Part 5 (2/2)

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, 235 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, 240 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 245 Was changed 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, 250 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; 255 His body's resting-place, of old, How oft their patron changed, 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, 260 From sea to sea, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore.

They rested them in fair Melrose; But though, alive, he loved it well, Not there his relics might repose; 265 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. 270 Nor long was his abiding there, Far southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hail'd him with joy and fear; 275 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, 280 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. 285

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 sheathed in mail, 290 And the bold men of Teviotdale,) Before his standard fled.

'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turn'd the Conqueror back again, 295 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 300 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, 305 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, 310 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: 315 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 320 Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was call'd the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate s.e.xhelm, made A place of burial for such dead, 325 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, 330 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 335 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. 340 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 sculptured o'er, 345 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, 350 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 served to show The awful conclave met below. 355

XIX.

There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three: All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay; 360 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 s.p.a.ce with visage bare, 365 Until, to hide her bosom's swell, And tear-drops that for pity fell, She closely drew her veil: Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, By her proud mien and flowing dress, 370 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quench'd by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 375 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, Whose look is hard and stern,-- Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; For sanct.i.ty call'd, through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380

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