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Close to my side, with what delight

Yet even this nakedness has power, They press'd to hear of Wallace wight,

And aids the feeling of the hour: When, pointing to his airy mound,

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, I call'd his ramparts holy ground !'

Where living thing conceal'd might lie; Kindled their brows to hear me speak;

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,

Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; Despite the difference of our years,

There's nothing left to fancy's guess, Return again the glow of theirs.

You see that all is loneliness: Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure,

And silence aids—though the steep hills They will not, cannot, long endure;

Send to the lake a thousand rills; Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide,

In summer tide, so soft they weep, You may not linger by the side;

The sound but lulls the ear asleep; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,

Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
And Passion ply the sail and oar.?

So stilly is the solitude.
Yet cherish the remembrance still,
Of the lone mountain, and the rill;

Nought living meets the eye or ear,
For trust, dear boys, the time will come,

But well I ween the dead are near; When fiercer transport shall be dumb,

For though, in feudal strife, a foe And you will think right frequently,

Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, But, well I hope, without a sigh,

Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, On the free hours that we have spent

The peasant rests him from his toil, Together, on the brown hill's bent.

And, dying, bids his bones be laid,

Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.
When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,

If age had tamed the passions' strife,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain;

And fate had cut my ties to life, There is a pleasure in this pain :

Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, It soothes the love of lonely rest,

And rear again the chaplain's cell, Deep in each gentler heart impress’d.

Like that same peaceful hermitage, 'Tis silent amid worldly toils,

Where Milton long'd to spend his age.8 And stified soon by mental broils ;,

"Twere sweet to mark the setting day, But, in a bosom thus prepared,

On Bourhope's lonely top decay; Its still small voice is often heard,

And, as it faint and feeble died Whispering a mingled sentiment,

On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 'Twixt resignation and content.

To say, “ Thus pleasures fade away; Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,

Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, By lone Saint Mary's silent lake ;3

And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;" Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,

Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;

And think on Yarrow's faded Flower: Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink

And when that mountain-sound I heard, At once upon the level brink;

Which bids us be for storm prepared, And just a trace of silver sand

The distant rustling of his wings, Marks where the water meets the land.

As up his force the Tempest brings, Far in the mirror, bright and blue,

"Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, Fach hill's huge outline you may view;5

To sit upon the Wizard's grave; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,

That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,

From company of holy dust ; Save where, of land, yon slender line

Cn which no sunbeam ever shinesBears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.

(So superstition's creed divines)-


silent }brink;

There is, on a high mountainous ridge above the farm of of peace and repose, as even the simple strains of our rener Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace's Trench.

able Walton."- Monthly Reriew. 2 MS.--"And youth shall ply the sail and oar."

8 “And may at last my weary age 3 See Appendix, Note W.

Find out the peaceful hermitage, 4 MS.-“ At once upon the silver)

The hairy gown and mossy cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell
And just a line of pebbly sand."

Of every star that heaven doth show, 6 MS.-" Far traced upon the lake you view

And every herb that sips the dew;
The hills' {

Till old experience do attain
bare } sides and sombre hue.”

To something like prophetic strain." & See Appendix, Note X.

Il Penserwo. 7 " A few of the lines which follow breathe as true a spirit 9 See Appendix, Note Y.


Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,

Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, Heave her broad billows to the shore;

And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,

White as the snowy charger's tail,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,'

Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.
And ever stoop again, to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,
Then, when against the driving hail

To many a Border theme has rung:5 No longer might my plaid avail,

Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Back to my lonely home retire,

Of this mysterious Man of Woe.
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,

I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,

The Convent.
And smiled to think that I had fear'd.

I. But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life,

The breeze, which swept away the smoke, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,)

Round Norham Castle roli’d, Something most matchless good and wise,

When all the loud artillery spoke, A great and grateful sacrifice;

With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke, And deem each hour to musing given,

As Marmion left the Hold. A step upon the road to heaven.

It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze,

For, far upon Northumbrian seas, Yet him, whose heart is ill at case,

It freshly blew, and strong, Such peaceful solitudes displease:

Where, from high Whitby’s cloister'd pile, He loves to drown his bosom's jar

Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle, Amid the elemental war:

It bore a bark along. And my black Palmer's choice had been

Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, Some ruder and more savage scene,

And bounded o'er the swelling tide, Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene."

As she were dancing home; There eagles scream from isle to shore;

The merry seamen laugh'd, to see Down all the rocks the torrents roar;

Their gallant ship so lustily O'er the black waves incessant driven,

Furrow the green sea-foam. Dark mists infect the summer heaven;

Much joy'd they in their honour'd freight; Through the rude barriers of the lake,

For, on the deck, in chair of state, Away its hurrying waters break,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,

Thunders the viewless stream below,

'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, Diving, as if condemn’d to lave

Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, Some demon's subterranean cave,

Their first flight from the cage, Who, prison’d by enchanter's spell,

How timid, and how curious too, Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.

