Marmion. Вальтер Скотт

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