THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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       XXIX

      “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 has undone us both.

       XXX

      “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 instant broke.

       Now, men of death, work forth your will,

       For I can suffer, and be still;

       And come he slow, or come he fast,

       It is but Death who comes at last.

       XXXI

      “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 deep,

       Burst open to the sea-winds’ sweep;

       Some traveller then shall find my bones

       Whitening amid disjointed stones,

       And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

       Marvel such relics here should be.”

       XXXII

      Fixed was her look, and stern her air:

       Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;

       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.

       XXXIII

      A 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 nostril to the wind,

       Listed before, aside, behind,

       Then couched him down beside СКАЧАТЬ