But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair, With speed their upward way they take, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seemed 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, To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, His beads the wakeful hermit told; The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind; Then couched him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern. END OF CANTO SECOND. H |