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On which a young and beauteous maid
In goodly sculpture shone.
A kneeling angel, fairly carv’d,
Lean’d hov’ring o’er her breast;
A weeping warrior at her feet;
And near to these her crest. (6)
The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb,
Attract the wond’ring pair:
Eager they ask what hapless dame
Lies sculptur’d here so fair.
The hermit sigh’d, the hermit wept,
For sorrow scarce could speak;
At length he wip’d the trickling tears
’That all bedew’d his cheek:
Alas! my children, human life
Is but a vale of woe;
And very mournful is the tale,
Which ye so fain would know.
THE HERMIT’S TALE.
Young lord, thy grandsire had a friend
In days of youthful fame;
Yon distant hills were his domains:
Sir Bertram was his name.
Where’er the noble Percy fought,
His friend was at his side;
And many a skirmish with the Scots
Their early valour tried.
Young Bertram lov’d a beauteous maid,
As fair as fair might be;
The dew-drop on the lily’s cheek
Was not so fair as she.
Fair Widdrington the maiden’s name,
Yon towers her dwelling-place; (7)
Her sire an old Northumbrian chief
Devoted to thy race.
Many a lord and many a knight,
To this fair damsel came:
But Bertram was her only choice,
For him she felt a flame.
Lord Percy pleaded for his friend,
Her father soon consents;
None but the beauteous maid herself
His wishes now prevents.
