‘The King approved his favourite’s aim;

      In vain a rival barr’d his claim,

        Whose fate with Clare’s was plight,                      520

      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 pray’d,                              525

          Their lances in the rest are laid,

        They meet in mortal shock;

      And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,

      Shout “Marmion, Marmion I to the sky,

        De Wilton to the block!”                                530

      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,                          535

        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, gather’d voice, and spoke the rest.                540

      ‘Still was false Marmion’s bridal staid;

      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,                      545

        If she were sworn a nun.”

      One way remain’d-the King’s command

      Sent Marmion to the Scottish land!

      I linger’d here, and rescue plann’d

        For Clara and for me:                                    550

      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,                        555

      Whose cowardice has 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.                              560

      Had fortune my last hope betray’d,

      This packet, to the King convey’d,

      Had given him to the headsman’s stroke,

      Although my heart that instant broke. -

      Now, men of death, work forth your will,                  565

      For I can suffer, and be still;

      And come he 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!                          570

      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!                            575

      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 deep,

      Burst open to the sea-winds’ sweep;                        580

      Some traveller then shall find my bones

      Whitening amid disjointed stones,

      And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

      Marvel such relics here should be.’

      Fix’d was her look, and stern her air:                    585

      Back from her shoulders stream’d her hair;

      The locks, that wont her brow to shade,

      Stared up erectly from her head;

      Her figure seem’d to rise more high;

      Her voice, despair’s wild energy                          590

      Had given a tone of prophecy.

      Appall’d the astonish’d conclave sate;

      With stupid eyes, the men of fate

      Gazed on the light inspired form,

      And listen’d for the avenging storm;                      595

      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;                            600

      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                      605

        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;                            610

      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,)                    615

      And cross’d themselves for terror’s sake,

        As hurrying, tottering on,

      Even in the vesper’s heavenly tone,

      They seem’d to hear a dying groan,

      And bade the passing knell to toll                        620

      For welfare of a parting soul.

      Slow o’er the midnight wave it swung,

      Northumbrian