A voice she hears, a tender voice,
Which says; No choice, my child, no choice
Is left for thee, for me or thee.
There's naught for thee, for thee or me,
But bear the cross, the bitter cross.
The cup of woe you now must drain,
Will bring sweet gain, for you sweet gain.
Pax vobiscum, my child; Pax vobiscum!
Heaven's peace, dear maid, be thine,
For evermore!
Go seek its home at good St. Hilda's shrine;
In holy mother's ears thy sorrows pour;
Within those peaceful gates no earthly ill can come."
Rowena Enters a Convent.
'Twas thus the holy friar of Senlac spoke.
His words the flood gates burst
And tears like rain
On land whose fissures stand agape with thirst,
Now filled her soul with joy intense as pain
Before. At length her whispered thanks the silence broke.
Within Old Ragnor's walls a chapel stood;
And there, in crypt below,
With Warre's proud race,
His gentle wife they laid, while monks with slow
And solemn steps, with incense filled the place.
The stern knight's sob was heard throughout the holy rood.
Next night, while weary warders timely slept,
And snow fell thickly round,
Rowena fled;
Nor stayed till she had peace and safety found,
Where good St. Hilda's lights her footsteps led.
Meanwhile the kindly snow her dreaded secret kept.
