LITMIR.BIZ

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and thunder-stroke,

       As Marmion left the hold.

       It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze,

       For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

       It freshly blew, and strong,

       Where, from high Whitby’s cloistered pile,

       Bound to St. Cuthbert’s holy isle,

       It bore a barque along.

       Upon the gale she stooped her side,

       And bounded o’er the swelling tide,

       As she were dancing home;

       The merry seamen laughed to see

       Their gallant ship so lustily

       Furrow the green sea-foam.

       Much joyed they in their honoured freight;

       For, on the deck, in chair of state,

       The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,

       With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

       II

      ‘Twas sweet to see these holy maids,

       Like birds escaped to greenwood shades,

       Their first flight from the cage,

       How timid, and how curious too,

       For all to them was strange and new,

       And all the common sights they view,

       Their wonderment engage.

       One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,

       With many a benedicite;

       One at the rippling surge grew pale,

       And would for terror pray;

       Then shrieked, because the sea-dog, nigh,

       His round black head, and sparkling eye,

       Reared o’er the foaming spray;

       And one would still adjust her veil,

       Disordered by the summer gale,

       Perchance lest some more worldly eye

       Her dedicated charms might spy;

       Perchance, because such action graced

       Her fair-turned arm and slender waist.

       Light was each simple bosom there,

       Save two, who ill might pleasure share -

       The Abbess and the novice Clare.

       III

      The Abbess was of noble blood,

       But early took the veil and hood,

       Ere upon life she cast a look,

       Or knew the world that she forsook.

       Fair too she was, and kind had been

       As she was fair, but ne’er had seen

       For her a timid lover sigh,

       Nor knew the influence of her eye.

       Love, to her ear, was but a name,

       Combined with vanity and shame;

       Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all

       Bounded within the cloister wall:

       The deadliest sin her mind could reach

       Was of monastic rule the breach;

       And her ambition’s highest aim

       To emulate Saint Hilda’s fame.

       For this she gave her ample dower,

       To raise the convent’s eastern tower;

       For this, with carving rare and quaint,

       She decked the chapel of the saint,

       And gave the relic-shrine of cost,

       With ivory and gems embossed.

       The poor her convent’s bounty blest,

       The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

       IV

      Black was her garb, her rigid rule

       Reformed on Benedictine school;

       Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;

       Vigils, and penitence austere,

       Had early quenched the light of youth,

       But gentle was the dame, in sooth:

       Though, vain of her religious sway,

       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;

       Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came,

       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,

       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 unprofessed,

       Lovely and gentle, but distressed.

       She was betrothed to one now dead,

       Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.

       Her kinsmen bade her give her hand

       To one who loved her for her land;

       Herself, almost heart-broken now,

       Was bent to take the vestal vow,

       And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom,

       Her blasted hopes and withered bloom.

       VI

      She sate upon the galley’s prow,

       And seemed to mark the waves below;

       Nay, seemed, so fixed 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-scorched desert, waste and bare,

       Nor waves nor breezes murmured there;

       There saw she, where some careless hand

       O’er a dead corpse had heaped the sand,

       To hide it till the jackals come,

       To tear it from the scanty tomb.

       See what a woful look was given,

       As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

       VII

      Lovely, and gentle, and distressed -

       These charms might tame the fiercest breast;

       Harpers have sung, and poets told,

       That he, in fury uncontrolled,

       The shaggy monarch of the wood,

       Before a virgin, fair and good,

       Hath pacified his savage mood.

       But passions in the human frame

       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.

      

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