While yet the Saxons ruled, a puissant Thane
Made with his unkempt band of mounted spears
A seizin of a hide of forest land
Whereon he built a house of ample size,
With dining-hall and bowers and sleeping-lofts,
And stables shutting in a stone-paved yard:
And round the whole he set a ponderous fence
Of sharpened stakes fast bound with metal bands.
And "Yan, the Wulf," for thus the Thane was known,
Called the place "Wulfden" in his savage tongue.
And here, year after year, he lived at ease,
Oft making sallies for a cattle raid,
Or fighting with some other such as he,
To come back weary at the fall of night,
Driving a herd before him, and his men
Sweating beneath the spoil of plundered foes.
Once as he sat at supper in his hall,
Bemused with mead and satisfied with food,
There came a wandering bedesman to his gate
Craving permission "in Fayre Jesu's name"
To build a church of stone within the shade
Of his protection. And, in generous mood,
The Thane gave gruff assent; and time slipped by.
Then William swept the land, and, to reward
One of his knights, gave him the Wulf's demesne
To hold in fee, and on the Saxon's land
Arose a fortress with embattled walls,
With donjon, keep and moat and tilting-yard,
To hold in thraldom all the country-side.
But still was left the little Saxon church,
Unchanged save that the Norman owner gave
New consecration in his patron's name,
St. Martinus of Tours, a warrior saint
Who guarded through the centuries his race.
Then in the War of Roses came the crash
That brought extinction to the feudal name
And desolation to its crumbling home.
And yet, though scarred by time and gray with age,
The little church of Saxon days remained
The emblem of a never-dying faith.
The years rolled by and then there came a day
Which gave a new possessor to the place,
A nobleman in favour with that queen
Who loved a witty tongue and ready sword
When coupled with good looks and brave attire.
He built a great Elizabethan pile,
The ground-plan shaped to form the royal E,
Conforming to the fashion of the times
When loyalty spoke even from silent stone.
And he, to please his lady's pious whim,
(Though ten years wed, he called her Sweetheart still)
Forbore to raze the chapel to the ground,
But stayed with flying buttress either side,
Repaired the roof and made it to her mind.
And there they lie, both in one marble tomb
On which their effigies with clasping hands
Bear witness to an everlasting love.
And when vacation brings its hours of rest
I sometimes sit within the Saxon church
And muse upon the changes time has brought
Save to the faith that reared the little shrine,
And still builds churches "in Fayre Jesu's name."