Suppose we now the welcome said, 215 Suppose the Convent banquet made: All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, No risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 220 The stranger sisters roam: Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there, even summer night is chill. Then, having stray'd and gazed their fill, 225 They closed around the fire; And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The rival merits of their saint, A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, 230 That their saint's honour is their own. XIII. 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, 235 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, 240 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 245 Was changed into a coil of stone, When holy Hilda pray'd; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 As over Whitby's towers they sail, And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint. XIV. Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail, To vie with these in holy tale; 255 His body's resting-place, of old, How oft their patron changed, they told; How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260 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; 265 For, wondrous tale to tell! In his stone-coffin forth he rides, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 Nor long was his abiding there, Far southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hail'd him with joy and fear; 275 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, 280 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. 285 XV.