Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, Before his standard fled. 290 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 295 XVI. But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn Saint Cuthbert sits and toils to frame And hear his anvil sound; A deadened clang, a huge dim form, And night were closing round. But this, as tale of idle fame, XVII. While round the fire such legends go, Old Colwulf built it, for his fault, In penitence to dwell, 300 305 310 315 When he, for cowl and beads, laid down Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made Might not be laid the church within. 320 325 330 The hearers blessed themselves and said, The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoaned their torments there. XVIII. But though, in the monastic pile, Few only,-save the Abbot, knew 335 Where the place lay; and still more few To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. 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 seemed to strive, And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below. 350 355 XIX. There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three: The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay; In long black dress, on seats of stone, The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight D - 360 365 370 375 Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; XX. Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, 380 The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385 Obscured her charms, but could not hide. And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcon crest. But, at the Prioress' command, That tied her tresses fair, And raised the bonnet from her head, 390 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), 405 And there she stood so calm and pale, XXII. Her comrade was a sordid soul, 410 415 Because his conscience, seared and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 420 425 430 435 |