It were unseemly sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.-

Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,
Again adorn'd her brow of snow;

Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,
A deep and fretted broidery bound,
In golden foldings sought the ground;
Of holy ornament, alone

Remain'd a cross with ruby stone;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er,
Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,

At dawning pale, or twilight dim,

It fearful would have been

To meet a form so richly dress'd
With book in hand, and cross on breast,
And such a woeful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,

To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,

And did by Mary swear,—

Some love-lorn Fay she might have been, Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen; For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen

A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide,
It chanced a gliding sail she spied,
And, sighing, thought-" The Abbess, there,
Perchance, does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where, Duty free,
Walks hand in hand with Charity;
Where oft Devotion's trancéd glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,
That the enraptured sisters see
High vision, and deep mystery ;
The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air,
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.'
O! wherefore, to my duller eye,

1 I shall only produce one instance more of the great veneration paid to Lady Hilda, which still prevails even in these our days; and that is, the constant opinion, that she rendered, and still renders, herself visible, on some occasions, in the Abbey of Streanshalh, or Whitby, where she so long resided. At a particular time of the year (viz., in the summer months), at ten or eleven in the forenoon, the sunbeams fall in the inside of the northern part of the choir; and 'tis then that the spectators, who stand on the west side of Whitby churchyard, so as just to see the most northerly part of the abbey pass the north end of Whitby church, imagine they perceive, in one of the highest windows there, the resemblance of a woman, arrayed in a shroud. Though we are certain this is only a reflection caused by the splendour of the sunbeams, yet fame reports it, and it is constantly believed among the vulgar, to be an appearance of Lady Hilda in her shroud, or rather in a glorified state; before which, I make no doubt, the Papists, even in these our days, offer up their prayers with as much zeal and devotion, as before any other image of their most glorified saint."-Charlton's History of Whitby, p. 33.

Did still the Saint her form deny!
Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn,

My heart could neither melt nor burn?
Or lie my warm affections low,

With him, that taught them first to glow?
Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew,
To pay thy kindness grateful due,
And well could brook the mild command,
That ruled thy simple maiden band.
How different now! condemn'd to bide
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride.-
But Marmion has to learn, ere long,
That constant mind, and hate of wrong,
Descended to a feeble girl,

From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl:
Of such a stem, a sapling weak,

He ne'er shall bend, although he break.

V.

"But see!-what makes this armour here?"

For in her path there lay

Targe, corslet, helm;-she view'd them near.— "The breast-plate pierced!-Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, That hath made fatal entrance here,

As these dark blood-gouts say.— Thus Wilton!-Oh! not corslet's ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom's guard,

On yon disastrous day!"

She raised her eyes in mournful mood,-
WILTON himself before her stood!

It might have seem'd his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost;
And joy unwonted, and surprise,

Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.-
Expect not, noble dames and lords,

That I can tell such scene in words:

CANTO VI.

What skilful liner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,
Unless to mortal it were given

To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ?
Far less can my weak line declare

Each changing passion's shade;
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy, with her angelic air,

And hope, that paints the future fair,
Their varying hues display'd:
Each o'er its rival's ground extending,
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending,
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,
By many a tender word delay'd,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply:

VI.

De Celilton's History.

"Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragg'd,-but how I cannot know,
For sense and recollection fled,—

I found me on a pallet low,

Within my ancient beadsman's shed.