XXIV.

“’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! Who knows what outrage he might do While journeying by the way? O blessèd saint, if e’er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, 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, oh! with cautious speed To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king And for thy well-earned meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine 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, Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear, “Saint Withold, save us! What is here? Look at yon city cross! See, on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazoned banners toss!”