Soon as they neared his turrets strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song, And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy shore, Half-drowned amid the breakers’ roar, According chorus rose: Down to the haven of the isle The monks and nuns in order file, From Cuthbert’s cloisters grim; Banner, and cross, and relics there, To meet Saint Hilda’s maids, they bare; And, as they caught the sounds on air, They echoed back the hymn. The islanders, in joyous mood, Rushed emulously through the flood, To hale the barque to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And blessed them with her hand.
Suppose we now the welcome said, Suppose the convent banquet made: All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye, The stranger sisters roam; Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there e’en summer night is chill. Then, having strayed and gazed their fill, They closed around the fire; And all, in turn, essayed to paint The rival merits of their saint, A theme that ne’er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, That their saint’s honour is their own.
Then Whitby’s nuns exulting told, How to their house three barons bold Must menial service do; While 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, While 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. And how, of thousand snakes, each one Was changed into a coil of stone When holy Hilda prayed; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They 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.
Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail To 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 burned their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; O’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, Not there his relics might repose; For, wondrous tale to tell! In his stone coffin forth he rides, A ponderous barque for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tilmouth cell. Nor long was his abiding there, For southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hailed him with joy and fear; And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last, Where his cathedral, huge and vast, Looks down upon the Wear: There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade, His relics are in secret laid; But none may know the place, Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy, Who share that wondrous grace.