THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,

       Strove, by deep penance, to efface

       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, nor knew not where.

       XXV

      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 essayed.

       Twice she essayed, and twice in vain;

       Her accents might no utterance gain;

       Nought but imperfect murmurs slip

       From her convulsed and quivering lip;

       ‘Twixt each attempt all was so still,

       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 armed 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 -

       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 horseboy 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.

       XXVIII

      “The king approved his favourite’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 cry,

       Shout ‘Marmion! 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,

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