Page:Hermit of Warkworth.pdf/10

 On which a young and beauteous maid

In goodly sculpture shone.

A kneeling angel, fairly carv’d,

Lean’d hov’ring o’er her breast;

A weeping warrior at her feet;

And near to these her crest. (6)

The cliff, the vault, but chief the tomb,

Attract the wond’ring pair:

Eager they ask what hapless dame

Lies sculptur’d here so fair.

The hermit sigh’d, the hermit wept,

For sorrow scarce could speak;

At length he wip’d the trickling tears

’That all bedew’d his cheek:

Alas! my children, human life

Is but a vale of woe;

And very mournful is the tale,

Which ye so fain would know.

lord, thy grandsire had a friend

In days of youthful fame;

Yon distant hills were his domains:

Sir Bertram was his name.

Where’er the noble Percy fought,

His friend was at his side;

And many a skirmish with the Scots

Their early valour tried.

Young Bertram lov’d a beauteous maid,

As fair as fair might be;

The dew-drop on the lily’s cheek

Was not so fair as she.

Fair Widdrington the maiden’s name,

Yon towers her dwelling-place; (7)

Her sire an old Northumbrian chief

Devoted to thy race.

Many a lord and many a knight,

To this fair damsel came:

But Bertram was her only choice,

For him she felt a flame.

Lord Percy pleaded for his friend,

Her father soon consents;

None but the beauteous maid herself

His wishes now prevents.