Though vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame;
Summon'd to Lindisfarn, she came,
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old,
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict,
For inquisition stern and strict,
On two apostates from the faith,

And, if need were, to doom to death.

V.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofess'd, Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. She was betroth'd to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. Her kinsmen bade her give her hand To one, who loved her for her land: Herself, almost heart-broken now, Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom, Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.

VI.

She sate upon the galley's prow, And seem'd to mark the waves below; Nay, seem'd so fix'd her look and eye, To count them as they glided by. She saw them not-t was seeming all— Far other scene Imer thoughts recal,A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, Jor wave, nor breezes, murmur'd there; There saw she, where some careless hand Oer a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, To hide it till the jackalls come, To tear it from the scanty tomb.See what a woeful look was given, As she raised eyes to heaven!

her up

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouth's priory and bay;
They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods
Rush to the sea through sounding woods;
They past 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;
And next, they cross'd themselves, to 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, the stile 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 wall, The ancient monastery's hall, A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed 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,
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,

Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, ·
Open to rovers fierce as they,

Which could twelve hundred years withstand

Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand.
Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later stile,

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 unsubdued.

XI.

Soon as they near'd his turret strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 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 reliques there,
To meet Saint Hilda's maids they bare;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echoed 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 strayed and gazed their fill,
They closed 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: (8)

While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry, « Fye upon your name!
In wrath, for loss of sylvan 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; (9)

And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed 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, (10)
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 changed, they told; (11)
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 loved it well,
Not there his reliques might repose;

For, wond'rous 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 reliques are in secret laid;

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

Who share that wond'rous 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 sheathed in mail,
And the bold men of Teviotdale),

Before his standard fled. (12)

'T was he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane,

And turn'd the Conqueror back again, (13)
When, with his Norman bowyer band,
He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn,
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarn,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name : (14)

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 Lindisfarn 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 (15) built it, for his fault
la 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.
I was now a place of punishment:
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent
As reach'd the upper air,

The bearers 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
Were those, who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go.
Victim and executioner

Were blind-fold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,

from the rude rock the side-walls sprung;

The

grave-stones, rudely sculptured 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 served to show
The awful conclave met below.
XIX.

There, met to doom in secrecy,

Were placed 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,
Sate for a space with visage bare,
Tatil, to hide her bosom's swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil;
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress; (16)
And she with awe looks pale:
Antique chandelier.

And he, that ancient man, whose sight
Has long been quench'd by age's night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern,—
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his stile;
For sanctity call'd, through the isle,
The Saint of Lindisfarn.

XX.

Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.

cap

Her sex a page's dress belied;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her down o'er her face she drew;
And, on her doublet-breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest.
But, at the prioress' command,
A monk undid the silken band,
That tied her tresses fair,

And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread,

In ringlets rich and rare.

Constance de Beverley they know,

Sister profess'd of Fontevraud,

Whom the church number'd with the dead,

For broken vows, and convent fled.

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view (Although so pallid was her hue,

It did a ghastly contrast bear

To those bright ringlets glistering fair),
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy.

And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there:
So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no controul, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute feeling ne'er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt; One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,-alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak;
For there were seen in that dark wall
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;
Who enters at such griesly door,

Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid,
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch:
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
And building-tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose,

As men who were with mankind foes.
And, with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired;
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,
They knew not how, and knew not where.

XXV.

And now that blind old abbot rose,
To speak the chapter's doom,
On those the wall was to inclose,

Alive, within the tomb: (17)
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 convulsed 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,
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,

For three long years I bow'd my 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 beloved no more.
'T is 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 loved, or was avenged, like me!

Fad was her look, and stern her air ;

Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair;
The locks, that wont her brow to shade,
Stared

up erectly from her head;
Her figure seem'd to rise more high;
Her voice, despair's wild energy
Hlad given a tone of prophecy.
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form, ⚫
And listen'd for the avenging storm;
The judges felt the victim's dread;
No hand was moved, no word was said,
Till thas the abbot's doom was given,
Raising his sightless balls to heaven :-
Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
Sinful brother, part in peace!»
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,
Paced forth the judges three;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell
The butcher-work that there befel,
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.

XXXIII.

An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day;

But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the shriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan:
With speed their upward way they take
(Such speed as age and fear can make),
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on;
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seem'd to hear a dying groan,
And bade the passing knell to toll
For welfare of a parting soul.
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung:
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told:
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hiud, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III.

ΤΟ

WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass
With varying shadow o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field, and furrow,
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,
And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Of light and shade's inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;
And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through autumn trees;
Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale.

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,

I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song?-
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse,