WHITBY.
WHERE the grey Northern sea gnaws cliffs of shale, and the white waves
Wrestle in hissing wrath with a brown, irrepressible river, Hilda, the Saint, the Princess, founded a fair stone cloister. What of her work remains—of the careen stone and the wood- work F Haply a fragment here of a pillar with pattern enlacing ; Naught in the desolate walls of the roofless ruin that after Rose where her building bad been, and now itself is abandoned, Crowning with unintentional beauty the red-roofed houses, Which from the river climb, and cling like plants to the cliff- face.
What of her work remains ?—who knows ?—in the loves of the people ?
Something, we doubt it not, from every noble endeavour Down the ages descends, though none but God can distinguish. But the grey Northern sea still gnaws the cliffs, and the white waves Wrestle in hissing wrath with the brown, irrepressible river.
F. W. BOIIRDILLON.
Previous page
