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Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,

And she with awe looks pale; And he, that ancient man, whose sight Has long been quenched 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 called through the isle

The Saint of Lindisfarne.

To do the savagest of deeds ;
For them no visiored terror's 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 dashi,
And crouch, like hound beneath the

lash ; While his mute partuer, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

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 professed of Fontevraud, Whom the Church numbered with the

dead, For broken vows and convent fled,

Yet well the luckless wretch miglit

shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! For there were seen in that dark wall Two niches, barrow, 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, Showed the grim entrance of the porch, Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were dis

played, And building tools in order laid.

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When thus her face was given to

Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering

Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood so calı

and pale
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That reither 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.

These executioners were chose,
As men who were with mankind foes,
And, with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister lad retired,

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove by deep penance to etface

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 thouglit 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 noi


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Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, seared 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

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 stopped because that woful maid. Gathering her powers, to speak essay e Twice she essavell, and twice in vain Her accents might no utterance gain Nought but imperfect murmurs slap

From lier convulsed and quivering lip;

'Twixt each attempt all was so stili, You seemed to hear a distant rill

'T was 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.

Shout Marmior., Marmion! 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, gathered voice, and spoke the



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At length, an etfort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart,

And light came to her eye,
And color 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 armed herself to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy

In form so soft and fair.
“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 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.
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 betrayed for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me! “The king approved his favorite's aim ; In vain a rival barred 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 prayed,

Their lances in the rest are laid,
They meet in mortal shock;
And hark! the throng, with thundering


“Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed ; 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 remained—the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land;
I lingered here, and rescue planned

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 hath undone us both.
“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 betrayed.
This packet, to the king conveyed,
Had given him to the headsman's stroke,
Although my heart that in tant broke.-
Now, men of death, work forth you

For I can suffer, and be still;
And come be slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death who comes at last.

“ 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

Burst open to the sea-wind's sweep;

Some traveller then shall find my bones
Whitening amid disjointed stones,
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty,
Marvel such relics here should be.”

Fixed was her look and stern her air : Back from her shoulders streamed her

hair ;


THE HOSTEL, OR INN THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode; The mountain path the Palmer showed By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid tbe rill. They might not choose the lowland road, For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely failed to bar their way; Oft on the trampling band from crown Of some tall cliff the deer looked down; On wing of jet from his repose In the deep heath the blackcock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. The noon had long been passed before They gained the height of Lammer

moor ; Thence winding down the northern

way, Before them at the close of day Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

The locks that wont her brow to shade
Stared up erectly from her head ;
Her figure seemed to rise more high;
Her voice despair's wild energy
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appalled the astonished conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listened for the avenging storm ;
The judges felt the victim's dread ;
No hand was moved, no word was said,

Till thus the abbot's doom was given,
Raising his sightless balls to heaven:
“ Sister, let thy sorrows cease ;
Sinful brother, part in peace !

From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb,

Paced forth the judges three ; Sorrow it were and shame to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell

Of sin and misery.
An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day ;
But ere they breathed the fresher air
They heard the shriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan.
With speed their upward way they

take, Such speed as age and fear can make,And crossed themselves for terror's sake,

As hurrying, tottering on, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone They seemed to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, His beads the wakeful hermit told; The Bamborough peasant raised his

head, But slept ere half a prayer he said ; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostrils to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind, Then coached him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern.

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable lour.
To Scotland's camp the lord was gone;
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.

On through the bamlet as they paced,
Before a porch whose front was graced,
With busb and flagon trimly placed,

Lord Marmion drew his rein:
The village inn seemed large, though

rude; Its cheerful fire and hearty food

Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the liorsemen

With jingling spurs the court-yard rung :
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamor fills the ball:
Weighing the labor with the cost,
Toils everywhere the bustling lost.
Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaza
Might see where in dark nook aloof
The rafters of the sooty roof

Bore wealth of winter cheer ;
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,
And gammons of the tusky boar,

And savory haunchi of deer.

For his best palfrey would not. I

Endure that sullen scowl."

The chimney arch projected wide ;
Above, around it, and beside,

Were tools for housewives' hand ::
Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The implements of Scottish fray,

The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state. On oaken settle Marmion sate, And viewed around the blazing hearth His followers mix in noisy mirth ; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside Full actively their lost supplied.


Theirs was the glee of martial breast,
And laughter theirs at little jest ;
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid,
And mingle in the mirth they made;
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camps, lie knew the

To win the soldier's hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yeć fresh as May ;
With open hand and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy ;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a lady's bower:-
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quelled their heart:

who saw The ever-varying firelight show That figure stern and face of woe,

Now called upon a squire; “ Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some

lay, To speed the lingering night away?

We slumber by the fire.
“So please you," thus the youth rejoined
“Our choicest-minstrel's left behind.
Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustomed Constant's strains to liear.
The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover's lute alike;
To dear Saint Valentine no thrush
Sings livelier from a springtide bush,
No nightingale her lovelorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavished on rocks and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture as I may,
To sing his favorite roundelay.”
A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
The air he chose was wild and sad ;
Such have I heard in Scottish land
Rise from the busy, harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer
On Lowland plains the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song ;
Oft have I listened and stood still
As it came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their native glen,
And thought how sad would be such

On Susquehanna's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake,
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles in the strain
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again!

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates serer
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted forever ?
Where, thronglı groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff,

Right opposite the Palmer stood, His thin dark visage seen but half,

Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could

brook, Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance,

The Palmer's visage fell. By fits less frequent from the crowd Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; For still, as squire and archier stared On that dark face and matted beard,

Their glee and game declined. All gazed at length in silence drear, Unbroke save when in comrade's ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

Thus whispered forth his mind : Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such

sight? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light,

Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our lord he sets his eye;


Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving ;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted forever,
Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! 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

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,
Seemed in mine ear a deatri-peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister's soul!

Say, what may this portend?'
Then first the Palmer silence broke, --
The livelong day he had not spoke,--

“ The death of a dear friend.”


Eleu loro, etc. Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin and leave her ? In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.


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 ; Whose accent of command controlled In camps the boldest of the bolal-Thought, look, and utterance failed him

Eleu loro, etc. There shall be be lying.


Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted ; His warın blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever ; Blessing shall hallow it,

Never, O never !

Fallen was his glance and flushed his

For either in the tone,
Or something in the Palmer's look,
So full upon his conscience strook,

That answer lie found none.
Thus oft it baps that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,

A feather daunts the brave ; A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, And prondest princes veil their eyes

Before their meanest slave.


Eleu loro, etc. Never, I never !

It ceased, the melancholy sound,
And silence sunk on all around.
The air was sad ; but sadder still

It fell on Marmion's ear,
And plained as if disgrace and ill,

And shameful death, were near.
He drew his mantle past his face,

Between it and the band,
And rested with his head a space

Reclining on his hand,
His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween
That, could their import have been

seen, The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their

prev, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

Well might he falter !--By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed.
Not that he augured of the doom
Which on the living closed the tomb:
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turns, beseechi, upbraid,
And wroth because in wild despair
She practised on the life of Clare,
Its fugitive the Church he gave,
Though not a victiin, but a slave,
And deemed restraint in convent

Would hide her wrongs and her revenge.
Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer,
Held komish thunders idle fear;

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