For all to them was strange and new, And well that Palmer's form and mien

And all the common sights they view, Had suited with the stormy scene,

Their wonderment engage. Just on the edge, straining his ken

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, To view the bottom of the den,

With many a benedicite; Where, deep deep down, and far within,

One at the rippling surge grew pale, Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;

And would for terror pray;

1 MS.-“ Spread through broad mist their snowy sail."
2 MS.—"Till fancy wild had all her sway."
3 MS.-"Till from the task my brain I clear'd."

See Appendix, Note Z.

6 See various ballads by Mr. Marriott, in the 4th vol. of the Border Minstrelsy.

6 See Appendix, Note 2 A.
7 See Appendix, Note 2 B.

Then shriek'd, because the sea-dog, nigh,

V. His round black head, and sparhling eye,

Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Rear'd o'er the foaming spray;

Save this, that she was young and fair; And one would still aljust her veil,

As yet a novice unprofessid, Disorder'd by the summer gale,

Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. Perchance lest some more worldly eye

She was betroth'd to one now dead, Her dedicated charms might spy;

Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. Perchance, because such action graced

Her kinsmen bade her give her hand Her fair-turn d arm and slender waist.

To one, who loved her for her land: Light was each simple bosom there,

Herself, almost heart-broken now, Save two, who ill might pleasure share,

Was bent to take the vestal vow, The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.

And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom,

Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.
The Abbess was of noble blood,

But early took the veil and hood,

She sate upon the galley's prow, Ere upon life she cast a look,

And seem'd to mark the waves below; Or knew the world that she forsook.

Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, Fair too she was, and kind had been

To count them as they glided by. As she was fair, but ne'er had seen

She saw them not-'twas seeming allFor her a timid lover sigh,

Far other scene her thoughts recall,Nor knew the influence of her eye.

A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, Love, to her ear, was but a name,

Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there; Combined with vanity and shame ;

There saw she, where some careless hand Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all

O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, Bounded within the cloister wall:

To hide it till the jackals come, The deadliest sin her mind could reach,

To tear it from the scanty tomb.Was of monastic rule the breach;

See what a woful look was given,
And her ambition's highest aim

As she raised up her eyes to heaven!
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame.
For this she gave her ample dower,

To raise the convent's eastern tower;

Lovely, and gentle, and distress'dFor this, with carving rare and quaint,

These charms might tame the fiercest breast : She deck'd the chapel of the saint,

Harpers have sung, and poets told, And gave the relic-shrine of cost,

That he, in fury uncontrollid, With ivory and gems emboss'd.

The shaggy monarch of the wood, The poor her Convent's bounty blest,

Before a virgin, fair and good, The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

Hath pacified his savage mood.

But passions in the human frame,

Oft put the lion's rage to shame:
Black was her garb, her rigid rule

And jealousy, by dark intrigue, Reform’d on Benedictine school;

With sordid avarice in league, Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ;

Had practised with their bowl and knife, Vigils, and penitence austere,

Against the mourner's harmless life. Had early quench'd the light of youth,

This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay But gentle was the dame, in sooth;

Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet grey.
Though vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,

Yet nothing stern was she in cell,

And now the vessel skirts the strand And the nuns loved their Abbess well.

Of mountainous Northumberland; Sad was this voyage to the dame;

Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, Summond to Lindisfarne, she came,

And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old,

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold

And Tynemouth's priory and bay; A chapter of Saint Benedict,

They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall For inquisition stern and strict,

Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; On two apostates from the faith,

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods And, if need were, to doom to death.

Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

1 MS.--"'Twas she that gave her ample dower ...

* T was she, with carving rare and anaint, Who deck'd the chapel of the saint."

They pass'd the tower of Widderington,

Yet still entire the Abbey stood, Mother of many a valiant son;

Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. At Coquet-isle their beads they tell To the good Saint who own'd the cell;

XI. Then did the Alne attention claim,

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name;

The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear

And with the sea-wave and the wind, The whitening breakers sound so near,

Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar,

And made harmonious close; On Dunstan borough's cavern'd shore;

Then, answering from the sandy shore, Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark’d they there, Half-drown'd amid the breakers' roar, King Ida's castle, huge and square,

According chorus rose : From its tall rock look grimly down,

Down to the haven of the Isle, And on the swelling ocean frown;

The monks and nuns in order file, Then from the coast they bore away,

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

Banner, and cross, and relics there,

To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; IX.

