Ribb'd in the ice, he saw appear Alive in this their tomb; Sir Ouvain's blood stood still with dread, And then a voice in thunder said, "Retire, or share their doom!" Awhile his heart forgot to beat, And sought for strength in pray'r; And through the sky resistless swung, Thus by the arm of Dæmon thrown, He felt the crash of ev'ry bone, And still he lived within. "Now, mercy Christ!"-the warrior cried, Instant the rocks of ice divide, And ev'ry pain was gone; He felt new life in ev'ry limb, And raised to heav'n the grateful hymn, And fearless hasten'd on. New fears, new dangers doom'd to meet, Relax'd each loosen'd limb; The sweat roll'd out from every part, In short quick beatings toil'd his heart, His throbbing eyes grew dim. |