Marmion. Вальтер Скотт

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 shore,

      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 shore to shore,

      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