XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! For there were seen, in that dark wall, 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; Shewed the grim entrance of the porch : Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were displayed, 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, Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the vassals of her will, Such men the church selected still, As either joyed 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 inclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopped, because that woeful maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essayed. Twice she essayed, and twice in vain; You seemed 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 dawned upon her cheek, A hectic and a fluttered 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 gathered 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; To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, I listened to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil, For three long years I bowed 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.— And Constance was beloved no more.- But, did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old; Of maiden true betrayed for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me! XXVIII. "The king approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barred his claim, Whose faith with Clare's was plight, |