Marmion

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND

TO THE REV JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest

 
The scenes are desert now, and bare
Where flourish’d once a forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly spears                    5
Have fenced him for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers-
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,
Since he, so grey and stubborn now,                        10
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough;
Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made;
How broad the shadows of the oak,
How clung the rowan to the rock,                            15
And through the foliage show’d his head,
With narrow leaves and berries red;
What pines on every mountain sprung,
O’er every dell what birches hung,
In every breeze what aspens shook,                          20
What alders shaded every brook!
 
 
  ‘Here, in my shade,’ methinks he’d say,
‘The mighty stag at noon-tide lay:
The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game,
(The neighbouring dingle bears his name,)                  25
With lurching step around me prowl,
And stop, against the moon to howl;
The mountain-boar, on battle set,
His tusks upon my stem would whet;
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,                      30
Have bounded by, through gay green-wood.
Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower,
Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power:
A thousand vassals muster’d round,
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;                  35
And I might see the youth intent,
Guard every pass with crossbow bent;
And through the brake the rangers stalk,
And falc’ners hold the ready hawk,
And foresters, in green-wood trim,                          40
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,
Attentive, as the bratchet’s bay
From the dark covert drove the prey,
To slip them as he broke away.
The startled quarry bounds amain,                          45
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;
Whistles the arrow from the bow,
Answers the harquebuss below;
While all the rocking hills reply,
To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters’ cry,                    50
And bugles ringing lightsomely.’
 
 
  Of such proud huntings, many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.                      55
But not more blithe that silvan court,
Than we have been at humbler sport;
Though small our pomp, and mean our game,
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.
Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?                        60
O’er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
Nor dull, between each merry chase,
Pass’d by the intermitted space;                            65
For we had fair resource in store,
In Classic and in Gothic lore:
We mark’d each memorable scene,
And held poetic talk between;
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,                        70
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now-for now are still
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!
No longer, from thy mountains dun,
The yeoman hears the well-known gun,                        75
And while his honest heart glows warm,
At thought of his paternal farm,
Round to his mates a brimmer fills,
And drinks, ‘The Chieftain of the Hills!’
No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers,                        80
Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;
No youthful Baron’s left to grace
The Forest-Sheriff’s lonely chase,                          85
And ape, in manly step and tone,
The majesty of Oberon:
And she is gone, whose lovely face
Is but her least and lowest grace;
Though if to Sylphid Queen ‘twere given,                    90
To show our earth the charms of Heaven,
She could not glide along the air,
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow’s deafen’d ear
Grows quick that lady’s step to hear:                      95
At noontide she expects her not,
Nor busies her to trim the cot;
Pensive she turns her humming wheel,
Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal,
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,                    100
The gentle hand by which they’re fed.
 
 
  From Yair, – which hills so closely bind,
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,
Till all his eddying currents boil, –                       105
Her long descended lord is gone,
And left us by the stream alone.
And much I miss those sportive boys,
Companions of my mountain joys,
Just at the age ‘twixt boy and youth,                      110
When thought is speech, and speech is truth.
Close to my side, with what delight
They press’d to hear of Wallace wight,
When, pointing to his airy mound,
I call’d his ramparts holy ground!                        115
Kindled their brows to hear me speak;
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,
Despite the difference of our years,
Return again the glow of theirs.
Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,                        120
They will not, cannot long endure;
Condemn’d to stem the world’s rude tide,
You may not linger by the side;
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,
And passion ply the sail and oar.                          125
Yet cherish the remembrance still,
Of the lone mountain, and the rill;
For trust, dear boys, the time will come,
When fiercer transport shall be dumb,
And you will think right frequently,                      130
But, well I hope, without a sigh,
On the free hours that we have spent,
Together, on the brown hill’s bent.
 
 
  When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,                            135
Something, my friend, we yet may gain,
There is a pleasure in this pain:
It soothes the love of lonely rest,
Deep in each gentler heart impress’d.
‘Tis silent amid worldly toils,                            140
And stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosom thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
‘Twixt resignation and content.                            145
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake;
Thou know’st it well, – nor fen, nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink                      150
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water meets the land.
Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill’s huge outline you may view;                    155
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scatter’d pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,                        160
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal’d might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,
Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;                165
There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess,
You see that all is loneliness:
And silence aids-though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer tide, so soft they weep,                        170
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.
 
