'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! 680
Who knows what outrage he might do,
While journeying by the way?--
O, blessed Saint, if e'er again
I venturous leave thy calm domain,
To travel or by land or main, 685
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 O! with cautious speed, 690
To Wolsey's hand the papers 'bring,
That he may show them to the King:
And, for thy well-earn'd meed,
Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine
A weekly mass shall still be thine, 695
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, 700
Like distant clarion feebly blown,
That on the breeze did die;
And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear,
'Saint Withold, save us!--What is here!
Look at yon City Cross! 705
See on its battled tower appear
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,
And blazon'd banners toss!'--