THE breeze, which swept away the smoke/
Round Norham Castle rolled,

When all the loud artillery spoke,
With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold.

It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

It freshly blew and strong,

Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile, Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle,

It bore a bark along.