 
  Nought living meets the eye or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;                        175
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady’s chapel low,
Yet still, beneath the hallow’d soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid,                        180
Where erst his simple fathers pray’d.
 
 
  If age had tamed the passions’ strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,
Here have I thought, ‘twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain’s cell,                        185
Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton long’d to spend his age.
‘Twere sweet to mark the setting day,
On Bourhope’s lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died                          190
On the broad lake, and mountain’s side,
To say, ‘Thus pleasures fade away;
Youth, talents, beauty thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;’
Then gaze on Dryhope’s ruin’d tower,                      195
And think on Yarrow’s faded Flower:
And when that mountain-sound I heard,
Which bids us be for storm prepared,
The distant rustling of his wings,
As up his force the Tempest brings,                        200
‘Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,
To sit upon the Wizard’s grave;
That Wizard Priest’s, whose bones are thrust,
From company of holy dust;
On which no sunbeam ever shines-                          205
(So superstition’s creed divines) -
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore;
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,                210
And ever stoop again, to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave;
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,                            215
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;
There ponder o’er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern’s distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,                            220
And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear’d,                      225
And smiled to think that I had fear’d.
 
 
  But chief, ‘twere sweet to think such life,
(Though but escape from fortune’s strife,)
Something most matchless good and wise,
A great and grateful sacrifice;                            230
And deem each hour, to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.
  Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease,
Such peaceful solitudes displease;
He loves to drown his bosom’s jar                          235
Amid the elemental war:
And my black Palmer’s choice had been
Some ruder and more savage scene,
Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene.
There eagles scream from isle to shore;                    240
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O’er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,                            245
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemn’d to lave                            250
Some demon’s subterranean cave,
Who, prison’d by enchanter’s spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.
And well that Palmer’s form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,                          255
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,                        260
And wheeling round the Giant’s Grave,
White as the snowy charger’s tail,
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.
 
 
  Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,
To many a Border theme has rung:                          265
Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Of this mysterious Man of Woe.
 

CANTO SECOND.
THE CONVENT

1

 
THE breeze, which swept away the smoke
  Round Norham Castle roll’d,
When all the loud artillery spoke,
With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold, –                                   5
It curl’d not Tweed alone, that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,
  It freshly blew, and strong,
Where, from high Whitby’s cloister’d pile,
Bound to Saint Cuthbert’s Holy Isle,                        10
  It bore a bark along.
Upon the gale she stoop’d her side,
And bounded o’er the swelling tide,
  As she were dancing home;
The merry seamen laugh’d, to see                            15
Their gallant ship so lustily
Furrow the green sea-foam.
Much joy’d they in their honour’d freight;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,                          20
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
 

II

 
‘Twas sweet, to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
  Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too,                            25
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
  Their wonderment engage.
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
  With many a benedicite;                                  30
One at the rippling surge grew pale,
  And would for terror pray;
Then shriek’d, because the seadog, nigh,
His round black head, and sparkling eye,
  Rear’d o’er the foaming spray;                            35
And one would still adjust her veil,
Disorder’d by the summer gale,
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy;
Perchance, because such action graced                      40
Her fair-turn’d arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share, -
The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.
 

III

 
The Abbess was of noble blood,                              45
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but ne’er had seen                        50
For her a timid lover sigh,
Nor knew the influence of her eye.
Love, to her ear, was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all                    55
Bounded within the cloister wall:
The deadliest sin her mind could reach
Was of monastic rule the breach;
And her ambition’s highest aim
To emulate Saint Hilda’s fame.                              60
For this she gave her ample dower,
To raise the convent’s eastern tower;
For this, with carving rare and quaint,
She deck’d the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relic-shrine of cost,                          65
With ivory and gems emboss’d.
The poor her Convent’s bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.
 

