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 grey 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 with 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 woeful mien. Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, And did by Mary swear— Some lovelorn 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 trancèd 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. Oh! wherefore, to my duller eye, Did still the saint her form deny! Was it that, seared by sinful scorn, My heart could neither melt nor burn? Or lie my warm affections low, With him, that taught them first to glow? Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, To pay thy kindness grateful due, And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! condemned to bide My doom from this dark tyrant’s pride. But Marmion has to learn, ere long, That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloucester’s Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne’er shall bend, although he break.” V.