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That you shall wish the fiery Dane
XXXII. Fixed was her look, and stern her air; Back from her shoulders streamed her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Her voice, despair's wild energy Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate, Gazed on the light inspired form, And listened for the avenging storm; The judges felt the victim's dread, No band was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:
“ Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Paced forth the judges three;
Of sin and misery.
And many a stifled groan :
As hurrying, tottering on. Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seemed to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, His beads the wakeful hermit told; The Bamborough peasant raised his head, Bat slept ere half a prayer he said ;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
END OF CANTO SECOND.