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Norham is grim, and grated close,

In which the wine and ale is good, Hemrod in by battlement and fosse,

'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. And many a darksome tower;

But that good man, as ill befalls, And better loves my lady bright

Hath seldom left our castle walls, To sit in liberty and light,

Since on the vigil of St. Bede, In fair Queen Margaret's bower.

In evil hour he crossed the Tweed, We hold our greyhound in our hand,

To teach Dame Alison her creed, Our falcon on our glove;

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife; But where shall we nnd leash or band,

And John, an enemy to strife, For dame that loves to rove?

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

The jealous charl had deeply swore, She'll stoop when she has tired her wing."

That, if again he ventures o'er,

He shall shrieve penitent no more.
XVIII.

Little he loves such risques I know, "Nay, if with Royal James's bride

Yet in your guard perchance will go." The lovely Lady Heron bide, Behold me here a messenger,

XXII. Your tender greetings prompt to bear;

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, For, to the Scottish court addressed,

Carved to his uncle and that lord, 1 journey at our king's behest,

And reverently took up the word. and pray you, of your grace, provide

"Kind uncle, woe were we each one, For me and mine a trusty guide.

If harm should hap to brother John. I have not ridden in Scotland since

He is a man of mirthful speech, James backed the cause of that mock prince, Can many a game and gambol teach; Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,

Full well at tables he can play, Who on the glbbet paid the cheat.

And sweep at bowls the stake away. Then did I march with Surrey's power,

None can à lustier carol bawl, What time we razed old Ayton tower."

The needfullest among us all,

When time hangs heavy in the hall,
XIX.

And snow comes thick at Christmas-tide, " For such like need, my lord, I trow,

And we can neither hunt, nor ride'11 Norham can find vou guides enow;

A foray on the Scottish side. For here be some have picked as far,

The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;

May end in worse than loss of hood.
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, Let Friar John, in safety, still
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ;

In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods,

Roast hissing crabs, or fagons swill. And given them light to set their hoods."

Last night to Norham there came one

Will better guide Lord Marmion."
Xx.

"Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay, "Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion cried,

Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say." * Were I in warlike wise to ride,

XXIII.

." A better guard I would not lack Than your stout forayers at my back:

"Here is a holy Palmer come, But, as in form of peace I go,

From Salem first, and last from Rome; A friendly messenger, to know,

One that hath kissed the blessed tomb, Why through all Scotland, near and far,

And visited each holy shrine, Their king is muistering troops for war,

In Araby and Palestine: The sight of plundering Border spears,

On hills of Armenie hath been, Might justify suspicious fears,

Where Noah's ark may yet be seen; And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, Break out in some unseemly broil:

Which parted at the prophet's rod; A herald were my fitting guide;

In Sinai's wilderness he saw Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;

The mount where Israel heard the law, Or pardoner, or travelling priest,

Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, Or strolling pilgrim, at the least."

And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.

He shows Saint James's cocklesliell, XXI.

Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

And of that Grot where olives nod, The captain mused a little space,

Where, darling of each heart and eye, And passed his hand across his face.

From all the youth of Sicily, "Fain would I find the guide you want,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.

od 1. But ill may spare a pursuivant, The only men that safe can ride

XXIV. Mine errands on the Scottish side:

" To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, And, thongh a bishop built this fort,

Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, Few holy brethren here resort;

Cuthbert of Dirham and Saint Bede, Even our good chaplain, as I ween,

For his sins' pardon hath he prayed." Since our last siege, we have not seen;

He knows the passes of the North, The mass he might not sing or say

And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth; Upon one stinted meal a day;

Little he eats, and long will wake, So safe he sat in Durham aisle,

And drinks but of the stream or lake. And prayed for our success the while.

This were a guide o'er moor and dale; Our Norham vicar, woe betide,

But, when our John had quaffed his &le, Is all too well in case to ride.

As little as the wind that blows, The priest of Shoreswood-he could rein

And warms itself against his nose, The wildest war-horse in your train:

Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.".. But then, no spearmen in the hall Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.

xxv.

