By this good light! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
Will sharper sermon teach.

Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;
The Dame must patience take perforce."-
XXXII.

"Submit we then to force," said Clare,
"But let this barbarous lord despair
His purposed aim to win:
Let him take living, land, and life;
But to be Marmion's wedded wife'
In me were deadly sin :
And if it be the king's decree,
That I must find no sanctuary,
In that inviolable dome*

Where even a homicide might come,
And safely rest his head,
Though at its open portals stood,
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,
The kinsman of the dead,-
Yet one asylum is my own
Against the dreaded hour,
A low, a silent, and a lone,
Where kings have little power.
One victim is before me there.-
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer
Remember your unhappy Clare!"
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows
Kind blessings many a one:
Weeping and wailing loud arose,

Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes
Of every simple nun.

His

eyes the gentle Eustace dried,

And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. Then took the squire her rein,

And gently led away her steed,

And, by each courteous word and deed,
To cheer her strove in vain.

XXXIII.

But scant three miles the band had rode,
When o'er a height they passed,
And, sudden, close before them showed
His towers, Tantallon vast;

Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,
And held impregnable in war.

On a projecting rock they rose,
And round three sides the ocean flows,
The fourth did battled walls enclose,
And double mound and fosse.t

By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,
Through studded gates, and entrance long,
To the main court they cross.
It was a wide and stately square;
Around were lodgings fit and fair,
And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky,
Whence oft the warder could descry
The gathering ocean-storm.

XXXIV.

Here did they rest. The princely care
Of Douglas, why should I declare,
Or say they met reception fair?
Or why the tidings say,

This line, necessary to the rhyme, is now for the first time restored from the MS. It must have been omitted by an oversight in the original printing.-En.]

Dunng the regency (subsequent to the death of James V.) the Dowager Queen Regent, Mary of Guise, became desirous of putting a French garrison into Tantallon, as she had into Dunbar and Inchkeith, in order the better to bridle the lords and barons, who inclined to the reformed faith, and to secure by citadels the sea-coast of the Frith of Forth. For this purpose, the Regent, to se the phrase of the time, dealed with the (then) Earl of Angus for his consent to the proposed measure. He occupied himself, while she was speaking, in feeding a falcon which sat upon his Wrist, and only replied by addressing the bird, but leaving the Queen to make the application, The devil is in this greedy led-she will never be fou. But when the Queen, without appearing to notice this hint, continued to press her obnoxious re quest, Angus replied, in the true spirit of a feudal noble, 'Yes, madam, the castle is yours; God forbid else. But by the might of God, Madam!' such was his usual oath, I must be your Captain and Keeper for you, and I will keep it as well as any

Which, varying, to Tantallon came,
By hurrying posts, or fleeter fame,
With every varying day?

And, first, they heard King James had won
Etail, and Wark, and Ford; and then,
That Norham castle strong was ta'en.
At that sore marvell'd Marmion :-
And Douglas hoped his Monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland:
But whisper'd news there came,
That, while his host inactive lay,
And melted by degrees away,
King James was dallying off the day
With Heron's wily dame.-

Such acts to chronicles I yield:
Go seek them there, and see:
Mine is a tale of Flodden field,
And not a history.-

At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their post,
Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain;
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gather'd in the southern land,
And marched into Northumberland,
And camp at Wooler ta'en.
Marmion, like charger in the stall,
That hears without, the trumpet-call,
Began to chafe and swear:-

A sorry thing to hide my head In castle like a fearful maid, When such a field is near! Needs must I see this battle-day: Death to my fame if such a fray Were fought, and Marmion away! The Douglas, too, I wot not why, Hath 'bated of his courtesy: No longer in his halls I'll stay." Then bade his band they should array For march against the dawning day.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO VI.

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ.

Mertoun-House, Christmas.

HEAP on more wood!-the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christinas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ;§
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib, and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,

While scalds yield out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,

quities, vol. ii. p. 167.]
you can place there.'"-SIR WALTER SCOTT's Provincial Anti-

beautifully situated on the Tweed, about two miles below Dry1 [Mertoun-House, the seat of Hugh Scott, Esq, of Harden, is burgh Abbey.)

