Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,
Thou art the torturer of the brave!
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,
Even while they writhe beneath the smart
Of civil conflict in the heart.

For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,-
"Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung,

Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister's soul?

Say, what my this portend?"-
Then first the Palmer silence broke,
(The livelong day he had not spoke,)
"The death of a dear friend."1

XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye
Ne'er changed in worst extremity;
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,
Even from his King, a haughty look;

1 Among other omens to which faithful credit is given among the Scottish peasantry, is what is called the " dead-bell," explained by my friend James Hogg, to be that tinkling in the ear which the country people regard as the secret intelligence of some friend's decease. He tells a story to the purpose in the "Mountain Bard," p. 26.

"O Lady, 'tis dark, an' I heard the dead-bell!
An' I darena gae yonder for gowd nor fee."

"By the dead bell is meant a tinkling in the ears, which our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence of some friend's decease. Thus this natural occurrence strikes many with a superstitious awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote, which I will here relate as an instance:-Our two servant-girls agreed to go an errand of their own, one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail. So, after going to the apartment where I slept, I took a drinkingglass, and, coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps round the lips of the glass with my finger, which caused a loud shrill sound. I then overheard the following dialogue :-B. ‘Ah, mercy! the dead-bell went through my head just now with such a knell as I never heard.'— I. I heard it too.'-B. 'Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before.-1. We will not go to Midgehop to-night.'-B. 'I would not go for all the world. I shall warrant it is my poor brother Wat; who knows what these wild Irishes may have done to him?'"-Hogg's Mountain Bard, 3d Edit. p. 31-2.

Whose accent of command controll'd,
In camps, the boldest of the bold—

Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him now,
Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow:

For either in the tone,

Or something in the Palmer's look,

So full upon his conscience strook,
That answer he found none.
Thus oft it haps, that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,
A feather daunts the brave;

A fool's wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes veil their eyes
Before their meanest slave.

XV.

Well might he falter!-By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betray'd.
Not that he augur'd 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 deem'd restraint in convent strange
Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge,
Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear,

Secure his pardon he might hold,

For some slight mulet of penance-gold.
Thus judging, he gave secret way,

When the stern priests surprised their prey.
His train but deem'd the favourite page
Was left behind, to spare his age;

Or other if they deem'd, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard :
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion's privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept-he deem'd her well, And safe secured in distant cell;

But, waken'd by her favourite lay,

And that strange Palmer's boding say,
That fell so ominous and drear,
Full on the object of his fear,

To aid remorse's venom'd throes,

Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;
And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd,
All lovely on his soul return'd;
Lovely as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent's peaceful wall,
Crimson'd with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike escape, pursuit,

Till love, victorious o'er alarms,

Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

XVII.

"Alas!" he thought, "how changed that mien!

How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt, and of disguise,

Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes!

No more of virgin terror speaks

The blood that mantles in her cheeks;
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,

Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;

And I the cause-for whom were given
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!—
Would," thought he, as the picture grows,
"I on its stalk had left the rose!

Oh, why should man's success remove
The very charms that wake his love!-
Her convent's peaceful solitude
Is now a prison harsh and rude ;
And, pent within the narrow cell,
How will her spirit chafe and swell!
How brook the stern monastic laws!
The penance how-and I the cause!—
Vigil, and scourge-perchance even worse!"
And twice he rose to cry, "To horse!”
And twice his Sovereign's mandate came,
Like damp upon a kindling flame;
And twice he thought, "Gave I not charge
She should be safe, though not at large?
They durst not, for their island, shred
One golden ringlet from her head."