' Pivil. Friar John of Tillmouth were the man;

“Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion, iti A blythsome brother at the can,

"Full loth were I that Friar John, A welcoine guest in hall and bower,

That venerable man for me, He knows each castle, town, and tower,

| Were placed in fear or jeopardy.id

If this same Palmer will me lead

So he would march with morning tide, From hence to Holy-Pood,

To Scottish court to be his guide. Like his good saint, I'll pay his mead,

"But I have solemn vows to pay, Instead of cockleshell or bead,

And may not linger by the way, With angels fair and good.

To fair St. Andrew's bound, I love such holy ramblers; still

Within the ocean-cave to pray, They know to charm a weary hill,

Where good St. Rule his holy lay, With song, romance, or lay:

From midnight to the dawn of day, Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,

Sung to the billows' sound; Some lying legend at the least,

Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, They bring to cheer the way."

Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,

And the crazed brain restore. it XXVI.

Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring "Ah! noble sir," young Selby said,

Could back to peace my bosom bring, And finger on his lip he laid,

Or bid it throb no more! * This man knows much, perchance e'en more,

XXX.
Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he's muttering,

And now the midnight draught of sleep,

Where wine and spices richly steep, And shrinks as at some unseen thing.

In massive bowl of silver deep,
Last night we listened at his cell;

The page presents on knee.
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmured on till morn, howe'er

Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
No living mortal could be near.

The Captain pledged his noble guest, Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,

The cup went through among the rest,

Who drained it merrily;
As other voices spoke again.
I cannot tell-I like it not

Alone the Palmer passed it by,
Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

Though Selby pressed him courteously. No conscience clear, and void of wrong,

This was the sign the feast was o'er,

It hushed the merry wassel roar,
Can rest awake, and pray so long,

The minstrels ceased to sound.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have marked ten aves, and two creeds."

Soon in the castle nought was heard,

But the slow footstep of the guard,
XXVII.

Pacing his sober round. “Let pass," quoth Marmion; “by my fay,

XXXI. This man shall guide me on my way,

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose: Although the great arch-fiend and he

And first the chapel doors unclose; Had sworn themselves of company;

Then, after mourning rites were done So please you, gentle youth, to call

(A hasty mass from Friar John), This Palmer to the castle-hall."

And knight and squire had broke their fast, The summoned Palmer came in place :

On rich substantial repast, His sable cowl o'erhung his face;

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse: In his black mantle was he clad,

Then came the stirrup-cup in course; With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

Between the Baron and his host, On his broad shoulders wrought,

No point of courtesy was lost; The scallop shell his cap did deck ;

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, The crucifix around his neck

Solemn the excuse the Captain made, Was from Loretto brought;

Till, filing from the gate, had pasta His sandals were with travel tore,

That noble train, their lord the last. Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;

Then loudly rung the trumpet-call; The faded palm-branch, in his hand,

Thundered the cannon from the wall,
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

And shook the Scottish shore;
XXVIII.

Around the castle eddied slow,
Whenas the Palmer came in hall,

Volumes of smoke as white as snow, No lord, nor knight, was there more tall,

And hid its turrets hoar;

Till they rolled forth upon the air,
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or looked more high and keen;

And met the river breezes there,
For no saluting did he wait,

Which gave again the prospect fair.
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marinion where he säte,

As he is peer had been,
But his gaint frame was worn with toil;

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND. His cheek was sunk, alas the while !

TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M.A.
And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye looked haggard wild:

Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,

The scenes are desart now and bare, If she had been in présence there,

Where flourished once a forest fair, In his wan face, and sun-burned hair,

When these waste glens with copse were linel, She had not known her child.

And peopled with the hart and hind. Danger, long travel, want, or woe,

Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spears Soon change the form that best we know

Have fenced him for three hundred years, For deadly fear can time outgo,

While fell around his green compeersAnd blanch at once the hair ;

Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell Hard toil can ronghen form and face,

The changes of his parent dell, And want can quench the eye's bright grace,

Since he, so gay and stubborn now, Nor does old age a wrinkle trace,

Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; More deeply than despair.

Would he could tell how deep the shade, Happy whom none of these befall.

A thousand mingled branches made But this poor Palmer knew them all.

How broad the shadows of the oak,
xxix.

How clong the rowank to the rock,
Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The Palmer took him on the task,

* Mountain ash.

