THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Who, prisoned by enchanter’s spell,

       Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.

       And well that Palmer’s form and mien

       Had suited with the stormy scene,

       Just on the edge, straining his ken

       To view the bottom of the den,

       Where, deep deep down, and far within,

       Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;

       Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,

       And wheeling round the giant’s grave,

       White as the snowy charger’s tail

       Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

      Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,

       To many a Border theme has rung;

       Then list to me, and thou shalt know

       Of this mysterious man of woe.

Canto Second

       Table of Contents

       The Convent

       I

      The breeze, which swept away the smoke,

       Round Norham Castle rolled,

       When all the loud artillery spoke,

       With lightning-flash, 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,

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