The Monk Rock

You have heard of the Holy Well, my love,
On Cuthbert's storied ground,
The cloister'd cave all dark above,
The cold waves moaning round.

A pillar'd rock frowns stately there,
Far o'er the baffled wave ;
" The Monk " is the ancient name it bare
Which our Cornish fathers gave.

The moon was cold on the furrow'd sand
Without that rocky shade,
When the print of Crantock's burning hand,
On the maiden's brow was laid —

'Tis not to pray — 'tis not to shrive —
Therefore what doth she there ?
" She loved," is the answer the legends give,
" She loved too well to fear."

" Now Saint Cuthbert aid ! " was the cry they heard,
That deep and distant tone ;
'Twas not the voice of the ocean bird
'Twas not the sea-maid's moan.

They found her not at break of morn,
The dark friar was not there,
Another priest for his cell is shorn —
Her hearth hath a vacant chair.

A fountain leaps to gushing life
In that unwonted spot ;
The surges war, in fruitless strife,
With a rock that heedeth not.

Plunge those you love in that Sacred Well
At moonlight's mystic hour —
They say that sin shall pass therein,
The Fiend will lose his power.

But shun that Rock amid the Sea !
Its cold depths darkly bear
A breast all quick with agony,
Hot with the old despair.

In an antique book these things are told,
Tales of a former age ;
And shapes uncouth, in hues of gold,
Are graven on the page.

You have heard of the Holy Well, my love,
On Cuthbert's storied ground ;
The cloister'd cave all dark above
The cold waves moaning round.