“’Twere long and needless here to tell How to my hand these papers fell; With me they must not stay. Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! Who knows what outrage he might do While journeying by the way? O blessèd saint, if e’er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, Deep penance may I pay! Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: I give this packet to thy care, For thee to stop they will not dare; And, oh! with cautious speed To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king And for thy well-earned meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine While priests can sing and read. What ail’st thou? Speak!” For as he took The charge, a strong emotion shook His frame; and, ere reply, They heard a faint yet shrilly tone, Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear, “Saint Withold, save us! What is here? Look at yon city cross! See, on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazoned banners toss!” XXV. Dunedin’s Cross, a pillared stone, Rose on a turret octagon; (But now is razed that monument Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland’s law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead Upon its dull destroyer’s head!— A minstrel’s malison is said). Then on its battlements they saw A vision, passing Nature’s law, Strange, wild, and dimly seen— Figures that seemed to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirmed could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there Heralds and pursuivants prepare, With trumpet sound and blazon fair, A summons to proclaim; But indistinct the pageant proud, As fancy-forms of midnight cloud, When flings the moon upon her shroud A wavering tinge of flame; It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, From midmost of the spectre crowd, This awful summons came:— XXVI.