Marmion. Вальтер Скотт

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.