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Whose blessed feet have trod the ground

       Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found -

       For His dear Church’s sake my tale

       Attend, nor deem of light avail,

       Though I must speak of worldly love -

       How vain to those who wed above!

       De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed

       Clara de Clare, of Gloucester’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;

       Where frankly did De Wilton own

       That Swart in Gueldres he had known;

       And that between them then there went

       Some scroll of courteous compliment.

       For this he to his castle sent;

       But when his messenger returned,

       Judge how De Wilton’s fury burned

       For in his packet there were laid

       Letters that claimed disloyal aid,

       And proved King Henry’s cause betrayed.

       His fame, thus blighted, in the field

       He strove to clear by spear and shield;

       To clear his fame in vain he strove,

       For wondrous 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 doomed to suffer law,

       Repentant, owned in vain,

       That while he had the scrolls in care,

       A stranger maiden, passing fair,

       Had drenched him with a beverage rare;

       His words no faith could gain.

       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,

       And die a vestal vot’ress there.

       The impulse from the earth was given,

       But bent her to the paths of heaven.

       A purer heart, a lovelier maid,

       Ne’er sheltered 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,

       In meadows rich the heifer lows,

       The falconer and huntsman knows

       Its woodlands for the game.

       Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,

       And I, her humble vot’ress here,

       Should do a deadly sin,

       Her temple spoiled 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 to fear

       Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

       XXIII

      “Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed

       To evil power, I claim thine aid,

       By every step that thou hast trod

       To holy shrine and grotto dim,

       By every martyr’s tortured limb,

       By angel, saint, and seraphim,

       And by the Church of God!

       For mark:- When Wilton was betrayed,

       And with his squire forged letters laid,

       She was, alas! that sinful maid

       By whom the deed was done -

       Oh! shame and horror to be said! -

       She was a perjured nun!

       No clerk in all the land, like her

       Traced quaint and varying character.

       Perchance you may a marvel deem

       That Marmion’s paramour

       (For such vile thing she was) should scheme

       Her lover’s nuptial hour;

       But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,

       As privy to his honour’s stain,

       Illimitable power:

       For this she secretly retained

       Each proof that might the plot reveal,

       Instructions with his hand and seal;

       And thus Saint Hilda deigned,

       Through sinners’ perfidy impure,

       Her house’s glory to secure

       And Clare’s immortal weal.

       XXIV

      “‘Twere long and needless here to tell

       How to my hand these papers fell;

       With me they must not stay.

       Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!

       Who knows what outrage he might do

       While journeying by the way?

       O blessed saint, if e’er again

       I venturous leave thy calm domain,

       To travel or by land or main,

       Deep penance may I pay!

       Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:

       I give this packet to thy care,

       For thee to stop they will not dare;

       And, oh! with cautious speed

       To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring,

       That he may show them to the king

       And for thy well-earned meed,

       Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine

       A weekly mass shall still be thine

       While priests can sing and read.

       What ail’st thou? Speak!” For as he took

       The charge, a strong emotion shook

       His frame; and,

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