IV

 
Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reform’d on Benedictine school;                            70
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare:
Vigils, and penitence austere,
Had early quench’d the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame, in sooth;
Though, vain of her religious sway,                        75
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame;
Summon’d to Lindisfame, she came,                          80
There, with Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot old,
And Tynemouth’s Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict,
For inquisition stern and strict,
On two apostates from the faith,                            85
And, if need were, to doom to death.
 

V

 
Nought say I here of Sister Clare,
Save this, that she was young and fair;
As yet a novice unprofess’d,
Lovely and gentle, but distress’d.                          90
She was betroth’d to one now dead,
Or worse, who had dishonour’d fled.
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand
To one, who loved her for her land:
Herself, almost broken-hearted now,                        95
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom,
Her blasted hopes and wither’d bloom.
 

VI

 
She sate upon the galley’s prow,
And seem’d to mark the waves below;                        100
Nay, seem’d, so fix’d her look and eye,
To count them as they glided by.
She saw them not-‘twas seeming all-
Far other scene her thoughts recall, -
A sun-scorch’d desert, waste and bare,                    105
Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur’d there;
There saw she, where some careless hand
O’er a dead corpse had heap’d the sand,
To hide it till the jackals come,
To tear it from the scanty tomb. –                         110
See what a woful look was given,
As she raised up her eyes to heaven!
 

VII

 
Lovely, and gentle, and distress’d-
These charms might tame the fiercest breast:
Harpers have sung, and poets told,                        115
That he, in fury uncontroll’d,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame,                          120
Oft put the lion’s rage to shame:
And jealousy, by dark intrigue,
With sordid avarice in league,
Had practised with their bowl and knife,
Against the mourner’s harmless life.                      125
This crime was charged ‘gainst those who lay
Prison’d in Cuthbert’s islet grey.
 

VIII

 
And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland;
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise,                130
And catch the nuns’ delighted eyes.
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouth’s priory and bay;
They mark’d, amid her trees, the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;                                  135
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods
Rush to the sea through sounding woods;
They pass’d the tower of Widderington,
Mother of many a valiant son;
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell                      140
To the good Saint who own’d the cell;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percy’s name;
And next, they cross’d themselves, to hear
The whitening breakers sound so near,                      145
There, boiling through the rocks, they roar,
On Dunstanborough’s cavern’d shore;
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark’d they there,
King Ida’s castle, huge and square,
From its tall rock look grimly down,                      150
And on the swelling ocean frown;
Then from the coast they bore away,
And reach’d the Holy Island’s bay.
 

IX

 
The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
And girdled in the Saint’s domain:                        155
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varies from continent to isle;
Dry-shod, o’er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface                          160
Of staves and sandall’d feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The Castle with its battled walls,
The ancient Monastery’s halls,                            165
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Placed on the margin of the isle.
 

X

 
In Saxon strength that Abbey frown’d,
With massive arches broad and round,
  That rose alternate, row and row,                        170
  On ponderous columns, short and low,
    Built ere the art was known,
  By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
  The arcades of an alley’d walk
    To emulate in stone.                                  175
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane
Had pour’d his impious rage in vain;
And needful was such strength to these,
Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Scourged by the winds’ eternal sway,                      180
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years withstand
Winds, waves, and northern pirates’ hand.
Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style,                                185
Show’d where the spoiler’s hand had been;
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillar’s carving quaint,
And moulder’d in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,                        190
The pointed angles of each tower;
Yet still entire the Abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.
 

XI

 
Soon as they near’d his turrets strong,
The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song,                    195
And with the sea-wave and the wind,
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,
  And made harmonious close;
Then, answering from the sandy shore,
Half-drown’d amid the breakers’ roar,                      200
  According chorus rose:
Down to the haven of the Isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,
  From Cuthbert’s cloisters grim;
Banner, and cross, and relics there,                      205
To meet Saint Hilda’s maids, they bare;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
  They echoed back the hymn.
The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rush’d emulously through the flood,                        210
  To hale the bark to land;
Conspicuous by her veil and hood,
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,
  And bless’d them with her hand.
 

