Marmion. Walter Scott

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 massive 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 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