CANTO II.
47
XIII.
Then Whitby's nuns exulting told,
How to their house three Barons bold
Must menial service do;
235While horns blow out a note of shame,
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,
240While 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;
245And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda pray'd;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Their stony folds had often found.
250They 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.
Then Whitby's nuns exulting told,
How to their house three Barons bold
Must menial service do;
235While horns blow out a note of shame,
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,
240While 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;
245And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda pray'd;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Their stony folds had often found.
250They 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,
255To vie with these in holy tale;
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;
260O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,
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,
265 Not there his relics might repose;
For, wondrous tale to tell!
Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail,
255To vie with these in holy tale;
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;
260O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,
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,
265 Not there his relics might repose;
For, wondrous tale to tell!
