They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck

floods

Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

They pass'd the tower of Widderington,

Mother of many a valiant son;
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell
To the good Saint who own'd the cell;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's

name;

Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley'd walk

To emulate in stone.

On the deep walls, the heathen Dane
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ;
And needful was such strength to these
Expos'd to the tempestuous seas,
Scourg'd by the winds' eternal sway,
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years
withstand

hear

The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar,

On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there,

King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

IX.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
And girdled in the Saint's domain :
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varies from continent to isle;
Dry shod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The Castle with its battled walls,
The ancient Monastery's halls,
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Plac'd on the margin of the isle.

X.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, On ponderous columns, short and low,

hand.

Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style,
Show'd where the spoiler's hand had
been;

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,
And moulder'd in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,
The pointed angles of each tower;
Yet still entire the Abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdu'd.

XI.

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, The maidens rais'd Saint Hilda's song, And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combin'd,

And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy shore,

Half-drown'd amid the breakers'

roar,

According chorus rose:

Down to the haven of the Isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim;
Banner, and cross, and relics there,
To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echo'd back the hymn.
The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rush'd emulously through the flood,

To hale the bark to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And bless'd them with her hand.

XII.

Suppose we now the welcome said, Suppose the Convent banquet made :

All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye,

The stranger sisters roam,Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there, even summer night is chill. Then, having stray'd and gaz'd their fill,

They clos'd around the fire; And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The rival merits of their saint,

A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, That their saint's honour is their own.

XIII.

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, How to their house three Barons bold Must menial service do;

While horns blow out a note of shame, And monks cry' Fye upon your name! In wrath, for loss of silvan game,

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.'-'This, on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pier, Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.'

They told how in their convent-cell A Saxon princess once did dwell, The lovely Edelfled;

And how, of thousand snakes, each one Was chang'd into a coil of stone,

When holy Hilda pray'd; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told how sea-fowls' pinions fail, As over Whitby's towers they sail,

And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,

They do their homage to the saint.

XIV.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail
To vie with these in holy tale ;
His body's resting-place, of old,
How oft their patron chang'd, they
told;

How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile,

The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; O'er northern mountain, marsh, and

moor,

From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore.

They rested them in fair Melrose; But though, alive, he lov'd it well,

Not there his relics might repose;

For, wondrous tale to tell! In his stone-coffin forth he rides, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tilmouth cell. | Nor long was his abiding there, For southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

Hail'd him with joy and fear; And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last, Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

Looks down upon the Wear: There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, His relics are in secret laid;

But none may know the place, Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

Who share that wondrous grace.

XV.

Who may his miracles declare! Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir,

(Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, And Lodon's knights, all sheath'd in mail,

And the bold men of Teviotdale,)

Before his standard fled. "Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edg'd Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turn'd the Conqueror back again, When, with his Norman bowyer band, He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

As reach'd the upper air,

The hearers bless'd themselves, and said

The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile,
Did of this penitential aisle

Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay; and still more few

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame The sea-born beads that bear his name: Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, And said they might his shape behold, And hear his anvil sound;

A deaden'd clang, a huge dim form, Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm

And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go,
Far different was the scene of woe,
Where, in a secret aisle beneath,
Council was held of life and death.
It was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell :
Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,
In penitence to dwell,
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down
The Saxon battle-axe and crown.
This den, which, chilling every sense
Of feeling, hearing, sight,
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence,

Excluding air and light,
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made
A place of burial for such dead,
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
'Twas now a place of punishment;
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent

|

To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner

Were blindfold when transported there.

From the rude rock the side-walls In low dark rounds the arches hung,

sprung;

The grave-stones, rudely sculptur'd o'er,

Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew-drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain,
Which served to light this drear
domain,

With damp and darkness seem'd to strive,

As if it scarce might keep alive; ! And yet it dimly serv'd to show The awful conclave met below.

XIX.

There, met to doom in secrecy,
Were plac'd the heads of convents
three-

All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict

On iron table lay;

In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown

By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, Sat for a space with visage bare,

Hewn stones and cement were dis

play'd,

And building tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose,
As men who were with mankind foes,
And, with despite and envy fir'd,
Into the cloister had retir'd;

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface
Of some foul crime the stain;
For, as the vassals of her will,

Such men the Church selected still,
As either joy'd in doing ill,

Or thought more grace to gain, If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there,

And colour dawn'd upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutter'd streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,

By Autumn's stormy sky;

And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gather'd strength,
And arm'd herself to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy
In form so soft and fair.

XXVII.

'I speak not to implore your grace,— Well know I, for one minute's space

Successless might I sue:

Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.

I listen'd to a traitor's tale,
I left the convent and the veil ;

where.

XXV.

And now that blind old Abbot rose,
To speak the Chapter's doom,
On those the wall was to enclose,

Alive, within the tomb;
But stopp'd, because that woful Maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd.
Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain;
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convuls'd and quivering lip;
'Twixt each attempt all was so still,
You seem'd to hear a distant rill;

'Twas ocean's swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear,

So massive were the walls.

XXVI.

At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart,
And light came to her eye,

pride,

A horse-boy in his train to ride;
And well my folly's meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the
heir,

Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was belov'd no more. 'Tis an old tale, and often told;

But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That lov'd, or was aveng'd, like me!

XXVIII.

'The King approv'd his favourite's aim;

In vain a rival barr'd his claim,

Whose fate with Clare's was plight, For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge-and on they

came,

In mortal lists to fight.