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ents seen, Aingle a me

And through the foliage showed his head,

At noontide she expects her not: With narrow leaves and berries red;

Nor busies her to trim the cot: What pines on every mountain sprung,

Pensive she turns her humming-wheel, O'er every dell what birches hung,

Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal; In every breeze what aspens shook,

Yet blesses, ere she deals her bread, What alders shaded every brook!

The gentle hand by which they're fed. " Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say,

From Yair --which hill so closely bind, "The mighty stag at noontide lay:

Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game,

Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name)

Till all his eddying currents boil,-With lurching step around me prowl,

Her long-descended lord is gone, And stop against the moon to howl;

And left us by the stream alone. The mountain-boar, on battle set,

And much I miss those sportive boys, His tasks upon my stem would whet;

Companions of my mountain joys, While doe and roe, and red-deer good,

Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, Have bounded by through gay greenwood.

When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower,

Close to my side, with what delight, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power;

They pressed to hear of Wallace wight, A thousand vassals mustered round,

When, pointing to his airy mound, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound:

I called his ramparts holy ground !* And I might see the youth intent,

Kindled their brows to hear me speak; Guard every pass with crossbow bent;

And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, And through the brake the rangers stalk,

Despite the difference of our years, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk;

Return again the glow of theirs. And foresters, in greenwood trim,

Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim,

They will not, cannot, long endure; Attentive, as the bratchet's* bay

Condemned to stem the world's rude tide, From the dark covert drove the prey,

You may not linger by the side; To slip them as he broke away.

For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, The startled quarry bounds amain,

And Passion ply the sail and oar. As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ;

Yet cherish the remembrance still, Whistles the arrow from the bow,

Of the lone mountain and the rill; Answers the harquebus below;

For trust, dear boys, the time will come, While all the rocking hills reply,

When fiercer transport shall be dumb, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry,

And you will think right frequently, And bugles ringing lightsomely."

But well, I hope, without a sigh, Of such proud huntings, many tales

On the free hours that we have spent
Yet linger in our lonely dales;.

Together, on the brown hill's bent.
Up pathless Ettricke, and on Yarrow,
Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow.

When, musing on companions gone,
But not more blythe than sylvan court,

We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Than we have been at humbler sport;

Something, my friend, we yet may gain,
Though small our pomp, and mean our gaine, There is a pleasure in this pain:
Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same.

It soothes the love of lonely rest,
Remember'st thou my greyhound true?

Deep in each gentler heart impressed. O'er holt or hill there never flew,

Tis silent amid wordly toils, From slip or leash there never sprang,

And stified soon by mental broils ; More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.

But in a bosom thus prepared, Nor dull, between each merry chase,

Its still small voice is often heard, Passed by the intermitted space;

Whispering mingled sentiment, For we had fair resource in store,

Twixt resignation and content. In Classic, and in Gothic lore:

Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, We marked each memorable scene,

By lone St. Mary's silent lake; And held poetic talk between;

Thou know'st it well, -no fen nor sedge Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,

Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; But had its legend or its song.

Abrupt and sheer, the mountains siuk All silent now-for now are still

At once upon the level brink; Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!

And just a trace of silver sand No longer, from thy mountains dun,

Marks where water meets the land. The yeoman hears the well-known gun,

Far in the mirror', bright and blue, And, while his honest heart glows warın,

Each hill's huge outline you may view; At thought of his paternal farm,

Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. Round to his mate a brimmer fills,

Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, And drinks, "The Chieftain of the Hills !"

Save where, of land, yon slender line No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers,

Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,

Yet even this nakedness has power, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw,

And aids the feeling of the hour; By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh;

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, No youthful baron's left to grace

Where living thing concealed might lie; The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase,

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, And ape, in manly step and tone,

Where swain or woodman lone might dwell: The majesty of Oberon:

There's nothing left to fancy's guess, And she is gone, whose lovely face

You see that all is loneliness: Is but her least and lowest grace;

And silence aids-though these steep hills Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given,

Send to the lake a thousand rills; To show our earth the charms of heaven,

In summer tide, so soft they weep,
She could not glide along the air,

The sound but lulls the ear asleep:
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow's deafened ear
Grows quick, that lady's step to hear;

* There is, on a high mountainous ridge above

the farm of Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace's * Slow-hound.

