Л. ван Бетховен - 26 валлийских народных песен, WoO 155 - № 2, «The monks of Bangor's March» | Текст песни

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• Л. ван Бетховен
• 26 валлийских народных песен, WoO 155 - № 2, «The monks of Bangor's March»

The Monks of Bangor’s March
Sir Walter Scott

When the heathen trumpet’s clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangor’s fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee.
O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doomed to feel unhallowed hand!
Such was the Divine decree,
O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill;
Woe to Brockmael’s feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid’s bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,
O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered down by heathen blade,
Bangor’s peaceful monks are laid;
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,
Sing, O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o’er the murder wail!
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shattered towers and broken arch
Long recalled the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!