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But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the shriekings of despair,
With speed their upward way they take, (Such speed as age and fear can make,) And crossed themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on.
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung,
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled,
His beads the wakeful hermit told;
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind;
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound so dull and stern,
END OF CANTO SECOND.