Were blindfold when transported there. From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 345 Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor; The mildew-drops fell one by one, 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, 360 Behind were these three judges shown By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, She closely drew her veil : 365 Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, By her proud mien and flowing dress, And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight XX. 370 375 380 Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, Her sex a page's dress belied; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385 Obscured her charms, but could not hide. Her cap down o'er her face she drew; She tried to hide the badge of blue, But, at the Prioress' command, That tied her tresses fair, 390 When thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue, It did a ghastly contrast bear Bespoke a matchless constancy; And there she stood so calm and pale, 405 410 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax, XXII. Her comrade was a sordid soul, Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Feels not the import of his deed; 415 420 For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 The fear of death,-alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, His body on the floor to dash, 430 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 435 Who enters at such grisly door, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Hewn stones and cement were display'd, XXIV. These executioners were chose, As men who were with mankind foes, Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, Of some foul crime the stain; 440 445 450 455 They knew not how, and knew not where. XXV. And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465 To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, 470 Nought but imperfect murmurs slip XXVI. At length, an effort sent apart 475 480 And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 485 'I speak not to implore your grace, Well know I, for one minute's space Successless might I sue: 495 Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500 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; 505 |