XX.

Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, Yet one alone deserves our care.

Her s.e.x a page's dress belied; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385 Obscured her charms, but could not hide.

Her cap down o'er her face she drew; And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue, Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 390 But, at the Prioress' command, A Monk undid the silken band That tied her tresses fair, And raised the bonnet from her head, And down her slender form they spread, 395 In ringlets rich and rare.

Constance de Beverley they know, Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, Whom the Church number'd with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. 400

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue, It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistering fair), Her look composed, and steady eye, 405 Bespoke a matchless constancy; And there she stood so calm and pale, That, bur her breathing did not fail, And motion slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted 410 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax, Wrought to the very life, was there; So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415 Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires.

Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,--alone finds place.

This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And 'shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, 430 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! 435 For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;-- Who enters at such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.

In each a slender meal was laid, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 445 Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam.

Hewn stones and cement were display'd, And building tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose, 450 As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired; Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455 Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the va.s.sals of her will, Such men the Church selected still, As either joy'd in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain, 460 If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own.

By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and knew not where.

XXV.

And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465 To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 470 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip; Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475 You seem'd to hear a distant rill-- 'Twas ocean's swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480 So ma.s.sive were the walls.

XXVI.

At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart, And light came to her eye, And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 485 A hectic and a flutter'd streak, Like that left on the Cheviot peak, By Autumn's stormy sky; And when her silence broke at length, Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 490 And arm'd herself to bear.

It was a fearful sight to see Such high resolve and constancy, In form so soft and fair.

XXVII.

'I speak not to implore your grace, 495 Well know I, for one minute's s.p.a.ce Successless might I sue: Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; For if a death of lingering pain, To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500 Vain are your ma.s.ses too.-- I listen'd to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bow'd my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505 And well my folly's meed he gave, Who forfeited, to be his slave, All here, and all beyond the grave.-- He saw young Clara's face more fair, He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more.-- 'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, 515 Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!

XXVIII.

'The King approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim, Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge--and on they came, In mortal lists to fight.

Their oaths are said, Their prayers are pray'd, 525 Their lances in the rest are laid, They meet in mortal shock; And hark! the throng, with thundering cry, Shout "Marmion, Marmion I to the sky, De Wilton to the block!" 530 Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide When in the lists two champions ride, Say, was Heaven's justice here?

When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death, 535 Beneath a traitor's spear?

How false the charge, how true he fell, This guilty packet best can tell.'-- Then drew a packet from her breast, Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest. 540

XXIX.

'Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun.

"Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried, "Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 545 If she were sworn a nun."

One way remain'd--the King's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land!

I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd For Clara and for me: 550 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby's shrine repair, And, by his drugs, my rival fair A saint in heaven should be.

But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555 Whose cowardice has undone us both.

x.x.x.

'And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to a.s.sure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, This packet, to the King convey'd, Had given him to the headsman's stroke, Although my heart that instant broke.-- Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565 For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.

x.x.xI.

'Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Ye va.s.sal slaves of b.l.o.o.d.y Rome! 570 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again.

Behind, a darker hour ascends! 575 The altars quake, the crosier bends, The ire of a despotic King Rides forth upon destruction's wing; Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep; 580 Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.'

x.x.xII.

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 585 Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seem'd to rise more high; Her voice, despair's wild energy 590 Had given a tone of prophecy.

Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listen'd for the avenging storm; 595 The judges felt the victim's dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, Raising his sightless b.a.l.l.s to heaven:-- 'Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600 Sinful brother, part in peace!'

From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb, Paced forth the judges three; Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 605 The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery.

x.x.xIII.

An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day; 610 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair, And many a stifled groan: With speed their upward way they take, (Such speed as age and fear can make,) 615 And cross'd themselves for terror's sake, As hurrying, tottering on, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seem'd to hear a dying groan, And bade the pa.s.sing knell to toll 620 For welfare of a parting soul.

Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, His beads the wakeful hermit told, 625 The Bamborough peasant raised his head, But slept ere half a prayer he said; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630 Listed before, aside, behind, Then couch'd him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

Like April morning clouds, that pa.s.s, With varying shadow, o'er the gra.s.s, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain north, 5 Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away, 10 And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deems its murmur past; Thus various, my romantic theme Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 15 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; Pleased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 20 Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!