Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.Then did I march with Surrey’s power, 300What time we razed old Ayton tower.’-XIX.‘For such-like need, my lord, I trow,Norham can find you guides enow;For here be some have prick’d as far,On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar; 305Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,And given them light to set their hoods.’-XX.‘Now, in good sooth,’ Lord Marmion cried, 310‘Were I in warlike wise to ride,A better guard I would not lack,Than your stout forayers at my back;But as in form of peace I go,A friendly messenger, to know, 315Why through all Scotland, near and far,Their King is mustering troops for war,The sight of plundering Border spearsMight justify suspicious fears,And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 320Break out in some unseemly broil:A herald were my fitting guide;Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;Or pardoner, or travelling priest,Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.’ 325XXI.The Captain mused a little space,And pass’d his hand across his face.-’Fain would I find the guide you want,But ill may spare a pursuivant,The only men that safe can ride 330Mine errands on the Scottish side:And though a bishop built this fort,Few holy brethren here resort;Even our good chaplain, as I ween,Since our last siege, we have not seen: 335The mass he might not sing or say,Upon one stinted meal a-day;So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,And pray’d for our success the while.Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 340Is all too well in case to ride;The priest of Shoreswood-he could reinThe wildest war-horse in your train;But then, no spearman in the hallWill sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 345Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:A blithesome brother at the can,A welcome guest in hall and bower,He knows each castle, town, and tower,In which the wine and ale is good, 350‘Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.But that good man, as ill befalls,Hath seldom left our castle walls,Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,In evil hour, he cross’d the Tweed, 355To teach Dame Alison her creed.Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;And John, an enemy to strife,Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 360That, if again he venture o’er,He shall shrieve penitent no more.Little he loves such risks, I know;Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.’XXII.Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 365Carved to his uncle and that lord,And reverently took up the word.‘Kind uncle, woe were we each one,If harm should hap to brother John.He is a man of mirthful speech, 370Can many a game and gambol teach;Full well at tables can he play,And sweep at bowls the stake away.None can a lustier carol bawl,The needfullest among us all, 375When time hangs heavy in the hall,And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,And we can neither hunt, nor rideA foray on the Scottish side.The vow’d revenge of Bughtrig rude, 380May end in worse than loss of hood.Let Friar John, in safety, stillIn chimney-corner snore his fill,Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:Last night, to Norham there came one, 385Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-XXIII‘Here is a holy Palmer come,From Salem first, and last from Rome; 390One, that hath kiss’d the blessed tomb,And visited each holy shrine,In Araby and Palestine;On hills of Armenie hath been,Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen; 395By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,Which parted at the Prophet’s rod;In Sinai’s wilderness he sawThe Mount, where Israel heard the law,‘Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin, 400And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.He shows Saint James’s cockle-shell,Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;And of that Grot where Olives nod,Where, darling of each heart and eye, 405From all the youth of Sicily,Saint Rosalie retired to God.XXIV.‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410For his sins’ pardon hath he pray’d.He knows the passes of the North,And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;Little he eats, and long will wake,And drinks but of the stream or lake. 415This were a guide o’er moor and dale;But, when our John hath quaff’d his ale,As little as the wind that blows,And warms itself against his nose,Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.’- 420XXV.‘Gramercy!’ quoth Lord Marmion,‘Full loth were I, that Friar John,That venerable man, for me,Were placed in fear or jeopardy.If this same Palmer will me lead 425From hence to Holy-Rood,Like his good saint, I’ll pay his meed,Instead of cockle-shell, or bead,With angels fair and good.I love such holy ramblers; still 430They know to charm a weary hill,With song, romance, or lay:Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,Some lying legend, at the least,They bring to cheer the way.’- 435XXVI.