And other light was none to see, Save torches gliding far, Before some chieftain of degree, Who left the royal revelry To bowne him for the war. A solemn scene the Abbess chose; A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. XXI. "O, holy Palmer!" she began,— For his dear Church's sake, my tale Though I must speak of worldly love,— Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood; (Idle it were of Whitby's dame, To say of that same blood I came ;) And once, when jealous rage was high, Lord Marmion said despiteously, Wilton was traitor in his heart, And had made league with Martin Swart,* When he came here on Simnel's part; And only cowardice did restrain His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, And down he threw his glove:-the thing Was tried, as wont, before the king; That Swart in Guelders he had known; And that between them then there went For this he to his castle sent; But when his messenger return'd, Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd! For in his packet there was laid * A German general, who commanded the auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and killed at Stokefield. Letters that claim'd disloyal aid, And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. His fame, thus blighted, in the field He strove to clear, by spear and shield ; To clear his fame in vain he strove, For wonderous are His ways above! Perchance some form was unobserved; Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved; Else how could guiltless champion quail, Or how the blessed ordeal fail? XXII. "His squire, who now De Wilton saw, As recreant doom'd to suffer law, Repentant, own'd in vain, That, while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drench'd him with a beverage rare ; With Clare alone he credence won, Who, rather than wed Marmion, Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, To give our house her livings fair, The impulse from the earth was given, Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade, No, not since Saxon Edelfled; Only one trace of earthly strain, That for her lover's loss She cherishes a sorrow vain, And murmurs at the cross. And then her heritage,-it goes Along the banks of Tame; Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, The falconer, and huntsman, knows Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, And I, her humble vot'ress here, Should do a deadly sin, Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes, If this false Marmion such a prize By my consent should win ; Yet hath our boisterous Monarch sworn, That Clare shall from our house be torn And grievous cause have I fear, Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. XXIII. "Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd To evil power, I claim thine aid, To holy shrine and grotto dim, By angel, saint, and seraphim, And by the Church of God! For mark:-When Wilton was betray'd, And with his squire forged letters laid, She was-alas! that sinful maid, By whom the deed was done, |