With damp and darkness seemed 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 St. Benedice,
The statues 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 there
Sate for a pace with visage bare,
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.
Is Tyneinouth'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 aisle,
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 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 méed; 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 then no visioned terrors daunt, Their night 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 mourn 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 shrick,
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 wean, find exit more.
In each a slender nical 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 cither 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, and 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 swell and falls;
For through 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 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 penace 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 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.
'Tis an old tale, and often told;
But, did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old;
Of maiden truc, betrayed for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me

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 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 remained-the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I lingered 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 hath undone us both.

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 priest's 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
Gaxed 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.

An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day;
But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the shriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan:

With speed their upward way they take
(Such speed as age and fear can make),
And crossed themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on:
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seemed 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 rolled,
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 couched him down beside the hind.
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Life's chequered 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;

With damp and darkness seemed 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 St. Benedice,
The statues 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 there
Sate for a pace with visage bare,
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.
Is Tyneinouth'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 aisle,
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 charins, 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.

ΧΧΙ.

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 cyc,
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 méed; 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 then no visioned terrors daunt, Their night 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 mourn 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 shrick,
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 wean, find exit more.
In each a slender nical 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, and 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 swell and falls;
For through 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 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 penace 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 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.
"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 faith with Clara'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 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 remained-the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I lingered 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 hath 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 Danc
Had rather been your guest again.
Behind, a darker hour ascends!
The altars quake, the crozier 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 priest's 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 Gaxed 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.

An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day;
But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
They heard the shriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan:

With speed their upward way they take
(Such speed as age and fear can make),
And crossed themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on:
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seemed 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 rolled,
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 couched him down beside the hind.
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.
TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Life's chequered 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;

With damp and darkness seemed to strive,
As if it scarce night keep alive;
And yet it dimly served to show
The awful conclave inet below.

XIX.

There met to doom in secrecy,

Were placed the heads of convents three, All servants of St. Benedice,

The statues 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 there
Sate for a pace with visage bare,
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.
Is Tyneinouth'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 aisle,
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 charins, 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 then no visioned terrors daunt, Their night no fancied spectres haunt; One fear with them, of all most base-The fear of death,-alone finds place.

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 wean, 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, and 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 swell and falls;
For through 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 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 penace vain,
Vain are your masses too.