As to the port the galley flew, X. In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, To emulate in stone. On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 165 170 175 Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 180 Open to rovers fierce as they, Which could twelve hundred years withstand Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. Rebuilded in a later style, 185 Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been; Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen And moulder'd in his niche the saint, 190 And rounded, with consuming power, XI. Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, 195 And with the sea-wave and the wind, Then, answering from the sandy shore, Down to the haven of the Isle, They echoed back the hymn. XII. Suppose we now the welcome said, The stranger sisters roam : 200 205 210 215 220 225 And all, in turn, essay'd to paint A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, 230 That their saint's honour is their own. XIII. Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, While horns blow out a note of shame, 235 240 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 Themselves, within their holy bound, They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile, O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260 From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. 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, Downward to Tilmouth cell. Hail'd him with joy and fear; 270 275 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, XVI. But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 295 Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame A deaden'd clang, -a huge dim form, And night were closing round. But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 300 305 XVII. While round the fire such legends go, 310 Where, in a secret aisle beneath, Council was held of life and death. It was more dark and lone that vault, 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 Sexhelm, made 325 |