Sonnet Lv. St. Robert’s Cave, Knaresborough. Poem by Henry Alford

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.