'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's faulchion on the Dane, When, with his Norman bowyer band, XVI. But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn, Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame A deadened clang,—a huge dim form, But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarn disclaim. XVII. While round the fire such legends go, It was more dark and lone, that vault, In penitence to dwell, When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling every sense Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made Might not be laid the church within. 'Twas now a place of punishment; Where, if so loud a shriek were sent, The hearers blessed themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoaned their torments there. XVIII. But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Were those, who had from him the clew Victim and executioner Were blind-fold when transported there. The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er, With tinkling plash, upon the stone. a Which served to light this drear domain, The awful conclave met below. XIX. There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three: All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay; a Antique Chandelier. N In long black dress, on seats of stone, The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, And she with awe looks pale; And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown, For sanctity called, through the isle, |