And, as they caught the sounds on air, The tide did now its flood-mark gain,

They echoed back the hymn. And girdled in the Saint's domain:

The islanders, in joyous mood, For, with the flow and ebb, its style

Rush'd emulously through the flood, Varies from continent to isle ;

To hale the bark to land; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,

Conspicuous by her veil and hood, The pilgrims to the shrine find way;

Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, Twice every day, the waves efface

And bless'd them with her hand.
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,

Higher and higher rose to view

Suppose we now the welcome said, The Castle with its battled walls,

Suppose the Convent banquet made: The ancient Monastery's halls,

All through the holy dome, A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,

Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Placed on the margin of the isle.

Wherever vestal maid might pry,

Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye,

The stranger sisters roam :
In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd,

Till fell the evening damp with dew, With massive arches broad and round,

And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, That rose alternate, row and row,

For there, even summer night is chill. On ponderous columns, short and low,

Then, having stray'd and gazed their fill, Built ere the art was known,

They closed around the fire; By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,

And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The arcades of an alley'd walk

The rival merits of their saint, To emulate in stone.

A theme that ne'er can tire On the deep walls, the heathen Dane

A holy maid; for, be it known, Had pour’d his impious rage in vain ;

That their saint's honour is their own. And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas,

XIII. Scourged by the winds' eternal sway,

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, Open to rovers fierce as they,

How to their house three Barons bold Which could twelve hundred years withstand

Must menial service do ;? Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand.

While horns blow out a note of shame, Not but that portions of the pile,

And monks cry “ Fye upon your name! Rebuilded in a later style,

In wrath, for loss of silvan game, Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been ;

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew."-Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen

“ This, on Ascension-day, each year, Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,

While labouring on our harbour-pier, And moulder'd in his niche the saint,

Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear."And rounded, with consuming power,

They told, how in their convent-cell The pointed angles of each tower;

A Saxon princess once did dwell,

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· See the notes on Chery Chase.-PERCY’s Reliques.

2 See Appendix, Note 2 C.


The lovely Edelfed ;'

When, with his Norman bowyer band,
And how, of thousand snakes, each one

He came to waste Northumberland.
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda pray'd ;

Themselves, within their holy bound,

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn Their stony folds had often found.

If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne, They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame As over Whitby's towers they sail,2

The sea-born beads that bear his name : 9 And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,

Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, They do their homage to the saint.

And said they might his shape behold,

And hear his anvil sound;

A deaden'd clang,

a huge dim form, Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail,

Seen but, and heard, when gathering To vie with these in holy tale;

storm? His body's resting-place, of old,

And night were closing round.
How oft their patron changed, they told ;3

But this, as tale of idle fame,
How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ;
O’er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,

From sea to sea, from shore to shore,

While round the fire such legends go, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. Far different was the scene of woe, They rested them in fair Melrose;

Where, in a secret aisle beneath, But though, alive, he loved it well,

Council was held of life and death. Not there his relics might repose;

It was more dark and lone that vault, For, wondrous tale to tell!

Than the worst dungeon cell: In his stone-coffin forth he rides,

Old Colwulf & built it, for his fault, A ponderous bark for river tides,

In penitence to dwell, Yet light as gossamer it glides,

When he, for cowl and beads, laid down Downward to Tilmouth cell.

The Saxon battle-axe and crown. Nor long was his abiding there,

This den, which, chilling every sense For southward did the saint repair;

Of feeling, hearing, sight, Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw

Was call’d the Vault of Penitence, His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

Excluding air and light, Hail'd him with joy and fear;

Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made And, after many wanderings past,

A place of burial for such dead, He chose his lordly seat at last,

As, having died in mortal sin, Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

Might not be laid the church within. Looks down upon the Wear:

'Twas now a place of punishment; There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade,

Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, His relics are in secret laid;

As reach'd the upper air, But none may know the place,

The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, Save of his holiest servants three,

The spirits of the sinful dead Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

Bemoan'd their torments there.
Who share that wondrous grace.


But though, in the monastic pile,
Who may his miracles declare !

Did of this penitential aisle Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir,

Some vague tradition go, (Although with them they led

Few only, save the Abbot, knew Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale,

Where the place lay; and still more few And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail,

Were those, who had from him the clew And the bold men of Teviotdale,)

To that dread vault to go. Before his standard fled."

Victim and executioner 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign,

Were blindfold when transported there. Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane,

In low dark rounds the arches hung, And turn'd the Conqueror back again,

From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;



| See Appendix, Note 2 D. * See Appendix, Note 2 F. 6 See Appendix, Note 2 H.

9 Ibid, Note 2 E. 4 Ibid, Note 2 G.

6 See Appendix, Note 2 1.
7 MS.--Seen only when the gathering storm."
8 See Appendix, Note 2 K.

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