And well that Palmer's form and mien Had suited with the stormy scene, Just on the edge, straining his ken To view the bottom of the den, Where, deep deep down, and far within,

Toils with the rocks the roaring linn; Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, White as the snowy charger's tail, Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung: Then list to me, and thou shalt know Of this mysterious man of woe.

Canto Second.

The Convent.

I.

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke

Round Norham Castle roll'd, When all the loud artillery spoke, With lightning-flash, and thunderstroke,

As Marmion left the Hold,

It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

It freshly blew, and strong, Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd pile,

Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle,

It bore a bark along.

Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, And bounded o'er the swelling tide,

As she were dancing home: The merry seamen laugh'd to see Their gallant ship so lustily

Furrow the green sea-foam. Much joy'd they in their honour'd freight;

For, on the deck, in chair of state,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda plac'd, With five fair nuns, the galley grac'd.

II.

'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, Like birds escaped to greenwood shades,

Their first flight from the cage, How timid, and how curious too, For all to them was strange and new, And all the common sights they view Their wonderment engage.

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite;

One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray;
Then shriek'd, because the sea-dog,
nigh,

His round black head, and sparkling eye,

Rear'd o'er the foaming spray; And one would still adjust her veil, Disorder'd by the summer gale, Perchance lest some more worldly eye Her dedicated charms might spy; Perchance, because such action grac'd Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist. Light was each simple bosom there, Save two, who ill might pleasure share, The Abbess and the Novice Clare.

III.

The Abbess was of noble blood,
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen
For her a timid lover sigh,

Nor knew the influence of her eye.
Love, to her ear, was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall:
The deadliest sin her mind could reach,
Was of monastic rule the breach;
And her ambition's highest aim
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame.

For this she gave her ample dower,
To raise the convent's eastern tower;
For this, with carving rare and quaint,
She deck'd the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relic-shrine of cost,
With ivory and gems emboss'd.
The poor her Convent's bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

IV.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reform'd on Benedictine school;
Her cheek was pale, her form was
spare;

Vigils, and penitence austere,
Had early quench'd the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame, in sooth;
Though, vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame :
Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came,
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old,
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict
For inquisition stern and strict
On two apostates from the faith,
And, if need were, to doom to death.

V.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare,
Save this, that she was young and fair;
As yet a novice unprofess'd,
Lovely and gentle, but distress'd.
She was betroth'd to one now dead,
Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled.
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand
To one, who lov'd her for her land:
Herself, almost heart-broken now,
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within Saint Hilda's
gloom,

Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.

VI.

She sate upon the galley's prow,
And seem'd to mark the waves below;

Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye,
To count them as they glided by.
She saw them not-'twas seeming
all;

Far other scene her thoughts recall,-
A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare,
Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd
there;

There saw she where some careless hand

O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the

sand

To hide it-till the jackals come
To tear it from the scanty tomb.
See what a woful look was given
As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

VII.

Lovely, and gentle, and distress'dThese charms might tame the fiercest breast:

Harpers have sung, and poets told,
That he, in fury uncontroll'd,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame
Oft put the lion's rage to shame :
And jealousy, by dark intrigue,
With sordid avarice in league,

Had practis'd with their bowl and knife

| Against the mourner's harmless life. This crime was charg'd 'gainst those who lay

Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet grey.

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck

floods

Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

They pass'd the tower of Widderington,

Mother of many a valiant son;

At Coquet-isle their beads they tell To the good Saint who own'd the cell; Then did the Alne attention claim, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's

name;

And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear

The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar,

On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there,

King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

IX.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
And girdled in the Saint's domain :
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varies from continent to isle;
Dry shod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The Castle with its battled walls,
The ancient Monastery's halls,
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Plac'd on the margin of the isle.

X.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, On ponderous columns, short and low,

Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley'd walk

To emulate in stone.

On the deep walls, the heathen Dane
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ;
And needful was such strength to these
Expos'd to the tempestuous seas,
Scourg'd by the winds' eternal sway,
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years
withstand

Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand.

Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style,
Show'd where the spoiler's hand had
been;

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,
And moulder'd in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,
The pointed angles of each tower;
Yet still entire the Abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdu'd.

XI.

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, The maidens rais'd Saint Hilda's song, And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combin'd,

And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy shore,

Half-drown'd amid the breakers'

roar,

According chorus rose:

Down to the haven of the Isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; Banner, and cross, and relics there, Tomeet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; And, as they caught the sounds on air, They echo'd back the hymn.

The islanders, in joyous mood, Rush'd emulously through the flood,

To hale the bark to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And bless'd them with her hand.

XII.

Suppose we now the welcome said, Suppose the Convent banquet made: All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye,

The stranger sisters roam,Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there, even summer night is chill. Then, having stray'd and gaz'd their fill,

They clos'd around the fire; And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The rival merits of their saint,

A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, That their saint's honour is their own.

XIII.

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, How to their house three Barons bold Must menial service do;

While horns blow out a note of shame, And monks cry 'Fye upon your name! In wrath, for loss of silvan game,

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.''This, on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pier, Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.'

They told how in their convent-cell A Saxon princess once did dwell, The lovely Edelfled;

And how, of thousand snakes, each one Was chang'd into a coil of stone,

When holy Hilda pray'd; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told how sea-fowls' pinions fail, As over Whitby's towers they sail,

And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,

They do their homage to the saint.

XIV.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail
To vie with these in holy tale;
His body's resting-place, of old,
How oft their patron chang'd, they
told;

How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile,

The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; 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; But though, alive, he lov'd it well,

Not there his relics might repose;

For, wondrous tale to tell! In his stone-coffin forth he rides, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides,

Downward to Tilmouth cell. Nor long was his abiding there, For southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

Hail'd him with joy and fear; And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last, Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

Looks down upon the Wear : There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, His relics are in secret laid;

But none may know the place, Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

Who share that wondrous grace.

XV.

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 sheath'd in mail,

And the bold men of Teviotdale,)

Before his standard fled. 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edg'd Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turn'd the Conqueror back again, When, with his Norman bowyer band, He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name:
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told,
And said they might his shape behold,
And hear his anvil sound;

A deaden'd clang, a huge dim form, Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm

And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go,
Far different was the scene of woe,
Where, in a secret aisle beneath,
Council was held of life and death.
It was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell:
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
Of feeling, hearing, sight,
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence,

Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made A place of burial for such dead, As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within. 'Twas now a place of punishment; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent

As reach'd the upper air,

The hearers bless'd themselves, and said

The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile,
Did of this penitential aisle

Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay; and still more few
Were those who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go.
Victim and executioner
Were blindfold when transported
there.

In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls

sprung;

The grave-stones, rudely sculptur'd o'er,

Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew-drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain,
Which served to light this drear
domain,

With damp and darkness seem'd to strive,

As if it scarce might keep alive;
And yet it dimly serv'd to show
The awful conclave met below.

XIX.

There, met to doom in secrecy,
Were plac'd the heads of convents
three-

All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict

On iron table lay;

In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown

By the pale cresset's ray :
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there,
Sat for a space with visage bare,