The lol of the heathen Danes (a word still applied to Christhumour of the Danes at table displayed itself in pelting each mas in Scotland) was solemnized with great festivity. The other with bones; and Torfaus tells a long and curious story, in the History of Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an inmate of the Court of Denmark, who was so generally assailed with these missiles, that he constructed, out of the bones with which he was overwhelmed, a very respectable intrenchment, against those who continued the raillery. The dances of the northern warriors round the great fires of pine-trees, are commemorated by Olaus other by the hands, that, if the grasp of any failed, he was pitched Magnus, who says, they danced with such fury, holding each into the fire with the velocity of a sling. The sufferer, on such occasions, was instantly plucked out, and obliged to quaff off a

certain measure of ale, as a penalty for "spoiling the king's fire"

And reverend, apostolic air-
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,

And honest mirth with thoughts divine:
Small thought was his, in after time,
E'er to be hitched into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast,
That he was loyal to his cost;

The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land,-but kept his beard.

In these dear halls, where welcome kind⭑
Is with fair liberty combined;

Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand
Of the fair dame that rules the land.t
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loath to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face,

And clips her with a close embrace:-
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,
And as reluctant turn us home.

How just, that, at this time of glee,

My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee!
For many a merry hour we've known,
And heard the chimes of midnight's tone.
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace!
*[M8.-"In these fair halls, with merry cheer
Is bid farewell the dying year."]

↑ [See Introduction to the Minstrelsy, ante.]
[The MS. adds :-

"As boasts old Shallow to Sir John."]

"Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir-a very pretty fellow in hday"-Old Bachelor.

MS.-"With all his many-languaged lore."]

John Leyden, M. D., who had been of great service to Sir Walter Scott in the preparation of the Border Minstrelsy, sailed for India in April, 1803, and died at Java in August, 1811, before completing his 36th year.

"Scenes sung by him who sings no more
His brief and bright career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains;

Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of anng to pour :

A distant and a deadly shore

Has Leyden's cold remains !"

Lord of the Isles, Canto IV., post.

See a notice of his life in the Author's Miscellaneous Prose Works.]

"Cew

I am permitted to illustrate this passage, by inserting bren yr Ellyll, or The Spirit's Blasted Tree," a legendary tale, by the Reverend George Warrington:

The event, on which this tale is founded, is preserved by tradition in the family of the Vaughans of Hengwyrt: nor is it entirely lost, even among the common people, who still point out this oak to the passenger. The enmity between the two Welsh chieftains, Howel Sele, and Owen Glendwr, was extreme, and marked by vile treachery in the one, and ferocious cruelty in the ether. The story is somewhat changed and softened, as more favourable to the character of the two chiefs, and as better answering the purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion of pity, and a greater degree of sentiment in the description. Some trace of Howel Sele's mansion was to be seen a few years ago, and may perhaps be still visible, in the park of Nannau, now belonging to Sir Robert Vaughan, Baronet, in the wild and romantic tracks of Merionethshire. The abbey mentioned passes under two names, Vener and Cymmer. The former is retained, as more generally used.

THE SPIRIT'S BLASTED TREE.

Ceubren yr Ellyll.

"Through Nannau's Chase as Howel pass'd, A chief esteem'd both brave and kind, Far distant borne, the stag-hounds' cry Came murmuring on the hollow wind. "Starting, he bent an eager ear,— How should the sounds return again? His hounds lay wearied from the chase, And all at home his hunter train. "Then sudden anger flash'd his eye, And deep revenge he vow'd to take, On that bold man who dared to force His red-deer from the forest brake. "Unhappy Chief! would naught avail, No signs impress thy heart with fear," Thy lady's dark mysterious dream, Thy warning from the hoary seer? "Three ravens gave the note of death,

As through mid air they wing'd their way;

Then o'er his head, in rapid flight,

They croak,-they scent their destined prey.

The history of their feud may be found in Pennant's Tour in Wales.

