And how, of thousand snakes, each one 15 20 And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, How, when the rude Dane burned their pile, 5 O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. They rested them in fair Melrose; 10 But though, alive, he loved it well, Not there his relics might repose; For, wondrous tale to tell! Downward to Tilmouth cell. Hailed him with joy and fear; 15 20 25 There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, But none may know the place, Who share that wondrous grace. WHO may his miracles declare! Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, (Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, Before his standard fled. 30 XV 5 And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turned the Conqueror back again, 10 xvi Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame The sea-born beads that bear his name: 5 Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, And hear his anvil sound; A deadened clang,-a huge dim form, Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm, And night were closing round. 10 But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. WHILE round the fire such legends go, xvii Where, in a secret aisle beneath, 5 Old Colwulf built it, for his fault In penitence to dwell, When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling every sense Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made 10 15 Were those, who had from him the clue Were blindfold when transported there. Which served to light this drear domain, 10 15 With damp and darkness seemed to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And yet it dimly served to shew 20 In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shewn, By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda, there, Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Her sex a page's dress belied; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, Obscured her charms, but could not hide. Her cap down o'er her face she drew; And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcon crest. But, at the Prioress' command, A monk undid the silken band, That tied her tresses fair, 10 WHEN thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue, xxi 20 It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistering fair,) 5 10 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax, Wrought to the very life, was there; So still she was, so pale, so fair. Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Feels not the import of his deed; xxii 5 |