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 swore 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, 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, Had rather been your guest again. 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, Raising his sightless balls to heaven : 66 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; 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, 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 stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, |