Of Roman and of Grecian lore,
Sure mortal brain can hold no more.
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say,
"Were pretty fellows in their day;"§
But time and tide o'er all prevail-
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale-
Of wonder and of war.-" Profane!
What! leave the lofty Latin strain,
Her stately prose, her verse's charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms;
In fairy land or limbo lost,

:

To jostle conjurer and ghost,
Goblin and witch!"-Nay, Heber dear,
Before you touch my charter, hear;
Though Leyden aids, alas! no more,
My cause with many-languaged lore,
This may
I say in realms of death
Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith;
Eneas, upon Thracia's shore,
The ghost of murdered Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus bos.
As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks;
Or held, in Rome republican,
The place of common-councilman.
All nations have their omens drear,
Their legends wild of wo and fear.
To Cambria look-the peasant see,
Bethink him of Glendowerdy,,

And shun "the spirit's blasted tree."T
The highlander, whose red claymore
The battle turned on Maida's shore,

"Ill-omen'd bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wondrous power to know,
While health fills high the throbbing veins,
The fatal hour when blood must flow.
"Blinded by rage, alone he pass'd,

Nor sought his ready vassals' aid:
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delay'd.
"A peasant mark'd his angry eye,

He saw him reach the lake's dark bourne,
He saw him near a Blasted Oak,

But never from that hour return.
"Three days pass'd o'er, no tidings came-
Where should the Chief his steps delay 7
With wild alarm the servants ran,

Yet knew not where to point their way.
"His vassals ranged the mountain's height,
The covert close, the wide-spread plain;
But all in vain their eager search,

They ne'er must see their lord again.
"Yet Fancy, in a thousand shapes,
Bore to his home the Chief once more:
Some saw him on high Moal's top,

Some saw him on the winding shore.
"With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chain' the hearer's tongue;
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,

Yet fondly o'er the story hung.
"Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light,
His aged nurse and steward gray
Would lean to catch the storied sounds,
Or mark the flitting spirit stray.
"Pale lights on Cader's rocks were seen,
And midnight voices heard to moan;
"Twas even said the Blasted Oak,
Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan:
"And to this day the peasant still,
With cantions fear, avoids the ground;
In each wild branch a spectre sees,
And trembles at each rising sound.
"Ten annual suns had held their course,
In suminer's smile, or winter storm;
The lady shed the widow'd tear,

As oft she traced his manly form.
"Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o'er the mind illusions play,-
Of travel fond, perhaps her lord

To distant lands had steer'd his way.
"Twas now November's cheerless hour,
Which drenching rains and clouds deface,
Dreary bleak Robell's tract appear'd,
And dull and dank each valley's space.
"Loud o'er the weir the hoarse flood fell,
And dash'd the foaming spray on high;
The west wind bent the forest tops,
And angry frown'd the evening sky.
"A stranger pass'd Llanelltid's bourne,
His dark-gray steed with sweat besprent,
Which, wearied with the lengthen'd way,
Could scarcely gain the hill's ascent.
"The portal reach'd.-the iron bell
Loud sounded round the outward wall;
Quick sprang the warder to the gate,
To know what meant the clam'rous call.
"O! lead me to your lady soon;
Say, it is my sad lot to tell,

Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,
If asked to tell a fairy tale ;*
He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring:
Invisible to human ken,

He walks among the sons of men.

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchémont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,

Amassed through rapine and through wrong
By the last lord of Franchémont.§
The iron chest is bolted hard,

A huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his bloodhounds lie:
An 'twere not for his gloomy eye,

To clear the fate of that brave knight,

She long has proved she loved so well.'
"Then, as he cross'd the spacious hall,
The inenials look surprise and fear;
Sull o'er his harp old Modred hung,
And touch'd the notes for grief's worn ear.
"The lady sat amidst her train;

A mellow'd sorrow mark'd her look:
Then, asking what his mission meant,
The graceful stranger sigh'd and spoke —
"O could I spread one ray of hope,
One moment raise thy soul from wo,
Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,
My words at ease unfetter'd flow !
"Now, lady, give attention due,
The story claims thy full belief:
E'en in the worst events of life,

Suspense removed is some relief.

"Though worn by care, see Madoc here,
Great Glyndwr's friend, thy kindred's foe;
Ah, let his name no anger raise,

For now that mighty Chief lies low.

"E'en from the day, when, chain'd by fate,
By wizard's dream, or potent spell,
Lingering from sad Salopia's field,
'Reft of his aid the Percy fell-
"E'en from that day misfortune still,
As if for violated faith,

Pursued him with unwearied step;
Vindictive still for Hotspur's death.
"Vanquish'd at length, the Glyndwr flod
Where winds the Wye her devious flood;
To find a casual shelter there,

In some lone cot, or desert wood.
"Clothed in a shepherd's humble guise,
He gain'd by toil his scanty bread;
He who had Cambria's sceptre borne,
And her brave sons to glory led!
To penury extreme, and grief,
The Chieftain fell a lingering prey;
I heard his last few faluring words,
Such as with pain I now convey.
"To Sele's sad widow bear the tale,
Nor let our horrid secret rest;
Give but his corse to sacred earth,

Then may my parting soul be blest.'--
"Dim wax'd the eye that fiercely shone,
And faint the tongue that proudly spoke,
And weak that arm, still raised to me,
Which oft had dealt the mortal stroke.
How could I then his mandate bear?
Or how his last behest obey ?
A rebel deem'd, with him I fed;
With him I shunn'd the light of day.
"Proscribed by Henry's hostile rage,
My country lost, despoil'd my land,
Desperate, I fled my native soil,

And fought on Syria's distant strand.
"O, had thy long-lamented lord

The holy cross and banner view'd,
Died in the sacred cause! who fell
Sed victim of a private feud!

Led by the ardour of the chase,
Far distant from his own domain,
From where Garthmalan spreads her shades,
The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.
"With head aloft, and antlers wide,

A red buck roused then cross'd in view:
Stung with the sight, and wild with rage,
Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.
"With bitter taunt, and keen reproach,
He, all impetuous, pour'd bis rage;
Reviled the Chief as weak in arms,

And bade him loud the battle wage.
"Glyndwr for once restrain'd his sword,
And still averse, the fight delays;
But soften'd words, like oil to fire,
Made anger more intensely blaze.
"They fought; and doubtful long the fray!
The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound!-
Still mournful must my tale proceed,
And its last act all dreadful sound.

Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,

As bugle e'er in brake did sound,

Or ever halloo'd to a hound.

To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged Necromantic Priest;

It is a hundred years, at least,

Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft the conjuror's words will make
The stubborn demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,

Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 'tis opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franch'mont locked the treasure-cell.

"How could we hope for wish'd retreat,
His eager vassals ringing wide,
His bloodhounds' keen sagacious scent,
O'er many a trackless mountain tried?
"I mark'd a broad and Blasted Oak,
Scorch'd by the lightning's livid glare;
Hollow its stem from branch to root,

And all its shrivell'd arms were bare.
"Be this, I cried, his proper grave !-
(The thought in me was deadly sin,)
Aloft we raised the hapless Chief,

And dropp'd his bleeding corpse within.'
"A shriek from all the damsels burst,
That pierced the vaulted roofs below;
While horror-struck the Lady stood,
A living form of sculptured wo.
"With stupid stare, and vacant gaze,
Full on his face her eyes were cast,
Absorb'd!-she lost her present grief,
And faintly thought of things long past.
"Like wild-fire o'er a mossy heath,

The rumour through the hamlet ran;
The peasants crowd at morning dawn,
To hear the tale-behold the inan.
"He led them near the Blasted Oak,

Then, conscious, from the scene withdrew:
The peasants work with trembling haste,
And lay the whiten'd bones to view -
"Back they recoil'd 1-the right hand still,
Contracted, grasp'd a rusty sword;
Which erst in many a battle gleam'd,

And proudly deck'd their slaughter'd lord.
"They bore the corse to Vener's shrine,
With holy rites and prayers address'd;
Nine white-robed monks the last dirge sang,
And gave the angry spirit rest."

*The Daoine shi', or Men of Peace, of the Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scandinavian Duergar than the English Fairies. Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not absolutely malevolent, at least peevish, discontented, and apt to do mischief on slight provocation. The belief of their existence is deeply impressed on the Highlanders, who think they are particularly offended at mortals, who talk of them, who wear their favourite colour, green, or in any respect interfere with their affairs. This is especially to be avoided on Friday, when, whether as dedicated to Venus, with whom, in Germany, this subterraneous people are held nearly connected, or for a more solemn reason, they are more active, and possessed of greater power. curious particulars concerning the popular superstitions of the Highlanders may be found in Dr. Graham's Picturesque Sketches of Perthshire.

