Marmion Part 5

IV.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule Reform'd on Benedictine school; 70 Her cheek was pale, her form was spare: Vigils, and penitence austere, Had early quench'd the light of youth, But gentle was the dame, in sooth; Though, vain of her religious sway, 75 She loved to see her maids obey, Yet nothing stern was she in cell, And the nuns loved their Abbess well.

Sad was this voyage to the dame; Summon'd to Lindisfame, she came, 80 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold A chapter of Saint Benedict, For inquisition stern and strict, On two apostates from the faith, 85 And, if need were, to doom to death.

V.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofess'd, Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 90 She was betroth'd to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled.

Her kinsmen bade her give her hand To one, who loved her for her land: Herself, almost broken-hearted now, 95 Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom, Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.

VI.

She sate upon the galley's prow, And seem'd to mark the waves below; 100 Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, To count them as they glided by.

She saw them not--'twas seeming all-- Far other scene her thoughts recall,-- A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, 105 Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there; There saw she, where some careless hand O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, To hide it till the jackals come, To tear it from the scanty tomb.-- 110 See what a woful look was given, As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

VII.

Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd-- These charms might tame the fiercest breast: Harpers have sung, and poets told, 115 That he, in fury uncontroll'd, The s.h.a.ggy monarch of the wood, Before a virgin, fair and good, Hath pacified his savage mood.

But pa.s.sions in the human frame, 120 Oft put the lion's rage to shame: And jealousy, by dark intrigue, With sordid avarice in league, Had practised with their bowl and knife, Against the mourner's harmless life. 125 This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet grey.

VIII.

And now the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland; Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 130 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes.

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth's priory and bay; They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 135 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods Rush to the sea through sounding woods; They pa.s.s'd the tower of Widderington, Mother of many a valiant son; At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140 To the good Saint who own'd the cell; Then did the Alne attention claim, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, 145 There, boiling through the rocks, they roar, On Dunstanborough's cavern'd sh.o.r.e; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, 150 And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

IX.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the Saint's domain: 155 For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface 160 Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.

As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The Castle with its battled walls, The ancient Monastery's halls, 165 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle.

X.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, With ma.s.sive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, 170 On ponderous columns, short and low, Built ere the art was known, By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, The arcades of an alley'd walk To emulate in stone. 175 On the deep walls, the heathen Dane Had pour'd his impious rage in vain; And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 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.

Not but that portions of the pile, Rebuilded in a later style, 185 Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been; Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, And moulder'd in his niche the saint, And rounded, with consuming power, 190 The pointed angles of each tower; Yet still entire the Abbey stood, Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.

XI.

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 195 And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy sh.o.r.e, Half-drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 200 According chorus rose: Down to the haven of the Isle, The monks and nuns in order file, From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; Banner, and cross, and relics there, 205 To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; And, as they caught the sounds on air, They echoed back the hymn.

The islanders, in joyous mood, Rush'd emulously through the flood, 210 To hale the bark to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And bless'd them with her hand.

XII.

Suppose we now the welcome said, 215 Suppose the Convent banquet made: All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, No risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 220 The stranger sisters roam: Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there, even summer night is chill.

Then, having stray'd and gazed their fill, 225 They closed around the fire; And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The rival merits of their saint, 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, How to their house three Barons bold Must menial service do; While horns blow out a note of shame, 235 And monks cry 'Fye upon your name!

In wrath, for loss of silvan game, Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.'-- 'This, on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pier, 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 Was changed into a coil of stone, When holy Hilda pray'd; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found.

They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 As over Whitby's towers they sail, And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint.

XIV.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail, To vie with these in holy tale; 255 His body's resting-place, of old, How oft their patron changed, they told; How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260 From sea to sea, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore.

They rested them in fair Melrose; 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, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 Nor long was his abiding there, Far southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hail'd him with joy and fear; 275 And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last, Where his cathedral, huge and vast, Looks down upon the Wear; There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 280 His relics are in secret laid; But none may know the place, Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy, Who share that wondrous grace. 285

XV.

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, And turn'd the Conqueror back again, 295 When, with his Norman bowyer band, He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne, Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300 The sea-born beads that bear his name: Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, And said they might his shape behold, And hear his anvil sound; A deaden'd clang,--a huge dim form, 305 Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm And night were closing round.

But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go, 310 Far different was the scene of woe, Where, in a secret aisle beneath, Council was held of life and death.

It was more dark and lone that vault, Than the worst dungeon cell: 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 s.e.xhelm, made A place of burial for such dead, 325 As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within.

'Twas now a place of punishment; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, As reach'd the upper air, 330 The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle 335 Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the place lay; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clew To that dread vault to go. 340 Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there.

In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 345 Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor; The mildew-drops fell one by one, With tinkling plash, upon the stone.

A cresset, in an iron chain, 350 Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seem'd to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below. 355

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; 360 In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, Sat for a s.p.a.ce with visage bare, 365 Until, to hide her bosom's swell, And tear-drops that for pity fell, She closely drew her veil: Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, By her proud mien and flowing dress, 370 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quench'd by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 375 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, Whose look is hard and stern,-- Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; For sanct.i.ty call'd, through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380