This den, which, chilling every sense

Of feeling, hearing, sight,

Was call'd the vault of penitence,

Excluding air and light,

Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made
A place of burial, for such dead
As, having died in mortal sin,
Might not be laid the church within.
'Twas now a place of punishment;
Whence, if so loud a shriek were sent,

As reach'd the upper air,

The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead

Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile,
Did of this penitential aisle

Some vague tradition go,

Few only, save the abbot, knew

Where the place lay; and still more few
Were those, who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go.
Victim and executioner

Were blindfold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side walls sprung;
The gravestones rudely sculptured o'er,
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset,* in an iron chain,
Which served to light this drear domain,
With damp and darkness seem'd to strive,
As if it scarce might keep alive;
And yet it dimly served to show
The awful conclave met below.

In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown,

By the pale cresset's ray:
The abbess of Saint Hilda, there,
Sate for a space with visage bare,
Until, to hide her bosom's swell,
And teardrops that for pity fell,

She closely drew her veil:
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,
Is Tynemouth's haughty prioress,

And she with awe looks pale: And he, that ancient man, whose sight Has long been quench'd by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown, Whose look is hard and stern,Saint Cuthbert's abbot is his style: For sanctity call'd through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarn.

* Antiqué chandelier.

XX.

Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page's dress belied;
The cloke and doublet, loosely tied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down o'er her face she drew;
And, on her doublet-breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest.
But, at the prioress' command,
A monk undid the silken band,
That tied her tresses fair,

And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread,

In ringlets rich and rare.

Constance de Beverly they know,

Sister profess'd of Fontevraud,

Whom the church number'd with the dead,

For broken vows, and convent fled.

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue,

It did a ghastly contrast bear,

To those bright ringlets, glistening fair,)
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy.

And there she stood so calm, and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
A motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted,

That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there :
So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,

Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them, no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt; One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,-alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash,

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terrors speak,
For there were seen, in that dark wall,
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;—
Who enters at each griesly door,
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.

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 joy'd 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, and 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 stopp'd because that woful maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. Twice she essay'd, and twice, in vain ; Her accents might no utterance gain; Naught but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip:

"Twixt each attempt all was so still, You seem'd 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 dawn'd upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutter'd 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 gather'd strength,
And arm'd 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 listen'd to a traitor's tale,

I left the convent and the veil,
For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy 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 betray'd for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me!

XXVIII.

"The king approved his favourite's aim;
In vain a rival barr'd his claim,
Whose faith 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 pray'd,

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,
Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest.

XXIX.

"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, If she were sworn a nun.'

One way remain 'd-the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I linger'd here a fescue plann'd
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,
Now that remorse my bosom swells,

But to assure my soul, that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.
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,
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 be 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-wind's sweep;
Some traveller then shall find my bones,
Whitening amid disjointed stones,
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty,
Marvel such relics here should be."

XXXII.

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air;
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
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the late inspired form,
And listen'd 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 befel,
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 cross'd themselves for terror's sake, As hurrying, tottering on;

E'en in the vesper's heavenly tone
They seem'd 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 roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told;
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half his prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostrils to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO III
TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow;
Life checker'd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,
And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Of light and shade's inconstant race;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaved its wild sigh through autumn trees;
Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale.
Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,

I love the license all too well,

In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song?-
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme,
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse;
Oft hast thou said, "If, still mis-spent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent:
Go, and, to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb,
Immortal laurels ever bloom:
Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard;
From them, and from the path they show'd
Choose honour'd guide and practised road;
Nor ramble on through brake and maze,
With harpers rude of barbarous day.

"Or, deem'st thou not our later time, Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ?

Hast thou no elegiac verse

For Brunswick's venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty!
O, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivall'd light sublime,-
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose !
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
Forever quench'd in Jena's stream.
Lamented chief!-It was not given,
To thee to change the doom of heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented chief!-not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,

And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill 'twas thine to try,
And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.
Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;

Thy lands, thy children's wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting heaven bestows
For honour'd life an honour'd close;

And when revolves, in time's sure change,
The hour of Germany's revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake.
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb.
"Or of the Red-Cross hero teach,
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridal, or the oar;
Alike to him the war that calls
Its votaries to the shatter'd walls
Which the grim Turks besmear'd with blood,
Against the invincible made good;

Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,

When stubborn Russ, and metall'd Swede,
On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd;
Or that, where vengeance and affright
Howl'd round the father of the fight,
Who snatch'd, on Alexander's sand,
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.
"Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung,
By silver Avon's holy shore,

Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er;
When she, the bold enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure;
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at th' inspired strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
81

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wrong

ing,

With praises not to me belonging,

In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd That secret power by all obey'd, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source conceal'd or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier term'd the sway Of habit, form'd in early day? Howe'er derived, its force confess'd Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, He seeks not, eager to inhale, The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weather-beaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in these gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between? No, not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range; Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake Bennevis gray and Garry's lake.

Thus, while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime, Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. Though no broad river swept along To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 3H 2

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round survey'd ;

And still I thought that shatter'd tower

The mightiest work of human power;

And marvell'd, as the aged hind

With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind,

Of forayers, who, with headlong force,

Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,

Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.-
Methought that still with trump and clang
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seam'd with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of wo or mirth,
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,

Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old,

By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their highland height,
The Scottish clans in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While, stretch'd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war display'd;
And onward still the Scottish lion bore,
And still the scatter'd Southron fled before.
Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brighten'd at our evening fire;
From the thatch'd mansion's gray-hair'd sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Show'd what in youth its glance had been ;
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child;
But, half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, carest.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poet's well-conn'd task?
Nay, Erskine, nay, on the wild hill
Let the wild heathbell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay,-since oft thy praise
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays,
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line,
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend;
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my tale!

CANTO III.

THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

I.

THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode.
The mountain path the palmer show'd;
By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not choose the lowland road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad,
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,
Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way.
Oft on the trampling band, from crown
Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down;
On wing of jet, from his repose
In the deep heath, the black cock rose;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been past before
They gain'd the height of Lammermoor;
Thence winding down the northern way,
Before them, at the closing day,
Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland's camp the lord was gone,
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.

On through the hamlet as they paced,
Before a porch, whose front was graced
With bush and flaggon trimly placed,

Lord Marmion drew his reign:
The village inn seem'd large, though rude:
Its cheerful fire and hearty food

Might well relieve his train.

Down from their seats the horsemen sprang,
With jingling spurs the court-yard rang;
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamour fills the hall;
Weighing the labour with the cost,
Toils everywhere the bustling host.

III.

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaze;
Might see, where in dark nook aloof,
The rafters of the sooty roof

Bore wealth of winter cheer;
Of sea fowl dried, and solands store,
And gammons of the tusky boar,

And savoury haunch of deer.
The chimney arch projected wide;
Above, around it, and beside,

Were tools for housewifes' hand: Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray,

The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate,