Part 6 (2/2)
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! s.h.i.+fts 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!
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