THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

Is Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress,

       And she with awe looks pale:

       And he, that ancient man, whose sight

       Has long been quenched by age’s night,

       Upon whose wrinkled brow alone

       Nor ruth nor mercy’s trace is shown,

       Whose look is hard and stern -

       Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot is his style

       For sanctity called, through the isle,

       The saint of Lindisfarne.

       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,

       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.

       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,

       In ringlets rich and rare.

       Constance de Beverley they know,

       Sister professed of Fontevraud,

       Whom the church numbered with the dead

       For broken vows, and convent fled.

       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,

       Bespoke a matchless constancy;

       And there she stood so calm and pale,

       That, but her breathing did not fail,

       And motion slight of eye and head,

       And of her bosom, warranted

       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,

       Such as does murder for a meed;

       Who, but of fear, knows no control,

       Because his conscience, seared and foul,

       Feels not the import of his deed;

       One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires

       Beyond his own more brute desires.

       Such tools the Tempter ever needs,

       To do the savagest of deeds;

       For them no visioned terrors daunt,

       Their nights no fancied spectres haunt,

       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,

       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!

       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,

       Of roots, of water, and of bread:

       By each, in Benedictine dress,

       Two haggard monks stood motionless;

       Who, holding high a blazing torch,

       Showed the grim entrance of the porch:

       Reflecting back the smoky beam,

       The dark-red walls and arches gleam.

       Hewn stones and cement were displayed,

       And building tools in order laid.

       XXIV

      These executioners were chose,

       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

       Of some foul crime the stain;

       For, as the vassals of her will,

       Such men the Church selected still,

       As either joyed in doing ill,

       Or thought more grace to gain,

       If, in her cause, they wrestled down

       Feelings their nature strove to own.

       By strange device were they brought there,

       They knew not how, nor knew not where.

       XXV

      And now that blind old Abbot rose,

       To speak the Chapter’s doom

       On those the wall was to enclose,

       Alive, within the tomb:

       But stopped, because that woful maid,

       Gathering her powers, to speak essayed.

       Twice she essayed, 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,

       You seemed 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,

       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 dawned upon her cheek,

       A hectic and a fluttered 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 gathered strength,

       And armed herself to bear.