While round the fire such legends go, Far different was the scene of woe, Where, in a secret aisle beneath, Council was held of life and death. It was more dark and lone that vault, Than the worst dungeon cell: Old Colwulf built it, for his fault, In penitence to dwell,When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown.This den, which, chilling every sense Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was call’d the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made A place of burial for such dead, As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within.‘Twas now a place of punishment; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, As reach’d the upper air, The hearers bless’d themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoan’d their torments there.
XVIII.
But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the place lay; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clew To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er, Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor; The mildew-drops fell one by one, With tinkling plash, upon the stone.A cresset, in an iron chain, Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seem’d to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below.
XIX.
There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three: All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay; In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown By the pale cresset’s ray:
