And many a sheaf of arrows spent, Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent. And to his nobles loud did call, "Lords, to the dance, a hall! a hall!" Himself his cloak and sword flung by, And minstrels, at the royal order, Rung out, "Blue Bonnets o'er the Border." 505 XVIII. Leave we these revels now, to tell Again to English land. The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, Nor knew which saint she should implore; The man most dreaded under Heaven By these defenceless maids: The convoy of their dangerous guide. XIX. 530 Their lodgings, so the King assigned, 535 She named a place to meet, Within an open balcony, That hung from dizzy pitch and high Above the stately street; To which, as common to each home, XX. At night in secret there they came, 545 550 Upon the street, where late before You might have heard a pebble fall, The antique buildings, climbing high, There on their brows the moonbeam broke, And other light was none to see, Save torches gliding far, Before some chieftain of degree, Who left the royal revelry To bowne him for the war. A solemn scene the Abbess chose, XXI. "O, holy Palmer!" she began,— "For sure he must be sainted man, Whose blessed feet have trod the ground Though I must speak of worldly love, - 575 580 And once, when jealous rage was high, Wilton was traitor in his heart, And had made league with Martin Swart, And down he threw his glove: - the thing Where frankly did De Wilton own 585 590 595 600 And proved King Henry's cause betrayed. He strove to clear by spear and shield; – XXII. "His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain That, while he had the scrolls in care, 605 610 A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched him with a beverage rare; His words no faith could gain. With Clare alone he credence won, Who, rather than wed Marmion, Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, And die a vestal vot'ress there. The impulse from the earth was given, 615 620 A purer heart, a lovelier maid, 625 Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade, Along the banks of Tame; Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, Her temple spoiled before mine eyes, 630 635 640 By my consent should win; Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn 645 |