Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page's dress belied;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
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 professed of Fontevraud,
Whom the Church numbered with the
dead,

For broken vows and convent fled.

To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no visioned 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 partuer, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,

M

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,
Showed the grim entrance of the porch;
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were dis-
played,

And building tools in order laid.

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,
Such men the Church selected still
As either joyed 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, and knew not where.

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 stopped because that woful maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essayed; Twice she essayed, and twice in vain, Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip

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?
When, loyal in his love and faith,
Wilton found overthrow or death
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.

Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed; To Whitby's convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun. Ho! shifts she thus?' King Henry cried,

Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,
If she were sworn a nun.'

One way remained-the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land;
I lingered here, and rescue planned
For Clara and for me:

This caitiff monk for gold did swear
He would to Whitby's shrine repair,
And by his drugs my rival fair

A saint in heaven should be;
But ill the dastard kept his oath,
Whose cowardice hath undone us both.

"And now my tongue the secret tells,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.
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.

"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-wind's sweep;

Fixed was her look and stern her air: Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;

The locks that wont her brow to shade
Stared up erectly from her head;
Her figure seemed to rise more high;
Her voice despair's wild energy
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appalled the astonished conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listened 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:
"Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
Sinful brother, part in peace!

From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,

Paced forth the judges three; Sorrow it were and shame to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery.

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 crossed themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on.
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seemed 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 rolled,
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,
Spread his broad nostrils to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

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

CANTO THIRD

THE HOSTEL, OR INN

THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode;
The mountain path the Palmer showed
By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not choose the lowland road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad,
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,
Had scarcely failed to bar their way;
Oft on the trampling band from crown
Of some tall cliff the deer looked down;
On wing of jet from his repose
In the deep heath the blackcock rose;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow;
And when the stony path began
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been passed before
They gained the height of Lammer-

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland's camp the lord was gone;
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.
On through the hamlet as they paced,
Before a porch whose front was graced,
With bush and flagon trimly placed,

Lord Marmion drew his rein:

The village inn seemed large, though rude;

Its cheerful fire and hearty food

Might well relieve his train.

Down from their seats the horsemen

sprung,

With jingling spurs the court-yard rung;
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamor fills the hall:
Weighing the labor with the cost,
Toils everywhere the bustling host.

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaze,
Might see where in dark nook aloof
The rafters of the sooty roof

Bore wealth of winter cheer;

Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,
And gammons of the tusky boar,
And savory haunch of deer.

The chimney arch projected wide;
Above, around it, and beside,

Were tools for housewives' hand;
Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The implements of Scottish fray,

The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state. On oaken settle Marmion sate, And viewed around the blazing hearth His followers mix in noisy mirth; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside Full actively their host supplied.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast.
And laughter theirs at little jest ;
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid,
And mingle in the mirth they made;
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camps, he knew the
art

To win the soldier's hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;
With open hand and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a lady's bower:
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff.

Right opposite the Palmer stood, His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood.

Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,

Strove by a frown to quell ;

But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer's visage fell.

By fits less frequent from the crowd
Was heard the burst of laughter loud;
For still, as squire and archer stared
On that dark face and matted beard,

Their glee and game declined.
All gazed at length in silence drear,
Unbroke save when in comrade's ear
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

Thus whispered forth his mind · "Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight?

How pale his cheek, his eye how bright
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light,
Glances beneath his cowl!
Full on our lord he sets his eye;

For his best palfrey would not I Endure that sullen scowl."

But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quelled their hearts who saw

The ever-varying firelight show That figure stern and face of woe, Now called upon a squire; "Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay,

y?

To speed the lingering night away
We slumber by the fire.'

"So please you," thus the youth rejoined,
"Our choicest-minstrel's left behind.
Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustomed Constant's strains to hear.
The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover's lute alike;
To dear Saint Valentine no thrush
Sings livelier from a springtide bush,
No nightingale her lovelorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavished on rocks and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture as I may,
To sing his favorite roundelay."

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
The air he chose was wild and sad;
Such have I heard in Scottish land
Rise from the busy, harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer
On Lowland plains the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong.
Now a wild chorus swells the song;
Oft have I listened and stood still
As it came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their native glen,
And thought how sad would be such

sound

On Susquehanna's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake. Where heart-sick exiles in the strain Recalled fair Scotland's hills again!

SONG

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,
Parted forever?

Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,
Under the willow.

Well might he falter!--By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed.
Not that he augured of the doom
Which on the living closed the tomb:
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid,
And wroth because in wild despair
She practised on the life of Clare,
Its fugitive the Church he gave,
Though not a victim, but a slave,
And deemed restraint in convent
strange

Would hide her wrongs and her revenge.
Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear;