X. In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, On ponderous columns, short and low, By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, The arcades of an alley'd walk To emulate in stone. On the deep walls, the heathen Dane And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas, Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 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 stile, Shew'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, XI. Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And with the sea-wave and the wind, Then, answering from the sandy shore, 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 reliques there, And as they caught the sounds on air, They echoed back the hymn. The islanders, in joyous mood, Rush'd emulously through the flood, Conspicuous by her veil and hood, And bless'd them with her hand. XII. Suppose we now the welcome said, Suppose the Convent banquet made : Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye, Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, 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, And monks cry, "Fye upon your name! In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." "This, on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pier, 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 Was changed into a coil of stone, Themselves, within their holy bound, They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 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; |