Sonnet Lv. St. Robert’s Cave, Knaresborough.

We gazed intent upon the murderous cave; Too fair a place, methinks, for deeds of blood. Above, the rocks, dappled with pendant wood, Rose sheltering: and below with rippling wave The crystal Nidd flowed by. The wondrous tale That from of old had turned our young cheeks pale, Came crowding on the present; yonder stood The guilt--worn student, skilled without avail In ancient lore; and yonder seemed to lie The melancholy corse, year after year Sending to Heaven its silent vengeance--cry, Till Aram's hour was come, and He, whose ear Was open, tracked the murderer where he fled, And wrath's right--aiming stroke descended on his head.