« AnteriorContinuar »
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
MY ORCHET IN LINDEN LEA.
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
Now do quiver under voot;
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
Up upon the timber's tops,
Let other vo’k meake money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
THE HOLY ISLAND,
ND now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland;
MICHIGAN And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; And next they crossed themselves to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar On Dunstanborough's caverned shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reached the Holy Island's bay. The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the saint's domain : For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle ; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The castle with its battled walls, The ancient monastery's halls, A solemn, huge, and dark red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle. In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle and shafted stalk,
To emulate in stone.
Sir Walter Scott.
THE REAPERS OF LINDISFARNE.
his abbey cell Saint Cuthbert
Sate burdened and care-dismayed : For the wild Northumbrian people,
For whom he had wrought and prayed, Still clung to their warlike pastime,
Their plunder and border raid;
Still scouted all peaceful tillage,
And queried with scowling brow, “ Shall we who have won our victual
By the stout, strong hand till now, Forswearing the free, bold foray,
Crawl after the servile plough!”
“Through year and through year I have taught them
By the word of my mouth,” he said, “And still, in their untamed rudeness,
They trust to the wilds for bread; But now will I teach henceforward
By the toil of my hands instead.
“In their sight I will set the lesson;
And, gazing across the tarn,
Garth, byre, and hurdled barn,
That shall whiten at Lindisfarne."
Therewith from his Melrose cloister
Saint Cuthbert went his way:
Bare him rich swaths of hay,
He wearied the longsome day.
And it came to pass when the autumn
The ground with its sere leaves strawed, And the purple was over the moorlands,