Marmion. Walter Scott

corpse, ere Wardilaw

       Hail’d him with joy and fear; 275

       And, after many wanderings past,

       He chose his lordly seat at last,

       Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

       Looks down upon the Wear;

       There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade, 280

       His relics are in secret laid;

       But none may know the place,

       Save of his holiest servants three,

       Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

       Who share that wondrous grace. 285

       XV.

       Who may his miracles declare!

       Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,

       (Although with them they led

       Galwegians, wild as ocean’s gale,

       And Lodon’s knights, all sheathed in mail, 290

       And the bold men of Teviotdale,)

       Before 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.