The Ballads and Songs of Yorkshire. Various

      But, with a look that spoke her grief,

      To heaven upcast her eyes.

      Then, turning to the stranger dame,

      "O welcome to this place;

      For never Whitby's holy fane

      Did fairer maiden grace."

      And true she said—for on her cheek

      Was seen young beauty's bloom,

      Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,

      Did then her prime consume.

      Her shape was all that thought can frame,

      Of elegance and grace;

      And heav'n the beauties of her mind

      Reflected in her face.

      "My daughter, lay aside thy fears,"

      Again the matron cry'd,

      "No Danish ravishers come here—"

      —Again the virgin sigh'd.

      The abbess saw, the abbess knew,

      'Twas love that shook her breast;

      And thus, in accents soft and mild,

      The mournful maid addrest,

      "My daughter dear, as to thy friend

      Be all thy care confest;

      I see 'tis love disturbs thy mind,

      And wish to give thee rest.

      "But hark! I hear the vesper bell,

      Now summons us to prayer;

      That duty done, with needful food

      Thy wasted strength repair."

      But now the pitying mournful muse

      Of Edwy's hap shall tell;

      And what amid his nightly walk

      That gallant youth befell.

      For journeying by the bank of Esk

      He took his lonely way;

      And now through showers of driving rain

      His erring footsteps stray.

      At length, from far, a glimmering light

      Trembled among the trees:

      And entering soon a moss-built hut,

      A holy man he sees.

      "O father, deign a luckless youth

      This night with thee to shield;

      I am no robber, though my arm

      This deadly weapon wield."

      "I fear no robber, stranger, here,

      For I have nought to lose;

      And thou mayst safely through the night

      In this poor cell repose.

      "And thou art welcome to my hut,"

      The holy man replied;

      "Still welcome here is he whom fate

      Has left without a guide.

      "Whence and what art thou, gentle youth?"

      The noble Edwy said,

      "I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power,

      And seek Lord Redwald's aid.

      "My father is a wealthy lord,

      Who now with Alfred stays;

      And me he left to guard his seat,

      Whilst he his duty pays.

      "But vain the hope—in dead of night

      The cruel spoiler came;

      And o'er each neighb'ring castle threw

      The wide-devouring flame.

      "To shun its rage, at early dawn,

      I with my sister fled;

      And Whitby's abbey now affords

      A shelter to her head.

      "Whilst I, to hasten promised aids,

      Range wildly through the night,

      And, with impatient mind, expect

      The morning's friendly light."

      Thus Edwy spoke; and wondering, gazed

      Upon his hermit host,

      For in his form beam'd manly grace,

      Untouch'd by age's frost.

      The hermit sigh'd and thus he said;—

      "Know, there was once a day,

      This tale of thine would fire my heart,

      And bid me join thy way.

      "But luckless love dejects my soul,

      And casts my spirits down;

      Thou seest the wretch of woman's pride,

      Of follies not my own.

      "I once amid my sovereign's train

      Was a distinguish'd youth,

      But blighted is my former fame,

      By Sorrow's cankering tooth.

      "When Ethelred the crown did hold,

      I to this district came;

      And then a fair and matchless maid

      First raised in me a flame.

      "Her father was a noble lord

      Of an illustrious race,

      Who join'd to rustic honesty

      The courtier's gentle race.

      "'Twas then I told my artless tale,

      By love alone inspired;

      For never was my honest speech

      In flattering guise attired.

      "At first she heard, or seem'd to hear,

      The voice of tender love;

      But soon, the ficklest of her sex,

      Did she deceitful prove.

      "She drove me scornful from her sight,

      Rejected and disdain'd;

      In vain did words for pity plead,

      In vain my looks complain'd.

      "How could that breast which pity fill'd,

      Ever relentless be?

      How could that face which smiled on all,

      Have ever frowns for me?

      "Since that fell hour, I in this cell

      Have lived recluse from man;

      And twice ten months have pass'd since I

      The hermit's life began."

      "O stain to honour!" Edwy cry'd;

      "O foul disgrace to arms!

      What, when thy country claims thy aid,

      And shakes with war's alarms!

      "Canst thou, inglorious, here remain,

      And strive thyself to hide;

      Assume