Perchance you may a marvel deem, That Marmion's paramour (For such vile thing she was) should scheme Her lover's nuptial hour; But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, As privy to his honour's stain, Illimitable power: For this she secretly retain'd Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deign'd, Through sinner's perfidy impure, Her house's glory to secure, And Clare's immortal weal. XXIV. ""Twere long, and needless, here to tell, O blessed Saint, if e'er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone, And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, Look at yon City Cross! What is here? See on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear And blazon'd banners toss!" XXV. Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone, Rose on a turret octagon; (But now is razed that monument, And voice of Scotland's law was sent Strange, wild, and dimly seen; Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there With trumpet sound and blazon fair, But indistinct the pageant proud, It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, XXVI. "Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within: I cite you by each brutal lust That e'er defil'd your earthly dust, By wrath, by pride, by fear, By each o'er-mastering passion's tone, By the dark grave and dying groan! When forty days are pass'd and gone, I cite you, at your Monarch's throne, To answer and appear." Then thunder'd forth a roll of names: The first was thine, unhappy James! Then all thy nobles came; Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, The self-same thundering voice did say. 66 Thy fatal summons I deny And thine infernal Lord defy, Who burst the sinner's yoke." The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the Abbess fell, She mark'd not, at the scene aghast, XXVII. Shift we the scene. The camp doth move; Dun-Edin's streets are empty now, Save when, for weal of those they love, To pray the prayer and vow the vow, The tottering child, the anxious fair, The grey-hair'd sire, with pious care, Of marvels wrought by single hand And still look'd high, as if he plann'd Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, Then soothe or quell his pride. XXVIII. Some half-hour's march behind, there came, By Eustace govern'd fair, A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, With all her nuns and Clare. No audience had Lord Marmion sought; Ever he fear'd to aggravate Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; |