‘Ah! noble sir,’ young Selby said,And finger on his lip he laid,‘This man knows much, perchance e’en moreThan he could learn by holy lore.Still to himself he’s muttering, 440And shrinks as at some unseen thing.Last night we listen’d at his cell;Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,He murmur’d on till morn, howe’erNo living mortal could be near. 445Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,As other voices spoke again.I cannot tell-I like it not-Friar John hath told us it is wrote,No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 450Can rest awake, and pray so long.Himself still sleeps before his beadsHave mark’d ten aves, and two creeds.’-XXVII.-‘Let pass,’ quoth Marmion; ‘by my fay,This man shall guide me on my way, 455Although the great arch-fiend and heHad sworn themselves of company.So please you, gentle youth, to callThis Palmer to the Castle-hall.’The summon’d Palmer came in place; 460His sable cowl o’erhung his face;In his black mantle was he clad,With Peter’s keys, in cloth of red,On his broad shoulders wrought;The scallop shell his cap did deck; 465The crucifix around his neckWas from Loretto brought;His sandals were with travel tore,Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;The faded palm-branch in his hand 470Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.XXVIII.When as the Palmer came in hall,Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,Or had a statelier step withal,Or look’d more high and keen; 475For no saluting did he wait,But strode across the hall of state,And fronted Marmion where he sate,As he his peer had been.But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; 480His cheek was sunk, alas the while!And when he struggled at a smile,His eye look ‘d haggard wild:Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,If she had been in presence there, 485In his wan face, and sun-burn’d hair,She had not known her child.Danger, long travel, want, or woe,Soon change the form that best we know-For deadly fear can time outgo, 490And blanch at once the hair;Hard toil can roughen form and face,And want can quench the eye’s bright grace,Nor does old age a wrinkle traceMore deeply than despair. 495Happy whom none of these befall,But this poor Palmer knew them all.XXIX.Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;The Palmer took on him the task,So he would march with morning tide, 500To Scottish court to be his guide.‘But I have solemn vows to pay,And may not linger by the way,To fair St. Andrews bound,Within the ocean-cave to pray, 505Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,From midnight to the dawn of day,Sung to the billows’ sound;Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 510And the crazed brain restore:Saint Mary grant, that cave or springCould back to peace my bosom bring,Or bid it throb no more!’XXX.And now the midnight draught of sleep, 515Where wine and spices richly steep,In massive bowl of silver deep,The page presents on knee.Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,The Captain pledged his noble guest, 520The cup went through among the rest,Who drain’d it merrily;Alone the Palmer pass’d it by,Though Selby press’d him courteously.This was a sign the feast was o’er; 525It hush’d the merry wassel roar,The minstrels ceased to sound.Soon in the castle nought was heard,But the slow footstep of the guard,Pacing his sober round. 530XXXI.With early dawn Lord Marmion rose:And first the chapel doors unclose;Then, after morning rites were done,(A hasty mass from Friar John,)And knight and squire had broke their fast, 535On rich substantial repast,Lord Marmion’s bugles blew to horse:Then came the stirrup-cup in course:Between the Baron and his host,No point of courtesy was lost; 540High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,Solemn excuse the Captain made,Till, filing from the gate, had pass’dThat noble train, their Lord the last.Then loudly rung the trumpet call; 545Thunder’d the cannon from the wall,And shook the Scottish shore;Around the castle eddied slow,Volumes of smoke as white as snow,And hid its turrets hoar; 550Till they roli’d forth upon the air,And met the river breezes there,Which gave again the prospect fair.INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.TO THE REV JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.The scenes are desert now, and bareWhere flourish’d once a forest fair,When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly spears 5Have fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers-Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell,Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 10Waved in each breeze a sapling bough;Would he could tell how deep the shadeA thousand mingled branches made;How broad the shadows of the oak,How clung the rowan to the rock, 15And through the foliage show’d his head,With narrow leaves and berries red;What pines on every mountain sprung,O’er every dell what birches hung,In every breeze what aspens shook, 20What alders shaded every brook!‘Here, in my shade,’ methinks he’d say,‘The mighty stag at noon-tide lay:The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game,(The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) 25With lurching step around me prowl,And stop, against the moon to howl;The mountain-boar, on battle set,His tusks upon my stem would whet;While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 30Have bounded by, through gay green-wood.Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower,Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power:A thousand vassals muster’d round,With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; 35And I might see the youth intent,Guard every pass with crossbow bent;And through the brake the rangers stalk,And falc’ners hold the ready hawk,And foresters, in green-wood trim, 40Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,Attentive, as the bratchet’s bayFrom the dark covert drove the prey,To slip them as he broke away.The startled quarry bounds amain, 45As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;Whistles the arrow from the bow,Answers the harquebuss below;While all the rocking hills reply,To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters’ cry, 50And bugles ringing lightsomely.’Of such proud huntings, many talesYet linger in our lonely dales,Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. 55But not more blithe that silvan court,Than we have been at humbler sport;Though small our pomp, and mean our game,Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.Remember’st thou my greyhounds true? 60O’er holt or hill there never flew,From slip or leash there never sprang,More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.Nor dull, between each merry chase,Pass’d by the intermitted space; 65For we had fair resource in store,In Classic and in Gothic lore:We mark’d each memorable scene,And held poetic talk between;Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70But had its legend or its song.All silent now-for now are stillThy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!No longer, from thy mountains dun,The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 75And while his honest heart glows warm,At thought of his paternal farm,Round to his mates a brimmer fills,And drinks, ‘The Chieftain of the Hills!’No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers, 80Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,Fair as the elves whom Janet sawBy moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;No youthful Baron’s left to graceThe Forest-Sheriff’s lonely chase, 85And ape, in manly step and tone,The majesty of Oberon:And she is gone, whose lovely faceIs but her least and lowest grace;Though if to Sylphid Queen ‘twere given, 90To show our earth the charms of Heaven,She could not glide along the air,With form more light, or face more fair.No more the widow’s deafen’d earGrows quick that lady’s step to hear: 95At noontide she expects her not,Nor busies her to trim the cot;Pensive she turns her humming wheel,Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal,Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100The gentle hand by which they’re fed.From Yair,-which hills so closely bind,Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,Till all his eddying currents boil,- 105Her long descended lord is gone,And left us by the stream alone.And much I miss those sportive boys,Companions of my mountain joys,Just at the age ‘twixt boy and youth, 110When thought is speech, and speech is truth.Close to my side, with what delightThey press’d to hear of Wallace wight,When, pointing to his airy mound,I call’d his ramparts holy ground! 115Kindled their brows to hear me speak;And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,Despite the difference of our years,Return again the glow of theirs.Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, 120They will not, cannot long endure;Condemn’d to stem the world’s rude tide,You may not linger by the side;For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,And passion ply the sail and oar. 125Yet cherish the remembrance still,Of the lone mountain, and the rill;For trust, dear boys, the time will come,When fiercer transport shall be dumb,And you will think right frequently, 130But, well I hope, without a sigh,On the free hours that we have spent,Together, on the brown hill’s bent.When, musing on companions gone,We doubly feel ourselves alone, 135Something, my friend, we yet may gain,There is a pleasure in this pain:It soothes the love of lonely rest,Deep in each gentler heart impress’d.‘Tis silent amid worldly toils, 140And stifled soon by mental broils;But, in a bosom thus prepared,Its still small voice is often heard,Whispering a mingled sentiment,‘Twixt resignation and content. 145Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake;Thou know’st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge;Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150At once upon the level brink;And just a trace of silver sandMarks where the water meets the land.Far in the mirror, bright and blue,Each hill’s huge outline you may view; 155Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,Save where, of land, yon slender lineBears thwart the lake the scatter’d pine.Yet even this nakedness has power, 160And aids the feeling of the hour:Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,Where living thing conceal’d might lie;Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; 165There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess,You see that all is loneliness:And silence aids-though the steep hillsSend to the lake a thousand rills;In summer tide, so soft they weep, 170The sound but lulls the ear asleep;Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude,So stilly is the solitude.Nought living meets the eye or ear,But well I ween the dead are near; 175For though, in feudal strife, a foeHath laid Our Lady’s chapel low,Yet still, beneath the hallow’d soil,The peasant rests him from his toil,And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 180Where erst his simple fathers pray’d.If age had tamed the passions’ strife,And fate had cut my ties to life,Here have I thought, ‘twere sweet to dwell,And rear again the chaplain’s cell, 185Like that same peaceful hermitage,Where Milton long’d to spend his age.