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Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.

Above the rest, a turret square

Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,

Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,

The cognizance of Douglas blood.

The turret held a narrow stair,

Which, mounted, gave you access where
A parapet's embattled-row

Did seaward round the castle

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,

Sometimes in platform broad extending,
Its varying circle did combine
Bulwark, and bartisan, and line,
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign;

Above the booming ocean leant

The far-projecting battlement;
The billows burst, in ceaseless flow,
Upon the precipice below.
Where'er Tantallon faced the land,

Gate-works, and walls, were strongly manned,
No need upon the sea-girt side ;
The steepy rock, and frantic tide,
Approach of human step denied ;
And thus these lines, and ramparts rude,
Were left in deepest solitude.


And, for they were so lonely, Clare

Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,

And list the sea-bird's cry;

Or slow, like noon-tide ghost, would glide
Along the dark-grey bulwarks' side,

And ever on the heaving tide

Look down with weary eye.

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Oft did the cliff, and swelling main,

Recal the thoughts of Whitby's fane,

A home she ne'er might see again;

For she had laid adown,

So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,

And frontlet of the cloister pale,

And Benedictine gown :

It were unseemly sight, he said,

A novice out of convent shade.

Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,

Again adorned 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

Remained a cross with ruby stone ;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,

With velvet bound, and broidered 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 dressed,

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.


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 tranced 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,
Did still the Saint her form deny!
Was it, that, seared 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.-

* See Note.


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