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Then thundered forth a roll of names :The first was thine, unhappy James !

Then all thy nobles came; Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, Why should I tell their separate style?

Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Fore-doomed to Flodden's carnage pile,

Was cited there by name;
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbay,
De Wilton, erst of Aberley,
The self-same thundering voice did say.--

But then another spoke :
« Thy fatal summons I deny,
And thine infernal lord defy,
Appealing me to Him on High,

Who burst the sinner's yoke.”—

At that dread accent, with a scream,

Parted the pageant like a dream,

The summoner was gone.

Prone on her face the Abbess fell,
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ;
Her nuns came, startled by the yell,

And found her there alone.
She marked not, at the scene aghast,
What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

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-haired sire, with pious care,
To chapels and to shrines repair.-
Where is the Palmer now ? and where
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?-
Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair

They journey in thy charge:

Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,
The Palmer still was with the band;
Angus, like Lindesay, did command,

That none should roam at large.
But in that Palmer's altered mien
A wonderous change might now be seen;
· Freely he spoke of war,
Of marvels wrought by single hand,
When lifted for a native land;
And still looked high, as if he planned

Some desperate deed afar.
His courser would he feed and stroke,
And, tucking up his sable frocke,
Would first his metal bold provoke,

Then soothe or quell his pride.
Old Hubert said, that never one
He saw, except Lord Marmion,

A steed so fairly ride.

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Some half-hour's march behind, there came,

By Eustace governed fair,
A troop escorting Hilda's Dame,

With all her nuns, and Clare.
No audience had Lord Marmion sought ;

Ever he feared to aggravate

Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ;
And safer 'twas, he thought,

To wait till, from the nuns removed,
The influence of kinsmen loved,

And suit by Henry's self approved,
Her slow consent had wrought.

His was no flickering flame, that dies
Unless when fanned by looks and sighs,
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ;
He longed to stretch his wide command
O’er luckless Clara's ample land:
Besides, when Wilton with him vied,

Although the pang of humbled pride
The place of jealousy supplied,

Yet conquest, by that meanness won
He almost loathed to think upon,
Led him, at times, to hate the cause,
Which made him burst through honour's laws.
If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone.

XXIX.
And now, when close at hand they saw
North Berwick's town, and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while,
Before a venerable pile,

Whose turrets viewed, afar,
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle,

The ocean's peace or war.
At tolling of a bell, forth came
The convent's venerable Dame,
And prayed Saint Hilda's Abbess rest
With her, a loved and honoured guest,
Till Douglas should a bark prepare,
To waft her back to Whitby fair.

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