Thence Cuthbert found a home where Lindisfarne
Rises half-island half-peninsular, (3)

A barren rock, from out the billows stern;

Fit hermitage amid wild ocean's war :-
Though here no winds waft odours from afar,
No cliffs peep beauteous through a screen of trees,
Here chants no Philomel to eve's pale star,—
Yet there is rapture cannot fail to please

In the dark ocean's roar,-the wild fresh ocean breeze.

Hast thou e'er seen the giant billows swell?
Has not thy bosom leapt in unison,

Laugh'd when their tow'ring grandeur rose, and fell,
When o'er the green concave with sullen moan
Clos'd the white crests? mark well, when on and on
Whelming with forward rush the batter'd rock,
Close do they clasp it like a silver zone,
And then retreat; e'en as a tim'rous flock
As fleecy and as white, before the threaten'd shock.

Cuthbert liv'd not as oft-times hermits do
Mid the sierras of delicious Spain;

Where serpent vice lurks 'neath each lovely view,
And Saints are branded with crime's foullest stain,
And merchant-hermits barter prayers for gain.
But 'twas not so when wide Northumbria far
Rang with Glad Tidings, and the uncouth Dane
Trembled, and held awhile the reins of war,
Heard of the Prince of Peace, and Judah's morning star.

Who hath not quail'd beneath fell Terror's rod
When Superstition shows her sable form?
Oh, none save he who sees a present God

Where peals Heav'n's thunder, and where raves the

storm,

When hearts less stout yield to the passing qualm :In yon far isle oft seem'd some magic spell To fill the sky with many a viewless form, When all was dark, save where the white foam fell, And that but served to make the night more visible. Nor trembled Cuthbert, though full well he knew, That unseen beings hover'd in the night, And oft-times Angels trod the morning dew, Or floated on those amber clouds of light

Which hang like vassals round their monarch's flight. Full oft th' estatic dream, the God-sent trance Into his soul passed down from heav'nly height Seeming of bygone days a transient glance Rather than some new theme, that fancy did enhance.

(3) At low tide Lindisfarne is not an island, but the sands are left bare between the Northumbrian coast and it.

The western sun had left the fading scene; (2)
(E'en such the time when wilder'd swain descries
Issuing fairies tread the circled green);

As Cuthbert sate all-lost in reveries,

Lo! sudden brightness blaz'd before his eyes, Æthereal cohorts waved their pinions bright, And Angels' voices bade him forthwith rise : "Oh! favour'd child of heaven go forth in might, Go battle with the world, go for Jehovah fight." Amazed, entranced with rapture, down he lay, While whisp'ring angels charm'd his gladden'd soul With images of brightness: until day Pour'd forth his beams, and, as a flaming scroll, His nightly visions did before him roll. Instant he rose, and left his fleecy care, While dreamy musings o'er his spirit stole, And onwards urged him, all-unconscious where, For onward sped he, led by viewless sprites of air. Now gentle Eve had kiss'd departing Day, And both were blushing like two lovers meeting; The moon had ris'n, for sure her welcome ray Should e'er attend where kindred hearts are beating. Meanwhile our weary pilgrim was completing His desolate track: for Melrose towers arise Airy and beauteous to the fair moon's greeting. Scarce earthly bower it seems to Cuthbert's eyes But some delusive, quickly fading paradise. And yet he trembled to the opening door; Scarcely his ready words could utt'rance find; For chilly terror froze them all, before They pass'd his lips; and half bedimm'd and blind His lids droop'd o'er his eyes; till accents kind Bade him glad welcome, bade him banish fear: Kindly they spoke and sooth'd his troubled mind.

Rest and be thankful," meets the pilgrim's ear; "Rest and be thankful," for henceforth your home is here. Full twice seven years Saint Cuthbert in that pile Fasted and prayed and feasted in the hall : Morning and evening the sombre aisle Rang to the echoes, and the closing fall Of the rich anthem.-But we praise not all Who thus inglorious lead such peaceful life, Shielded from harm by the thick cloister's wall. Rather should Christian warrior court the strife, And flesh his virgin steel where changing blows are rife. (2) There are two different legends of St. Cuthbert's life. The one which I have followed represents him as having seen only one vision, and that while watching his sheep on the Northumbrian Moors.

'Neath Ripon's shade short while it might abide; Short while at Chester-Street-the Saint no more Shall fill the towers with peace, the fanes with costly store. But shall those monks for ever wander, faint ? Say, Wardenlaw, why on thy sacred scene Rested the body of our Patron Saint? Oh, thou wert worthy of such grace, I ween, For there the many-winding Vedra seen Clasps in her folding arms a wondrous view, Mountain, and glen, and grove, whose waving green Scarce hides yon hoary rocks,—and each bright hue, While the gay sunbeam laughs, presents a prospect new. There in his name the vast Cathedral rose : There, Cuthbert, is thy last, thy lordliest shrine. Sleep the long sleep,-here come no Danish foes: 'Tis thine, Dunholm, (a sacred trust,) 'tis thine To guard the relics of thy Saint divine. Thy task henceforth his honor to proclaim A scion true of Apostolic line;

To say how whilome suppliant princes came Bringing rich offerings unto his holy name.

Tell of Saint Cuthbert's banner, blushing red,—
(Green vies with amber, crimson vies with gold),
Tell how before it steel-clad warriors fled. (6)
Flodden, thou know'st, and, Neville's cross, how roll'd
Thy chosen heroes, 'neath the heavy fold
Of that dread pennon, in the tide of death :
And how he came in form of heavenly mould,
Bade Alfred his avenging brand unsheath,
And rout the Danish host on Glastonbury's heath.
Tell how in drooping folds that banner hung,
How wept the Saint who gave it all its power,
While, circling round, the captured pennons flung
Their shade, that erst had graced some Scottish tower.
All, all are gone in Fortune's evil hour,—
Out upon those who from his hallow'd fane

Tore the lone relics of each princely dower:
But time oft spares what man would foully stain,
And in the breast of each St. Cuthbert lives again.
And years roll on-and still his sacred story
Is told, where Durham on her rocky throne
Owes to Saint Cuthbert half her pristine glory,
To him her Abbey's legend-mantled stone. ()

(6) St. Cuthbert's banner led the English forces to victory at Flodden Field and Neville's Cross. It was afterwards, together with the captive banners, hung over his tomb, and taken away in Henry VIII's time.

(7) Referring to the emblematic designs of the life of St. Cuthbert sculptured on many parts of Durham Cathedral.

Still Chester weeps her former splendour gone, (8)
And curses still that sacrilegious crime,

When stolen was her saint, his shrine o'erthrown.
Aye, years roll on-and still with ceaseless chime
That tale re-echoes through "the corridors of time."

(*) Chester-le-Street to this day deplores what it terms the robbery of its Saint.