If age had tamed the passions' strife, Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust From company of holy dust; On which no suu-beam ever shines (So superstition's creed divines,) Their bosoms on the surging wave: And thought the Wizard Priest was come, But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) Something most matchless good, and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice; And deem each hour, to musing given, A step upon the road to heaven. Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, Such peaceful solitudes displease: He loves to drown his bosom's jar And my black Palmer's choice had been Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. Where, deep deep down, and far within, Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung, CANTO SECOND. THE CONVENT. I. THE breeze, which swept away the smoke, It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze; It freshly blew, and strong, Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile, It bore a bark along. Upon the gale she stooped her side, And bounded o'er the swelling tide, As she were dancing home; |