Some

[This paragraph appears interpolated on the blank page of the MS.] [MS.-" Which, high in air, like eagle's nest,

Hang from the dizzy mountain's breast."]

The journal of the friend, to whom the Fourth Canto of the poem is inscribed, furnished me with the following account of a striking superstition.

"Passed the pretty little village of Franch mont. (near Spaw.) with the romantic ruins of the old castle of the Counts of that name. The road leads through many delightful vales, on a rising ground; at the extremity of one of them stands the ancient castle, now the subject of many superstitious legends. It is firmly believed by the neighbouring peasantry, that the last Baron of Franch mont deposited, in one of the vaults of the castle, a ponderous chest, containing an immense treasure in gold and silver, which, by some magic spell, was intrusted to the care of the Devil, who is constantly found sitting on the chest in the shape of a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough to touch the chest is instantly seized with the palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted piety was brought to the vault: he used all the arts of ex orcism to persuade his infernal majesty to vacate his seat, but in vain the huntsman remained immoveable. At last, moved by the earnestness of the priest, he told him, that he would agree to resign the chest, if the exorciser would sign his name with blood. But the priest understood his meaning, and refused, as by that act he would have delivered over his soul to the Devil. Yet if anybody can discover the mystic words used by the person who deposited the treasure, and pronounce them, the fiend must instantly decamp. I had many stories of a similar nature from a peasant, who had himself seen the Devil, in the shape of a great cat."

A hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.

Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say:
Whose gossip history has given

My song the messenger from Heaven,*

That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's King,
Nor less the infernal summoning;t
May pass the monk of Durham's tale,
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail;
May pardon plead for Fordon grave,
Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave.
But why such instances to you,
Who, in an instant, can renew
Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest;
While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use;
Give them the priest's whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfered gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;

Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can, like the owner's self, enjoy them?-
But, hark! I hear the distant drum:
The day of Flodden field is come.-
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,
And store of literary wealth.

CANTO SIXTH.

THE BATTLE.

I.

WHILE great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,,
And the demeanour, changed and cold,
Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuffed the battle from afar;
And hopes were none, that back again,
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England's King in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day;—

While these things were, the mournful Clare
Did in the dame's devotions share:
For the good countess ceaseless prayed,
To heaven and saints, her sons to aid,
And, with short interval, did pass

From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high Baronial pride,-

life both dull and dignified;-
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear

The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

II.

I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,

Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.
Above the rest, a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,+
Which, mounted, gave you access where

* See note ) p. 405.

[The four lines which follow are not in the MS.) (MS.-"The tower contain'd a narrow stair, And gave an open access where."] [MS.-"To meet a form so fair, and dress'd In antique robes, with cross on breast."] [MS.-"A form so sad and fair."]

III.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,
And list the sea-bird's cry;

Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide
Along the dark-gray bulwark's side,
And ever on the heaving tide

Look down with weary eye.
Oft did the cliff, and swelling main,
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,-
A home she ne'er might see again;
For she had laid adown,

So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,
And frontlet of the cloister pale,
And Benedictine gown:

It were unseemly sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.-

Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,
Again adorned her brow of snow;
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,
A deep and fretted broidery bound,
In golden foldings sought the ground;
Of holy ornament, alone

Remained a cross of ruby stone;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound, and broidered o'er,
Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been

To meet a form so richly dressed,§
With book in hand and cross on breast,
And such a woful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practice on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,
And did by Mary swear,-'

Some love-lorn fay she might have been,
Or, in romance, some spell-bound Queen;
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen
A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide,
It chanced a gliding sail she spied,
And, sighing, thought-" The Abbess, there,
Perchance, does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where duty, free,
Walks hand in hand with charity;
Where oft devotion's tranced glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,
That the enraptured sisters see
High vision, and deep mystery;
The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air,
And smiling on her votaries' prayer. T
O! wherefore, to my duller eye,
Did still the saint her form deny!

I shall only produce one instance more of the great veneration paid to Lady Hilda, which still prevails even in these our days; that is, the constant opinion, that she rendered, and still renders, herself visible, on some occasions, in the Abbey of Streanshalb, or Whitby, where she so long resided. At a particular time of the year, (viz. in the summer months,) at ten or eleven in the forenoon, the sunbeams fall in the inside of the northern part of