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For he attaints that rival's fame
Their oaths are said,
Their lances in the rest are laid,
De Wilton to the block !"
Say, was heaven's justice here?
Beneath a traitor's spear. How false the charge, how true he fell, This guilty packet best can tell.”— Then drew a packet from her breast, Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest. XXIX. “ Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent fled the maid,
The hated match to shuu. • Ho! shifts she thus ?' king Henry cried, • Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,
If she were swore a nun.'
For Clara and for me:
A saint in heaven should be.
“ And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul, that none
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, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends! , 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.”—
Fixed was her look, and stern her air ;
Gazed on the light inspired form,
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Paced forth the judges three;
Of sin and misery.
An hundred winding steps convey