Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle, With groans of the dying. CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never. XII. It ceased, the melancholy sound; And silence sunk on all around. The air was sad; but sadder still It fell on Marmion's ear, And plained as if disgrace and ill, He drew his mantle past his face, And rested with his head a space, Reclining on his hand. His thoughts I scarf not; but I ween, That, could their import have been seen, The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye. XIII. High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave; Yet fatal strength they boast to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel; For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister's soul? Say, what may this portend?"— Then first the Palmer silence broke, "The death of a dear friend." XIV. Marmion, whose steady heart and eye Ne'er changed in worst extremity; K Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, Even from his king, a haughty look; In camps, the boldest of the bold Thought, look, and utterance, failed him now, Fallen was his glance, and flushed his brow: For either in the tone, Or something in the Palmer's look, So full upon his conscience strook, Thus oft it haps, that when within They shrink at sense of secret sin, A feather daunts the brave; A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes vail their Before their meanest slave. eyes XV. Well might he faulter!—by his aid Was Constance Beverley betrayed; Not that he augur'd of the doom, But, tired to hear the desperate maid Though not a victim, but a slave; And deemed restraint in convent strange, Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear, Secure his pardon he might hold, For some slight mulct of penance-gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way, When the stern priests surprised their prey: His train but deemed the favourite page Was left behind, to spare his age; To mutter what he thought and heard: |