XI.

Soon as they near'd his turret strong,
The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song,
And with the sea-wave and the wind,
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,
And made harmonious close;
Then, answering from the sandy shore,
Half-drown'd amid the breakers' roar,
According chorus rose :

Down to the haven of the isle,
The monks and nuns in order file,

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim;
Banner, and cross, and reliques there,
To meet Saint Hilda's maids they bare;
And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echoed back the hymn.
The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rush'd emulously through the flood,
To hale the bark to land;
Conspicuous by her veil and hood,
Signing the cross, the abbess stood,
And bless'd them with her hand.

XII.

Suppose we now the welcome said,
Suppose the convent banquet made;
All through the holy dome,
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery,
Wherever vestal maid might pry,
Nor risk to meet unhallow'd
eye,

The stranger sisters roam;
Till fell the evening damp with dew,
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,
For there even summer night is chill.
Then, having strayed and gazed their fill,
They closed around the fire;
And all, in turn, essay'd to paint
The rival merits of their saint,
A theme that ne'er can tire

A holy maid; for, be it known,
That their saint's honour is their own.

XIII.

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do: (8)

While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks cry, Fye upon your name!
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game,

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.»

« This, on Ascension-day, each year,
While labouring on our harbour-pier,
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.»
They told, how in their convent-cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edeltled; (9)

And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda pray'd.
Themselves within their holy bound,
Their Stony folds had often found.
They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail,
As over Whitby's towers they sail, (10)
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,
They do their homage to the saint.

XIV.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail
To vie with these in holy tale;

His body's resting-place, of old,

How oft their patron changed, they told; (11)
How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile,
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle;
O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore.
They rested them in fair Melrose;

But though, alive, he loved it well,
Not there his reliques might repose;

For, wond'rous tale to tell!

In his stone coffin forth he rides
(A ponderous bark for river tides),
Yet light as gossamer it glides,

Downward to Tilmouth cell.
Nor long was his abiding there,
For southward did the saint repair;
Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

Hail'd him with joy and fear;
And, after many wanderings past,
He chose his lordly seat at last
Where his cathedral, huge and vast,
Looks down upon
the Wear.j
There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade,
His reliques are in secret laid;

But none may know the place,
Save of his holiest servants three,
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

Who share that wond'rous grace.

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,
And the bold men of Teviotdale),

Before his standard fled. (12)

"T was he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane,
And turn'd the Conqueror back again, (13)
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 Lindisfarn,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame,
The sea-born beads that bear his name: (14)
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,
Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
And night were closing round.

But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarn disclaim.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go,

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;
Old Colwulf (15) 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
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
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
T was now a place of punishment:
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent

As reach'd the upper air,

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
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.
Victim and executioner

Were blind-fold 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,
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,

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.

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;

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,
Sate for a space with visage bare,
Coil, to hide her bosom's swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil;
You shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress; (16)
And she with awe looks pale:
Antique chandelier.

And he, that ancient man, whose sight
Has long been quench'd 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 call'd, through the isle,
The Saint of Lindisfarn.

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 profess'd of Fontevraud,

Whom the church number'd with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled.

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view (Although so pallid was her bue,

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 controul, Because his conscience, sear'd 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 vision'd 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 griesly 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,
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch :
Reflecting back the smoky beam,

The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
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 joy'd 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, and knew not where.

XXV.

And now that blind old abbot rose,

To speak the chapter's doom, On those the wall was to inclose,

Alive, within the tomb: (17) But stopp'd, because that woful maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. Twice she essay'd, and twice in yain; 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 seem'd to hear a distant rill'T was 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 dawn'd upon her check,
A hectic and a flutter'd 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 gather'd strength,
And arm'd herself to bear;-
It was a fearful sight to see

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 listen'd to a traitor's tale,

I left the convent and the veil,
For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy 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.-
'T is an old tale, and often told;
But, did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me!

Their

prayers are pray'd,

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 Ileaven'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, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest.

XXIX. «Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; 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 remain'd-the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
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 betray'd,
This packet, to the king convey'd,

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-wind's sweep;
Some traveller then shall find my bones,
Whitening amid disjointed stones,
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty,
Marvel such relics here should be.»-

XXXII.

Fix'd was her look, aud stern her air;

Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair;
The locks, that wont her brow to shade,
Stared up erectly from her head;
Her figure seem'd to rise more high;
Her voice, despair's wild energy
Hlad given a tone of prophecy.
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listen'd 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 befel,
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.

XXXIII.

An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day;

But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair, groan:

And many a stifled

With speed their upward way they take
(Such speed as age and fear can make),
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on;
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seem'd to hear a dying groan,
And bade the passing knell to toll
For welfare of a parting soul.
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung:
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told:
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III.

ΤΟ

WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass
With varying shadow o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field, and furrow,
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,
Now in a torrent racing forth,

Now winding slow its silver train,

And almost slumbering on the plain;

Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,

And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Of light and shade's inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;
And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through autumn trees;
Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale.

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,

I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song?-
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse,

Oft hast thou said, «If, still mis-spent, Thine hours to poetry are lent,

Go, and, to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb
Immortal laurels ever bloom:
Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard;
From them, and from the paths they show'd,
Chuse honour'd guide and practised road;
Nor ramble on though brake and maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous days.

«Or, deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse

For Brunswick's venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty?—
Oh, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivall'd light sublime,-
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose!
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
For ever quench'd in Jena's stream.
Lamented chief!-it was not given

To thee to change the doom of Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented chief!-not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia harried to the field,

And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill 't was thine to try,
And, tried in vain, 't was thine to die.
Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;
Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows
For honour'd life an honour'd close;
And when revolves, in time's sure change,
The hour of Germany's revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake,
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK's tomb.

Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar; Alike to him the war that calls Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, Against the Invincible made good;

Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,

When stubborn Russ, and mettled Swede,
On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd;
Or that, where vengeance and affright
Howl'd round the father of the fight,

Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand,
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.

«Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,

Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,

Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.>>

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd That secret power by all obey'd, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source conceal'd or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours: Or whether fitlier term'd the sway Of habit, form'd in early day? Howe'er derived, its force confess'd Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weather-beaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in these gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between? No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range, Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake Ben-Nevis gray, and Garry's lake.

Thus, while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.