LITMIR.BIZ

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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 bold;

       Thought, look, and utterance failed him now -

       Fall’n was his glance, and flushed 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 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, 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 deemed 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 mulct of penance-gold.

       Thus judging, he gave secret way,

       When the stern priests surprised their prey.

       His train but deemed the favourite page

       Was left behind, to spare his age

       Or other if they deemed, 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 deemed her well,

       And safe secured in distant cell;

       But, wakened 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 venomed throes

       Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

       And Constance, late betrayed and scorned,

       All lovely on his soul returned;

       Lovely as when, at treacherous call,

       She left her convent’s peaceful wall,

       Crimsoned 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 steeled her brow, and armed 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.”

       XVIII

      While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove

       Repentance and reviving love,

       Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway

       I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,

       Their host the Palmer’s speech had heard,

       And, talkative, took up the word:

       “Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray

       From Scotland’s simple land away,

       To visit realms afar,

       Full often learn the art to know

       Of future weal, or future woe,

       By word, or sign, or star;

       Yet might a knight his fortune hear,

       If, knightlike, he despises fear,

       Not far from hence; if fathers old

       Aright our hamlet legend told.”

       These broken words the menials move,

       For marvels still the vulgar love,

       And, Marmion giving license cold,

       His tale the host thus gladly told:

       XIX

       The Host’s Tale

      “A clerk could tell what years have flown

       Since Alexander filled our throne,

       Third monarch of that warlike name,

       And eke the time when here he came

       To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord;

       A braver never drew a sword;

       A wiser never, at the hour

       Of midnight, spoke the word of power:

       The same, whom ancient records call

       The founder of the Goblin Hall.

       I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay

       Gave you that cavern to survey.

       Of lofty roof, and ample size,

       Beneath the castle deep it lies:

       To hew

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