XII

 
Suppose we now the welcome said,                          215
Suppose the Convent banquet made:
  All through the holy dome,
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery,
Wherever vestal maid might pry,
No risk to meet unhallow’d eye,                            220
  The stranger sisters roam:
Till fell the evening damp with dew,
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,
For there, even summer night is chill.
Then, having stray’d and gazed their fill,                225
  They closed around the fire;
And all, in turn, essay’d to paint
The rival merits of their saint,
  A theme that ne’er can tire
A holy maid; for, be it known,                            230
That their saint’s honour is their own.
 

XIII

 
Then Whitby’s nuns exulting told,
How to their house three Barons bold
  Must menial service do;
While horns blow out a note of shame,                      235
And monks cry ‘Fye upon your name!
In wrath, for loss of silvan game,
  Saint Hilda’s priest ye slew.’-
‘This, on Ascension-day, each year,
While labouring on our harbour-pier,                      240
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.’-
They told how in their convent-cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
  The lovely Edelfled;
And how, of thousand snakes, each one                      245
Was changed into a coil of stone,
  When holy Hilda pray’d;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Their stony folds had often found.
They told, how sea-fowls’ pinions fail,                    250
As over Whitby’s towers they sail,
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,
They do their homage to the saint.
 

XIV

 
Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail,
To vie with these in holy tale;                            255
His body’s resting-place, of old,
How oft their patron changed, they told;
How, when the rude Dane burn’d their pile,
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle;
O’er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,                  260
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
Seven years Saint Cuthbert’s corpse they bore.
  They rested them in fair Melrose;
    But though, alive, he loved it well,
  Not there his relics might repose;                      265
    For, wondrous tale to tell!
  In his stone-coffin forth he rides,
  A ponderous bark for river tides,
  Yet light as gossamer it glides,
    Downward to Tilmouth cell.                            270
Nor long was his abiding there,
Far southward did the saint repair;
Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw
  Hail’d him with joy and fear;                            275
And, after many wanderings past,
He chose his lordly seat at last,
Where his cathedral, huge and vast,
  Looks down upon the Wear;
There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade,                      280
His relics are in secret laid;
  But none may know the place,
Save of his holiest servants three,
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,
  Who share that wondrous grace.                          285
 

XV

 
Who may his miracles declare!
Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,
  (Although with them they led
Galwegians, wild as ocean’s gale,
And Lodon’s knights, all sheathed in mail,                290
And the bold men of Teviotdale,)
  Before his standard fled.
‘Twas he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfred’s falchion on the Dane,
And turn’d the Conqueror back again,                      295
When, with his Norman bowyer band,
He came to waste Northumberland.
 

XVI

 
But fain Saint Hilda’s nuns would learn
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame                    300
The sea-born beads that bear his name:
Such tales had Whitby’s fishers told,
And said they might his shape behold,
  And hear his anvil sound;
A deaden’d clang, – a huge dim form,                        305
Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
  And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.
 

XVII

 
While round the fire such legends go,                      310
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:                          315
  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                      320
  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,                          325
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,                                330
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                              335
  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.                              340
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,                  345
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,                              350
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.                              355
 

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;                                      360
In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown
  By the pale cresset’s ray:
The Abbess of Saint Hilda’s, there,
Sat for a space with visage bare,                          365
Until, to hide her bosom’s swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
  She closely drew her veil:
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,                      370
Is Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress,
  And she with awe looks pale:
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
Has long been quench’d by age’s night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,                            375
Nor ruth, nor mercy’s trace, is shown,
  Whose look is hard and stern, -
Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot is his style;
For sanctity call’d, through the isle,
The Saint of Lindisfarne.                                  380
 

XX

 
Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex 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 vassals 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 massive 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 space
  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 masses 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.
 

XXX

 
‘And now my tongue the secret tells,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure 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.
 

XXXI

 
‘Yet dread me, from my living tomb,
Ye vassal slaves of bloody 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.’
 

XXXII

 
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 balls 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.
 

XXXIII

 
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 passing 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.