But chief ’twere sweet to think such life (Though but escape from fortune’s strife), Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice; And deem each hour to musing given A step upon the road to heaven.
Yet him whose heart is ill at ease Such peaceful solitudes displease; He loves to drown his bosom’s jar Amid the elemental war: And my black Palmer’s choice had been Some ruder and more savage scene, Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. There eagles scream from isle to shore; Down all the rocks the torrents roar; O’er the black waves incessant driven, Dark mists infect the summer heaven; Through the rude barriers of the lake Away its hurrying waters break, Faster and whiter dash and curl, Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, Thunders the viewless stream below. Diving, as if condemned to lave Some demon’s subterranean cave, 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.
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.
’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.