THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

Such high resolve and constancy,

       In form so soft and fair.

       XXVII

      “I speak not to implore your grace,

       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,

       Vain are your masses too.

       I listened to a traitor’s tale,

       I left the convent and the veil;

       For three long years I bowed my pride,

       A horseboy in his train to ride;

       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,

       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,

       Of maiden true betrayed for gold,

       That loved, or was avenged, like me.

       XXVIII

      “The king approved his favourite’s aim;

       In vain a rival barred his claim,

       Whose fate with Clare’s was plight,

       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 prayed,

       Their lances in the rest are laid,

       They meet in mortal shock;

       And, hark! the throng, with thundering cry,

       Shout ‘Marmion! Marmion!’ to the sky,

       ‘De Wilton to the block!’

       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,

       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, gathered voice, and spoke the rest.

       XXIX

      “Still was false Marmion’s bridal stayed:

       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,

       If she were sworn a nun.’

       One way remained—the King’s command

       Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:

       I lingered here, and rescue planned

       For Clara and for me:

       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,

       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.

       Had fortune my last hope betrayed,

       This packet, to the King conveyed,

       Had given him to the headsman’s stroke,

       Although my heart that instant broke.

       Now, men of death, work forth your will,

       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!

       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!

       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;

       Some traveller then shall find my bones

       Whitening amid disjointed stones,

       And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

       Marvel such relics here should be.”

       XXXII

      Fixed was her look, and stern her air:

       Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;

       The locks, that wont her brow to shade,

       Stared up erectly from her head;

       Her figure seemed to rise more high;

       Her voice, despair’s wild energy

       Had given a tone of prophecy.

       Appalled the astonished conclave sate:

       With stupid eyes, the men of fate

       Gazed on the light inspired form,

       And listened for the avenging storm;

       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;

       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

       The butcher-work that there befell,

       When they had glided from the cell

       Of sin and misery.

       XXXIII

      A hundred winding steps convey

       That conclave to the upper day;

       But, ere they breathed the fresher air,

       They heard