Trench.

Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,

Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell, So stilly is the solitude.

Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.

And well that Pahner's form and muien Nought living meets the eye or ear,

Had suited with the stormy scene, But well I ween the dead are near!

Just on the edge, straining his ken For though, in feudal strife, a foc

To view the bottom of the den, Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,

Where, deep, deep down, and far within, Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil,

Toils with the rocks the roaring linn; The peasant rest him from his toil,

Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, And, dying, bids his bones be laid,

And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, Where erst his simple fathers prayed.

White as the snowy charger's tail,

Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.
If age had tamed the passions' strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,

Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung,
Here, have I thought, 't were sweet to dwell, To many a Border theme has rung:
And rear again the chaplain's cell,

Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Like that same peaceful hermitage,

Of this mysterious Man of Woe.
Where Milton longed to spend his age.
"Twere sweet to mark the setting day,
On Bourhope's lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died,

CANTO SECOND.
On the broad lake and mountain side,
To say, “Thus pleasures fade away ;

THE CONVENT.
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn and grey ;''-
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower,

The breeze, which swept away the smoke, And think on Yarrow's faded Flower:

Round Norham Castle rolled, And when that mountain sound I heard,

When all the loud artillery spoke Which bids us be for storm prepared,

With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke, The distant rustling of his wings,

As Marmion left the Hold. As up his force the tempest brings

It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze, "Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,

For, far upon Northumbrian seas, To sit upon the Wizard's grave;

It freshly blew, and strong, That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust

Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile, From company of holy dust;

Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, On which no sunbeam ever shines

It bore a bark along. (So superstition's creed divines)

Upon the gale she stooped her side, Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,

And bounded o'cr the swelling tide, Heave her broad billows to the shore;

As she were dancing home: And mark the wild swans mount the gale,

The merry seamen laughed, to see Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,

Their gallant ship so lustily And ever stoop again, to lave

Furrow the green sea-foam. Their bosoms on the surging wave:

Much joyed they in their honoured freight; Then, when against the driving hail

For, on the deck, in chair of state, No longer might my plaid avail,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, Back to my lonely home retire,

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
And light my lain, and trim my fire:
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,

II.
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,

'Twas sweet to see these holy maids,

Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, I heard unearthly voices speak, And thought the Wizard Priest was come,

Their first flight from the cage, To claim again his ancient home!

How timid, and how curious too,

For all to them was strange and new, And bade my busy fancy range, To frame him fitting shape and strange,

And all the common sights they view Till from the task my brow I cleared,

Their wonderment engage. And smiled to think that I had feared.

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,

With many a benedicite; But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life

One at the rippling surge grew pale, (Though but escape from fortune's strife),

And would for terror pray; Something most inatchless good, and wise,

Then shrieked, because the sea-dog, nigh, A great and grateful sacrifice;

His round black head and sparkling eye, And deein each hour, to musing given,

Reared o'er the foaming spray: A step upon the road to heaven.

And one would still adjust her veil,

Disordered by the summer gale, Yet him, whose heart is ill at case,

Perchance, lest some more worldly eye Such peaceful solitudes displease;

Her dedicated charms might spy; He loves to drown his bosom's jar

Perchance, because some action graced Ainid the elemental war:

Her fair-turned arm and slender waist, And my black Palmer's choice had been

Light was each simple bosom there, Some ruder and more savage scene,

Save two, who ill might pleasure share,Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. The Abbess and the Novice Clare. There eagles scream from isle to shiore: Down all the rocks the torrents roar:

IIT. O'er the black waves incessant driven,

The Abbess was of noble blood, Dark mists infect the summer heaven:

But early took the veil and hood, Through the rude barriers of the lake,

Ere upon life she cast a look, Away its hurrying water break,

Or knew the world that she forsook. Faster and whiter dash and curi,

Fair too she was, and kind had been Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.

As she was fair, but ne'er had seen Rises the fog-smoke white as show,

For her a timid lover sigh, Thunders the viewless stream below,

Nor knew the influence of her eye; Diving, as if condemned to lave

Love to her car was but it name, Some demon's subterranean cave,

Combined with yanity and shame,

V

.

Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all

VIII. Bounded within the cloister wall:

And now the vessel skirts the strand The deadliest sin her mind could reachi,

Of mountainous Northumberland ; Was of monastic rule the breach;

Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, And her ambition's highest aim,

And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 200 To emulate Saint Hilda's fame.

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, For this she gave her ample dower,

And Tynemouth's priory and bay: To raise the convent's eastern tower ;

They marked, amid her trees, the hall For this, with carving rare and quaint,

Of lofty Seaton-Delaval: She decked the chapel of the saint,

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods And gave the relique-shrine of cost,

Rnsh to the sea through sounding woods; With ivory and gems embost.

They past the tower of Widderington, The poor her convent's bounty blest,

Mother of many a valiant son ; The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

At Coquet-isle their beads they tell,

To the good Saint who owned the cell:
IV. .

Then did the Alne attention claim,
Black was her garb, her rigid rule

And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name: Reformed on Benedictine school;

And next, they crossed themselves, to hear Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;

The whitening breakers sound so near, Vigils, and penitence austere,

Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar Had early quenched the light of youth,

On Dunstanborough's caverned shore: But gentle was the dame in sooth;

Thy tower, proud Bamborongh, marked they

there, Though vain of her religious sway, She loved to see her maids obey;

King Ida's castle, huge and square, Yet nothing stern was she in cell,

From its tall rock look grimly down, And the nuns loved their Abbess well.

And on the swelling ocean frown; Sad was this voyage to the dame;

Then from the coast they bore away,
Summoned to Lindisfarn, slie came,

And reached the Holy Island's bay.
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old.
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict,

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
For inquisition stern and strict,

And girdled in the Saint's domain: On two apostates from the faith,

For, with the flow and ebb, its style
And, if need were, to doom to death.

Varies from continent to isle:
Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,

The pilgrims to the shrine find way:
Nought say I here of Sister Clare,

Twice, every day, the waves efface Save this, that she was young and fair;

Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As yet a novice unprofessed,

As to the port the galley flew,

Higher and higher rose to view
Lovely and gentle, but distressed.
She was betrothed to one now dead,

The Castle, with its battled walls,
Or worse, who had dishonoured fied,

The ancient Monastery's halls, Her kinsman bade her give her hand

A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
To one who loved her for her land:

Placed on the margin of the isle.
Herself, almost heart-broken now,
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom,

In Saxon strength that Abbey frowned,
Her blasted hopes and withered bloom.

With massive arches broad and round,

That rose alternate, row and row,
VI.

On ponderous columns, short and low,
She sate upon the galley's prow,

Built ere the art was known, And seemed to mark the waves below:

By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye,

The arcades of an alley'd walk To count them as they glided by.

To emulate in stone. She saw them not-'twas seeming all

On the deep walls, the heathen Dame Far other scene her thoughts recall,

Had poured his impious rage in vain :

And needful was such strength to these,
A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare,

Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Nor wave, nor breezes, murmured there;
There saw she, where some careless hand

Scourged by the wind's eternal sway,
O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand,

Open to rovers fierce as they, To hide it till the jackals come,

Which could twelve hundred years withstand To tear it from the scanty tomb,

Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. See what a woful look was given,

Not but that portions of the pile,

Rebuilded in a later style, As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

Showed where the spoiler's hand had been

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
VII.

Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,
Lovely, and gentle, and distressed-

And mouldered in his niche the saint, These charms might tame the fiercest breast; And rounded, with consuming power,

power, Harpers have sung, and poets told,

The pointed angles of each tower, That he, in fury uncontrolled,

Yet still entire the Abbey stood,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,

Like veteran worn, but insubdued.
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.

XI.
But passions in the human frame

Soon as they neared his turrets strong, Oft put the lion's rage to shame:

The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And jealousy, by dark intrigne,

And with the sea-wave and the wind, With sordid avarice in league,

Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, Had practised, with their bowl and knife,

And made harmonious close; Against the mourner's harmless life.

Then, answering from the sandy shore, This crime was charged 'gainst those who la y Half drowned amid the breakers' roar, Prisoned on Cuthbert's islet gray.

According chorus rose:

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