Marmion. Вальтер Скотт

Чтение книги онлайн.

      High minds, of native pride and force,                    200

      Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

      Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,

      Thou art the torturer of the brave!

      Yet fatal strength they boast to steel

      Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,                  205

      Even while they writhe beneath the smart

      Of civil conflict in the heart.

      For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,

      And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,

      ‘Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,                      210

      Seem’d in mine ear a death-peal rung,

      Such as in nunneries they toll

      For some departing sister’s soul?

        Say, what may this portend?’-

      Then first the Palmer silence broke,                      215

      (The livelong day he had not spoke)

        ‘The death of a dear friend.’

      Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

      Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

      Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,                  220

      Even from his King, a haughty look;

      Whose accents of command controll’d,

      In camps, the boldest of the bold-

      Thought, look, and utterance fail’d him now,

      Fall’n was his glance, and flush’d his brow:              225

        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                        230

      They shrink at sense of secret sin,

        A feather daunts the brave;

      A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,

      And proudest princes vail their eyes

        Before their meanest slave.                              235

      Well might he falter! – By his aid

      Was Constance Beverley betray’d.

      Not that he augur’d of the doom,

      Which on the living closed the tomb:

      But, tired to hear the desperate maid                      240

      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;                          245

      And deem’d 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,                          250

      For some slight mulct of penance-gold.

      Thus judging, he gave secret way,

      When the stern priests surprised their prey.

      His train but deem’d the favourite page

      Was left behind, to spare his age;                        255

      Or other if they deem’d, none dared

      To mutter what he thought and heard:

      Woe to the vassal, who durst pry

      Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

      His conscience slept-he deem’d her well,                  260

      And safe secured in yonder cell;

      But, waken’d by her favourite lay,

      And that strange Palmer’s boding say,

      That fell so ominous and drear,

      Full on the object of his fear,                            265

      To aid remorse’s venom’d throes,

      Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

      And Constance, late betray’d and scorn’d,

      All lovely on his soul return’d;

      Lovely as when, at treacherous call,                      270

      She left her convent’s peaceful wall,

      Crimson’d with shame, with terror mute,

      Dreading alike escape, pursuit,

      Till love, victorious o’er alarms,

      Hid fears and blushes in his arms.                        275

      ‘Alas!’ he thought, ‘how changed that mien!

      How changed these timid looks have been,

      Since years of guilt, and of disguise,

      Have steel’d her brow, and arm’d her eyes!

      No more of virgin terror speaks                            280

      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! –                 285

      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                            290

      Is now a prison harsh and rude;

      And, pent within the narrow cell,

      How СКАЧАТЬ