But, with a look that spoke her grief,
To heaven upcast her eyes.
Then, turning to the stranger dame,
"O welcome to this place;
For never Whitby's holy fane
Did fairer maiden grace."
And true she said—for on her cheek
Was seen young beauty's bloom,
Though grief, with slow and wasting stealth,
Did then her prime consume.
Her shape was all that thought can frame,
Of elegance and grace;
And heav'n the beauties of her mind
Reflected in her face.
"My daughter, lay aside thy fears,"
Again the matron cry'd,
"No Danish ravishers come here—"
—Again the virgin sigh'd.
The abbess saw, the abbess knew,
'Twas love that shook her breast;
And thus, in accents soft and mild,
The mournful maid addrest,
"My daughter dear, as to thy friend
Be all thy care confest;
I see 'tis love disturbs thy mind,
And wish to give thee rest.
"But hark! I hear the vesper bell,
Now summons us to prayer;
That duty done, with needful food
Thy wasted strength repair."
But now the pitying mournful muse
Of Edwy's hap shall tell;
And what amid his nightly walk
That gallant youth befell.
For journeying by the bank of Esk
He took his lonely way;
And now through showers of driving rain
His erring footsteps stray.
At length, from far, a glimmering light
Trembled among the trees:
And entering soon a moss-built hut,
A holy man he sees.
"O father, deign a luckless youth
This night with thee to shield;
I am no robber, though my arm
This deadly weapon wield."
"I fear no robber, stranger, here,
For I have nought to lose;
And thou mayst safely through the night
In this poor cell repose.
"And thou art welcome to my hut,"
The holy man replied;
"Still welcome here is he whom fate
Has left without a guide.
"Whence and what art thou, gentle youth?"
The noble Edwy said,
"I go to rouse Earl Osrick's power,
And seek Lord Redwald's aid.
"My father is a wealthy lord,
Who now with Alfred stays;
And me he left to guard his seat,
Whilst he his duty pays.
"But vain the hope—in dead of night
The cruel spoiler came;
And o'er each neighb'ring castle threw
The wide-devouring flame.
"To shun its rage, at early dawn,
I with my sister fled;
And Whitby's abbey now affords
A shelter to her head.
"Whilst I, to hasten promised aids,
Range wildly through the night,
And, with impatient mind, expect
The morning's friendly light."
Thus Edwy spoke; and wondering, gazed
Upon his hermit host,
For in his form beam'd manly grace,
Untouch'd by age's frost.
The hermit sigh'd and thus he said;—
"Know, there was once a day,
This tale of thine would fire my heart,
And bid me join thy way.
"But luckless love dejects my soul,
And casts my spirits down;
Thou seest the wretch of woman's pride,
Of follies not my own.
"I once amid my sovereign's train
Was a distinguish'd youth,
But blighted is my former fame,
By Sorrow's cankering tooth.
"When Ethelred the crown did hold,
I to this district came;
And then a fair and matchless maid
First raised in me a flame.
"Her father was a noble lord
Of an illustrious race,
Who join'd to rustic honesty
The courtier's gentle race.
"'Twas then I told my artless tale,
By love alone inspired;
For never was my honest speech
In flattering guise attired.
"At first she heard, or seem'd to hear,
The voice of tender love;
But soon, the ficklest of her sex,
Did she deceitful prove.
"She drove me scornful from her sight,
Rejected and disdain'd;
In vain did words for pity plead,
In vain my looks complain'd.
"How could that breast which pity fill'd,
Ever relentless be?
How could that face which smiled on all,
Have ever frowns for me?
"Since that fell hour, I in this cell
Have lived recluse from man;
And twice ten months have pass'd since I
The hermit's life began."
"O stain to honour!" Edwy cry'd;
"O foul disgrace to arms!
What, when thy country claims thy aid,
And shakes with war's alarms!
"Canst thou, inglorious, here remain,
And strive thyself to hide;
Assume