Saints in Sussex
9781465641465
281 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Andrew, what of the North? In November shadows drear We have heard thee marching forth With songs of a glad new year. Thou goest to mountains high, To Picts in a Northern fen— But, Andrew, tarry and hear the cry Of the little Southern Men. Down by the seas of Gaul, Where the Roman eagles stand, Anderida they call Our shaggy forest land. We have no saving health, To us no Word comes forth, On us the gods bestow no wealth— Yet Andrew goes to the North. Oh, stay and give us grace, For our hearts are grey with dule, As each man lifts his face In the dreadful days of Yule, When the burning Wheel stands still In the black and dropping skies, And the Long Man screams upon the hill With the human sacrifice. Andrew, what of the North? Our Druids tell sad tales, Our arms have lost their worth In the scrubby hills of Wales; But thy mighty banners go Forward and pass us by, As the Northern streamers fly and flow On the red wings of the sky. We hear strange tales of thee— We hear thou preachest still A Man more fair than Bald, a Tree More tall than Ygdrasyl, A Bread more strong than meat, Water more fierce than wine— Than the mead which drunken gods find sweet In the halls where Heroes dine.... To the little Southern Men Saint Andrew answered he: “I have heard from the Northern fen Your moan from the Gaulish sea; And though I pass you by, And may not see your face, Yet my Lord hath heard your cry, And He sends you hope of grace.
