Marmion Page 7

  The lovely Edelfled;

  And how, of thousand snakes, each one

  Was 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,

  As 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;

  His 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,

  From 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;

  For, 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.

  Nor long was his abiding there,

  Far southward did the saint repair;

  Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw

  His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

  Hail’d him with joy and fear;

  And, 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,

  His 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.

  XV.

  Who may his miracles declare!

  Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,

  (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 disclaim.

  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

  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;

  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.

  XX.

  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 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, bur 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.

  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.

  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,

  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, and 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;

  Nought 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 colour dawn’d upon her cheek,

  A 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,

  And arm’d herself to bear.

  It was a fearful sight to see

  Such high resolve and constancy,

  In form so soft and fair.

  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 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,

  Of 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,

  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 I 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, gather’d voice, and spoke the rest.

  XXIX.

  ‘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,

  If she were sworn a nun.”

  One way remain’d-the King’s command

  Sent Marmion to the Scottish land!

  I linger’d here, and rescue plann’d

  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 has undone us both.

  XXX.

  ‘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 betray’d,

  This packet, to the King convey’d,

  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.
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  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.’

  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;