‘Twere sweet to mark the setting day,On Bourhope’s lonely top decay;And, as it faint and feeble died 190On the broad lake, and mountain’s side,To say, ‘Thus pleasures fade away;Youth, talents, beauty thus decay,And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;’Then gaze on Dryhope’s ruin’d tower, 195And think on Yarrow’s faded Flower:And when that mountain-sound I heard,Which bids us be for storm prepared,The distant rustling of his wings,As up his force the Tempest brings, 200‘Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,To sit upon the Wizard’s grave;That Wizard Priest’s, whose bones are thrust,From company of holy dust;On which no sunbeam ever shines- 205(So superstition’s creed divines)-Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,Heave her broad billows to the shore;And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 210And ever stoop again, to laveTheir bosoms on the surging wave;Then, when against the driving hailNo longer might my plaid avail,Back to my lonely home retire, 215And light my lamp, and trim my fire;There ponder o’er some mystic lay,Till the wild tale had all its sway,And, in the bittern’s distant shriek,I heard unearthly voices speak, 220And thought the Wizard Priest was come,To claim again his ancient home!And bade my busy fancy range,To frame him fitting shape and strange,Till from the task my brow I clear’d, 225And smiled to think that I had fear’d.But chief, ‘twere sweet to think such life,(Though but escape from fortune’s strife,)Something most matchless good and wise,A great and grateful sacrifice; 230And deem each hour, to musing given,A step upon the road to heaven.Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease,Such peaceful solitudes displease;He loves to drown his bosom’s jar 235Amid the elemental war:And my black Palmer’s choice had beenSome ruder and more savage scene,Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene.There eagles scream from isle to shore; 240Down all the rocks the torrents roar;O’er the black waves incessant driven,Dark mists infect the summer heaven;Through the rude barriers of the lake,Away its hurrying waters break, 245Faster and whiter dash and curl,Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,Thunders the viewless stream below,Diving, as if condemn’d to lave 250Some demon’s subterranean cave,Who, prison’d by enchanter’s spell,Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.And well that Palmer’s form and mienHad suited with the stormy scene, 255Just on the edge, straining his kenTo view the bottom of the den,Where, deep deep down, and far within,Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 260And wheeling round the Giant’s Grave,White as the snowy charger’s tail,Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,To many a Border theme has rung: 265Then list to me, and thou shalt knowOf this mysterious Man of Woe.CANTO SECOND.THE CONVENT.1.THE breeze, which swept away the smokeRound Norham Castle roll’d,When all the loud artillery spoke,With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,As Marmion left the Hold,- 5It curl’d not Tweed alone, that breeze,For, far upon Northumbrian seas,It freshly blew, and strong,Where, from high Whitby’s cloister’d pile,Bound to Saint Cuthbert’s Holy Isle, 10It bore a bark along.Upon the gale she stoop’d her side,And bounded o’er the swelling tide,As she were dancing home;The merry seamen laugh’d, to see 15Their gallant ship so lustilyFurrow the green sea-foam.Much joy’d they in their honour’d freight;For, on the deck, in chair of state,The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20With five fair nuns, the galley graced.II.‘Twas sweet, to see these holy maids,Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,Their first flight from the cage,How timid, and how curious too, 25For all to them was strange and new,And all the common sights they view,Their wonderment engage.One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,With many a benedicite; 30One at the rippling surge grew pale,And would for terror pray;Then shriek’d, because the seadog, nigh,His round black head, and sparkling eye,Rear’d o’er the foaming spray; 35And one would still adjust her veil,Disorder’d by the summer gale,Perchance lest some more worldly eyeHer dedicated charms might spy;Perchance, because such action graced 40Her fair-turn’d arm and slender waist.Light was each simple bosom there,Save two, who ill might pleasure share,-The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.III.The Abbess was of noble blood, 45But early took the veil and hood,Ere upon life she cast a look,Or knew the world that she forsook.Fair too she was, and kind had beenAs she was fair, but ne’er had seen 50For her a timid lover sigh,Nor knew the influence of her eye.Love, to her ear, was but a name,Combined with vanity and shame;Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 55Bounded within the cloister wall:The deadliest sin her mind could reachWas of monastic rule the breach;And her ambition’s highest aimTo emulate Saint Hilda’s fame. 60For this she gave her ample dower,To raise the convent’s eastern tower;For this, with carving rare and quaint,She deck’d the chapel of the saint,And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 65With ivory and gems emboss’d.The poor her Convent’s bounty blest,The pilgrim in its halls found rest.IV.Black was her garb, her rigid ruleReform’d on Benedictine school; 70Her cheek was pale, her form was spare:Vigils, and penitence austere,Had early quench’d the light of youth,But gentle was the dame, in sooth;Though, vain of her religious sway, 75She loved to see her maids obey,Yet nothing stern was she in cell,And the nuns loved their Abbess well.Sad was this voyage to the dame;Summon’d to Lindisfame, she came, 80There, with Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot old,And Tynemouth’s Prioress, to holdA chapter of Saint Benedict,For inquisition stern and strict,On two apostates from the faith, 85And, if need were, to doom to death.V.Nought say I here of Sister Clare,Save this, that she was young and fair;As yet a novice unprofess’d,Lovely and gentle, but distress’d. 90She was betroth’d to one now dead,Or worse, who had dishonour’d fled.Her kinsmen bade her give her handTo one, who loved her for her land:Herself, almost broken-hearted now, 95Was bent to take the vestal vow,And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom,Her blasted hopes and wither’d bloom.VI.She sate upon the galley’s prow,And seem’d to mark the waves below; 100Nay, seem’d, so fix’d her look and eye,To count them as they glided by.She saw them not-‘twas seeming all-Far other scene her thoughts recall,-A sun-scorch’d desert, waste and bare, 105Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur’d there;There saw she, where some careless handO’er a dead corpse had heap’d the sand,To hide it till the jackals come,To tear it from the scanty tomb.- 110See what a woful look was given,As she raised up her eyes to heaven!VII.Lovely, and gentle, and distress’d-These charms might tame the fiercest breast:Harpers have sung, and poets told, 115That he, in fury uncontroll’d,The shaggy monarch of the wood,Before a virgin, fair and good,Hath pacified his savage mood.But passions in the human frame, 120Oft put the lion’s rage to shame:And jealousy, by dark intrigue,With sordid avarice in league,Had practised with their bowl and knife,Against the mourner’s harmless life. 125This crime was charged ‘gainst those who layPrison’d in Cuthbert’s islet grey.VIII.And now the vessel skirts the strandOf mountainous Northumberland;Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 130And catch the nuns’ delighted eyes.Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,And Tynemouth’s priory and bay;They mark’d, amid her trees, the hallOf lofty Seaton-Delaval; 135They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floodsRush to the sea through sounding woods;They pass’d the tower of Widderington,Mother of many a valiant son;At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140To the good Saint who own’d the cell;Then did the Alne attention claim,And Warkworth, proud of Percy’s name;And next, they cross’d themselves, to hearThe whitening breakers sound so near, 145There, boiling through the rocks, they roar,On Dunstanborough’s cavern’d shore;Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark’d they there,King Ida’s castle, huge and square,From its tall rock look grimly down, 150And on the swelling ocean frown;Then from the coast they bore away,And reach’d the Holy Island’s bay.IX.The tide did now its flood-mark gain,And girdled in the Saint’s domain: 155For, with the flow and ebb, its styleVaries from continent to isle;Dry-shod, o’er sands, twice every day,The pilgrims to the shrine find way;Twice every day, the waves efface 160Of staves and sandall’d feet the trace.As to the port the galley flew,Higher and higher rose to viewThe Castle with its battled walls,The ancient Monastery’s halls, 165A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,Placed on the margin of the isle.X.In Saxon strength that Abbey frown’d,With massive arches broad and round,That rose alternate, row and row, 170On ponderous columns, short and low,Built ere the art was known,By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,The arcades of an alley’d walkTo emulate in stone. 175On the deep walls, the heathen DaneHad pour’d his impious rage in vain;And needful was such strength to these,Exposed to the tempestuous seas,Scourged by the winds’ eternal sway, 180Open to rovers fierce as they,Which could twelve hundred years withstandWinds, waves, and northern pirates’ hand.Not but that portions of the pile,Rebuilded in a later style, 185Show’d where the spoiler’s hand had been;Not but the wasting sea-breeze keenHad worn the pillar’s carving quaint,And moulder’d in his niche the saint,And rounded, with consuming power, 190The pointed angles of each tower;Yet still entire the Abbey stood,Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.XI.Soon as they near’d his turrets strong,The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song, 195And with the sea-wave and the wind,Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,And made harmonious close;Then, answering from the sandy shore,Half-drown’d amid the breakers’ roar, 200According chorus rose:Down to the haven of the Isle,The monks and nuns in order file,From Cuthbert’s cloisters grim;Banner, and cross, and relics there, 205To meet Saint Hilda’s maids, they bare;And, as they caught the sounds on air,They echoed back the hymn.The islanders, in joyous mood,Rush’d emulously through the flood, 210To hale the bark to land;Conspicuous by her veil and hood,Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,And bless’d them with her hand.XII.Suppose we now the welcome said, 215Suppose the Convent banquet made:All through the holy dome,Through cloister, aisle, and gallery,Wherever vestal maid might pry,No risk to meet unhallow’d eye, 220The stranger sisters roam:Till fell the evening damp with dew,And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,For there, even summer night is chill.Then, having stray’d and gazed their fill, 225They closed around the fire;And all, in turn, essay’d to paintThe rival merits of their saint,A theme that ne’er can tireA holy maid; for, be it known, 230That their saint’s honour is their own.XIII.Then Whitby’s nuns exulting told,How to their house three Barons boldMust menial service do;While horns blow out a note of shame, 235And monks cry ‘Fye upon your name!In wrath, for loss of silvan game,Saint Hilda’s priest ye slew.’-‘This, on Ascension-day, each year,While labouring on our harbour-pier, 240Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.’-They told how in their convent-cellA Saxon princess once did dwell,The lovely Edelfled;And how, of thousand snakes, each one 245Was changed into a coil of stone,When holy Hilda pray’d;Themselves, within their holy bound,Their stony folds had often found.They told, how sea-fowls’ pinions fail, 250As over Whitby’s towers they sail,And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,They do their homage to the saint.XIV.Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail,To vie with these in holy tale; 255His body’s resting-place, of old,How oft their patron changed, they told;How, when the rude Dane burn’d their pile,The monks fled forth from Holy Isle;O’er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260From sea to sea, from shore to shore,Seven years Saint Cuthbert’s corpse they bore.They rested them in fair Melrose;But though, alive, he loved it well,Not there his relics might repose; 265For, wondrous tale to tell!In his stone-coffin forth he rides,A ponderous bark for river tides,Yet light as gossamer it glides,Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270Nor long was his abiding there,Far southward did the saint repair;Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, sawHis holy corpse, ere WardilawHail’d him with joy and fear; 275And, after many wanderings past,He chose his lordly seat at last,Where his cathedral, huge and vast,Looks down upon the Wear;There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade, 280His relics are in secret laid;But none may know the place,Save of his holiest servants three,Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,Who share that wondrous grace. 285XV.Who may his miracles declare!Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,(Although with them they ledGalwegians, wild as ocean’s gale,And Lodon’s knights, all sheathed in mail, 290And 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, 295When, with his Norman bowyer band,He came to waste Northumberland.XVI.But fain Saint Hilda’s nuns would learnIf, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300The 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, 305Seen but, and heard, when gathering stormAnd night were closing round.But this, as tale of idle fame,The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.XVII.While round the fire such legends go, 310Far 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: 315Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,In penitence to dwell,When he, for cowl and beads, laid downThe Saxon battle-axe and crown.This den, which, chilling every sense 320Of feeling, hearing, sight,Was call’d the Vault of Penitence,Excluding air and light,Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, madeA place of burial for such dead, 325As, 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, 330The hearers bless’d themselves, and said,The spirits of the sinful deadBemoan’d their torments there.XVIII.But though, in the monastic pile,Did of this penitential aisle 335Some vague tradition go,Few only, save the Abbot, knewWhere the place lay; and still more fewWere those, who had from him the clewTo that dread vault to go. 340Victim and executionerWere 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, 345Half 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, 350Which 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 showThe awful conclave met below. 355XIX.There, met to doom in secrecy,Were placed the heads of convents three:All servants of Saint Benedict,The statutes of whose order strictOn iron table lay; 360In long black dress, on seats of stone,Behind were these three judges shownBy the pale cresset’s ray:The Abbess of Saint Hilda’s, there,Sat for a space with visage bare, 365Until, 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, 370Is Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress,And she with awe looks pale:And he, that Ancient Man, whose sightHas long been quench’d by age’s night,Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 375Nor 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. 380XX.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, 385Obscured 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. 390But, at the Prioress’ command,A Monk undid the silken bandThat tied her tresses fair,And raised the bonnet from her head,And down her slender form they spread, 395In 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. 400XXI.When thus her face was given to view,(Although so pallid was her hue,It did a ghastly contrast bearTo those bright ringlets glistering fair),Her look composed, and steady eye, 405Bespoke a matchless constancy;And there she stood so calm and pale,That, bur her breathing did not fail,And motion slight of eye and head,And of her bosom, warranted 410That 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.XXII.Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415Such 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 420Beyond his own more brute desires.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, 425One 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, 430And 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! 435For 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, 440Of 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: 445Reflecting 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, 450As 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 455Of some foul crime the stain;For, as the vassals of her will,Such men the Church selected still,As either joy’d in doing ill,Or thought more grace to gain, 460If, in her cause, they wrestled downFeelings their nature strove to own.By strange device were they brought there,They knew not how, and knew not where.XXV.And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465To 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. 470Twice she essay’d, and twice in vain;Her accents might no utterance gain;Nought but imperfect murmurs slipFrom her convulsed and quivering lip;Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475You seem’d to hear a distant rill-‘Twas ocean’s swells and falls;For though this vault of sin and fearWas to the sounding surge so near,A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480So massive were the walls.XXVI.At length, an effort sent apartThe blood that curdled to her heart,And light came to her eye,And colour dawn’d upon her cheek, 485A hectic and a flutter’d streak,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, 490And arm’d herself to bear.It was a fearful sight to seeSuch high resolve and constancy,In form so soft and fair.XXVII.‘I speak not to implore your grace, 495Well know I, for one minute’s spaceSuccessless 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, 500Vain 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; 505And 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, 510Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,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, 515Of maiden true betray’d for gold,That loved, or was avenged, like me!XXVIII.‘The King approved his favourite’s aim;In vain a rival barr’d his claim,Whose fate with Clare’s was plight, 520For he attaints that rival’s fameWith treason’s charge-and on they came,In mortal lists to fight.Their oaths are said,Their prayers are pray’d, 525Their lances in the rest are laid,They meet in mortal shock;And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,Shout “Marmion, Marmion I to the sky,De Wilton to the block!” 530Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decideWhen in the lists two champions ride,Say, was Heaven’s justice here?When, loyal in his love and faith,Wilton found overthrow or death, 535Beneath 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, gather’d voice, and spoke the rest. 540XXIX.‘Still was false Marmion’s bridal staid;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, 545If she were sworn a nun.”One way remain’d-the King’s commandSent Marmion to the Scottish land!I linger’d here, and rescue plann’dFor Clara and for me: 550This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear,He would to Whitby’s shrine repair,And, by his drugs, my rival fairA saint in heaven should be.But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555Whose cowardice has undone us both.XXX.‘And now my tongue the secret tells,Not that remorse my bosom swells,But to assure my soul that noneShall ever wed with Marmion. 560Had fortune my last hope betray’d,This packet, to the King convey’d,Had given him to the headsman’s stroke,Although my heart that instant broke.-