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Sonnets Round the Coast

by H. D. Rawnsley
  

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III. SAINT HILDA.
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165

III. SAINT HILDA.

Saint Hilda! Abbess she of Streonshald,
Prayed, and was pure of heart and pure of hand,
And when she walked along the thundering strand
The shy cliff doves, wind-beaten, storm-appalled,
Dropped to her bosom fearless as she called.
Touched by her feet, as by enchanter's wand,
The serpents left their heads upon the sand,
Coiled into stone, or stiffened as they crawled.
Still is the power of pure-souled maids who pray
Strong to destroy all venomous things that crawl;
Only a look, the serpent shrinks and dies;
About their paths, from out of Heaven, will fall
Mute things that need love's tend'rest ministries,
And in their bosoms frightened doves shall stay.