(Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale,

And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail,
And the bold men of Teviotdale),

Before his standard fled.'
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane,
And turn'd the Conqueror back again,
When, with his Norman bowyer band,
He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn
If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads that bear his name:
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told,
And said they might his shape behold,
And hear his anvil sound;

A deaden'd clang,-a huge dim form,"
Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
And night were closing round.
But this, as tale of idle fame,
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclain.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go,
Far different was the scene of woe,
Where, in a secret aisle beneath,
Council was held of life and death.

It was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell:
Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,
In penitence to dwell,

When he, for cowl and beads, laid down
The Saxon battle-axe and crown.
This den, which, chilling every sense
Of feeling, hearing, sight,
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence,

Excluding air and light,

Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made
A place of burial for such dead,
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
'Twas now a place of punishment;
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent,

As reach'd the upper air,

The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead

Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile,

Did of this penitential aisle

› See Appendix, Note 2 G. 2 Ibid. Note 2 H. Ibid. Note 21.

MS.-Seen only when the gathering storm."

See Appendix, Note 2 K.

Antique chandelier.

Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay; and still more few
Were those, who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go.
Victim and executioner

Were blindfold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;
The grave-stones rudely sculptured o'er,
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew-drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain,"

Which served to light this drear domain,
With damp and darkness seem'd 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 Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict

On iron table lay;8

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's, there,
Sat for a space 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 Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,"

And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quench'd 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 call'd, through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarne.

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 profess'd of Fontevraud,
Whom the church number'd 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.1

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires.

1 "The picture of Constance before her judges, though more labored than that of the voyage of the Lady Abbess, is not, to our taste, so pleasing; though it has beauty of a kind fully as popular."-JEFFREY..

"I sent for Marmion,' because it occurred to me there might be a resemblance between part of Parisina,' and a similar scene in the second canto of Marmion.' I fear there is, though I never thought of it before, and could hardly wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford whether I ought to say any thing upon it. I had completed the story on the passage from Gibbon, which indeed ads to a like scene naturally, without a thought of the kind; but it comes upon me not very comfortably."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Feb. 3, 1816.-Compare:

Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no vision'd terrors daunt,
Their nights 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 moan 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 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 ween, 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,
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch:
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
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,

Not once had turn'd to either side-
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew-
And there with glassy gaze she stood
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear

So large and slowly gather'd slid
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid,

It was a thing to see, not hear!
And those who saw, it did surprise,
Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone."
BYRON'S Works, vol. x. p.

171.

2 In some recent editions this word had been erroneously

printed "inspires." The MS. has the correct line,

"One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires."

Such men the Church selected still,
As either joy'd 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, nor 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 stopp'd, because that woful Maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd.
Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain;
Naught but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quivering lip;
"Twixt each attempt all was so still,
You seem'd to hear a distant rill-

"Twas ocean's swells and falls;
For though 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 color dawn'd upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutter'd streak,2
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,

By Autumn's stormy sky;

And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gather'd strength,
And arm'd herself to bear.3

It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,

In form so soft and fair.

1 See Appendix, Note 2 M.

MS.-" A feeble and a flutter'd streak,

Like that with which the mornings break

In Autumn's sober sky."

"Mr. S. has judiciously combined the horrors of the punishment with a very beautiful picture of the offender, so as to heighten the interest which the situation itself must necessarily excite; and the struggle of Constance to speak, before the fatal sentence, is finely painted."--Monthly Review. MS." And mann'd herself to bear.

It was a fearful thing to see

Such high resolve and constancy,

In form so soft and fair;

Like Summer's dew her accents fell,
But dreadful was her tale to tell."

MS.-"I speak not now to sue for grace,
For well I know one minute's space
Your mercy scarce would grant:

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 penance vain, Vain are your masses too.—

I listen'd to a traitor's tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bow'd 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 foreswore,
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 betray'd for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me!

XXVIII.

"The King approved his favorite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim,

Whose fate with Clare'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 pray'd,

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?

Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if my penance be in vain,

Your prayers I cannot want.
Full well I knew the church's doom,
What time I left a convent's gloom,
To fly with him I loved ;

And well my folly's meed he gave-
I forfeited, to be a slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave,
And faithless hath he proved;
He saw another's face more fair,
He saw her of broad lands the heir,

And Constance loved no more-

Loved her no more, who, once Heaven's bride,
Now a scorn'd menial by his side,
Had wander'd Europe o'er."

MS.-"Say, ye who preach the heavens decide
When in the lists the warriors ride'

Some traveller then shall find my bones
Whitening amid disjointed stones,
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty,"
Marvel such relices here should be."

XXXII.

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air:
Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair;
The locks that wont her brow to shade,
Stared up erectly from her head;❜
Her figure seem'd to rise more high;
Her voice, despair's wild energy
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listen'd 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:-

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 cross'd themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on:
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone,
They seem'd 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 roll'd,
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,

MS" From that dark penance vault to day."
MS.-"That night amid the vesper's swell,

They thought they heard Constantia's yell,
And bade the mighty bell to toll,
For welfare of a passing soul."

Spread his broad nostrils to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern.'

Marmion.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO

WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.2
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Life's checker'd 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;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze

Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!.

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell

I love the license all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song?-3
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme

1 "The sound of the knell that was rung for the parting soul of this victim of seduction, is described with great force and Bolemnity."--JEFFREY.

"The whole of this trial and doom presents a high-wrought scene of horror, which, at the close, rises almost to too great a pitch."-Scots Mag., March, 1808.

2 William Erskine, Esq., advocate, Sheriff-depute of the Orkneys, became a Judge of the Court of Session by the title of Lord Kinnedder, and died at Edinburgh in August, 1822. He had been from early youth the most intimate of the Poet's friends, and his chief confidant and adviser as to all literary matters. See a notice of his life and character by the late Mr.

To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse,
Oft hast thou said, "If, still misspent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,*
Go, and to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb
Immortal laurels ever bloom:

Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard; From them, and from the paths they show'd, Choose honor'd guide and practised road; Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days.

"Or deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse

For Brunswick's venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valor bleeds for liberty?—
Oh, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivall'd light sublime,-
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes,—
The star of Brandenburgh arose !
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
Forever quench'd in Jena's stream.
Lamented Chief!-it was not given
To thee to change the doom of Heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented Chief!-not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,

And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield!
Valor and skill 'twas thine to try,
And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.
Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;
Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows