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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 terror speak! For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep and tall ;Who enters at such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid, Of roots, of water, and of bread : By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless ; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were display'd, 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 joy'd in doing ill,

To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone."

Byron's Works, vol. x. p. 171. 1 In some recent editions this word had been erroneously printed inspires." The MS. has the correct line.

“One whose brute-feeling ne'or aspires." ! See Appendix, Note 2 M. 3 MS." A feeble and a flutter'd streak,

Like that with which tho mornings break

In Autumn's sober sky." 4 “Mr. S. has judiciously combined the horrors of the punishment with a very beautiful picture of the offender, so as to heighten the interest which the situation itself must necesBarily excite; and the struggle of Constance to speak, before the fatal sentence, is finely painted."--Monthly Review.

Or thought more grace to gain,
Is, 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;2
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;
Nought 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. 4
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:

6 MS.-"And mann'd herself to bear.

It was a fearful thing to see
Such high resolve and constancy,

In form so soft and fair ;
Like Summer's dew her accents fell,

But dreadful was her tale to tell."
6 MS.-" I speak not now to sue for grace,

For well I know one minute's space

Your mercy scarce would grant:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if my penance be in vain,
Your
prayers

I cannot want.
Full well I knew the church's doom,
What time I left a convent's gloom,

To fly with him I loved ;
And well my folly's meed he gave
I forfeited, to be a slave,
All here, and all bevond the grave,

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 foreswore,
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 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 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, sho shall be thy bride,

If she were sworn a nun.'

And faithless hath he proved;
He saw another's face more fair,
He saw her of broad lands the heir,

And Constance loved no more-
Loved her no more, who, onco Heaven's bride,
Now a scorn'd monial by his side,

Had wander'd Europe o'er."

One way remain d—the King's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I linger'd here, and rescue 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,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.2
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 vaggal 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,3
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 propheoy.

1 MS.-"Say, ye who preach the heavens decido

When in the lists the warriors ride." 2 The MS. adds—“His schemes reveal'd, his honour gono 3 MS.—“And, witless of priests' cruelty.”

4 MS.--"Stared up

{ aspirining } from her head."

uncurling

TO

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Appalld the astonish'd conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate

Marmion.
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listen’d for the avenging storm;
The judges felt the victim's dread;

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.
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!

WILLIAM ERSKINE, Esq.8
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. Paced forth the judges three ;

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass, Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell

With varying shadow, o'er the grass, The butcher-work that there befell,

And imitate, on field and furrow, When they had glided from the cell

Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow'; Of sin and misery

Like streamlet of the mountain north,

Now in a torrent racing forth,
XXXIII.

Now winding slow its silver train,
An hundred winding steps convey

And almost slumbering on the plain ; That conclave to the upper day;2

Like breezes of the autumn day, But, ere they breathed the fresher air,

Whose voice inconstant dies away, They heard the shriekings of despair,

And ever swells again as fast, And many a stifled groan:

When the ear deems its murmur past; With speed their upward way they take,

Thus various, my romantic theme (Such speed as age and fear can make,)

Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. And cross’d themselves for terror's sake,

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace As hurrying, tottering on:

Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; Even in the vesper's heavenly tone,3

Pleased, views the rivulet afar, They seem'd to hear a dying groan,

Weaving its maze irregular; And bade the passing knoll to toll

And pleased, we listen as the breeze For welfare of a parting soul.

Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,

Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;

Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale !
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll’d,
His beads the wakeful hermit told,

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,

I love the license all too well, But slept ere half a prayer he said ;

In sounds now lowly, and now strong, So far was heard the mighty knell,

To raise the desultory song?_6 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,

Oft, when ʼmid such capricious chime, Spread his broad nostril to the wind,

Some transient fit of lofty rhyme Listed before, aside, behind,

To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse Then couch'd him down beside the hind,

For many an error of the muse, And quaked among the mountain fern,

Oft hast thou said, “ If, still mis-spent, To hear that sound so dull and stern.*

Thine hours to poetry are lent,

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Go, and to tame thy wandering course,

On thee relenting Heaven bestows Quaff from the fountain at the source;

For honour'd life an honour'd close;2 Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb

And when revolves, in time's sure change, Immortal laurels ever bloom :

The hour of Germany's revenge, Instructive of the feebler bard,

When, breathing fury for her sake, Still from the grave their voice is heard;

Some new Arminius shall awake, From them, and from the paths they show'd, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come Choose honour'd guide and practised road;

To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK's tonıb.3 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days.

« Or of the Red-Cross hero4 teach,

Dauntless in dungeon as on breach : “ Or deem'st thou not our later timel

Alike to him the sea, the shore, Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ?

The brand, the bridle, or the oar: Hast thou no elegiac verse

Alike to him the war that calls For Brunswick's venerable hearse?

Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,

Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, When valour bleeds for liberty?

Against the Invincible made good; Oh, hero of that glorious time,

Or that, whose thundering voice could wake When, with unrivall'd light sublime,

The silence of the polar lake, Though martial Austria, and though all

When stubborn Russ, and metald Swede, The might of Russia, and the Gaul,

On the warp'd wave their death-game Though banded Europe stood her foes—

play'd; The star of Brandenburgh arose !

Or that, where Vengeance and Affright Thou couldst not live to see her beam

Howl'd round the father of the fight, For ever quench'd in Jena's stream.

Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand, Lamented Chief !-it was not given

The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.” To thee to change the doom of Heaven, And crush that dragon in its birth,

“ Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Predestined scourge of guilty earth.

Restore the ancient tragic line, Lamented Chief !—not thine the power,

And emulate the notes that wrung To save in that presumptuous hour,

From the wild harp, which silent hung When Prussia hurried to the field,

By silver Avon’s holy shore, And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield !

Till twice an hundred years rollid o'er; Valour and skill 'twas thine to try,

When she, the bold Enchantress, came, And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.

With fearless hand and heart on flame! Ill had it seem'd thy silver bair

From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, The last, the bitterest pang to share,

And swept it with a kindred measure, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,

Till Avon's swans, while rung

the

grove And birthrights to usurpers given;

With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel,

Awakening at the inspired strain, And witness woes thou couldst not heal!

Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.”

The general's eye, the pilot's art,
The soldier's arm, the sailor's heart,
Or if to touch such chord be thine," &c.

I MS.—“Dost thou not deem our later day

Yields topic meet for classic lay ?
Hast thou no elegiac tone
To join that universal moan,
Which mingled with the battle's yell,
Where venerablo Brunswick fell?
What I not a verse, a tear, a sigh,

When valour bleeds for liberty ?"
MS—"Por honour'd life an honour'd close-

The boon which falling heroes crave,
A soldier's death, a warrior's grave.
Or if, with more exulting swell,
Of conquering chiefs thou lov'st to tell,
Give to the harp an unheard strain,
And sing the triumphs of the main-
of him the Red-Cross hero teach,
Dauntless on Acre's bloody breach,
And, scorner of tyrannic power,
As dauntless in the Temple's tower:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,

The brand, the bridle, or the oar,

3“ Scott seems to have communicated fragments of the poem very freely during the whole of its progress. As early as the 22d February 1807, I find Mrs. Hayman acknowledging, in the name of the Princess of Wales, the receipt of a copy of the Introduction to Canto III., in which occurs the tribute to her royal highness's hieroic father, mortally wounded tho year before at Jena-a tribute so grateful to her feelings that she herself shortly after sent the poet an elegant silver vase as a memorial of her thankfulness. And a hout the same timo the Marchioness of Abercorn expresses the delight with which both she and her lord had read the generous verscs on Pitt and Fox in another of those epistles."Life of Scott, vol iii. p. 9.

4 Sir Sidney Smith,
o Sir Ralph Abercromby
6 Joanna Baillie.

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, With praises not to me belonging,

Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. 2 In task more meet for mightiest powers,

Though no broad river swept along, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.

To claim, perchance, heroic song; But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd

Though sigh’d no groves in summer galc, That secret power by all obey'd,

To prompt of love a softer tale; Which warps not less the passive mind,

Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Its source conceal'd or undefined;

Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; Whether an impulse, that has birth

Yet was poetic impulse given, Soon as the infant wakes on earth,

By the green hill and clear blue heaven. One with our feelings and our powers,

It was a barren scene, and wild, And rather part of us than ours;

Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; Or whether fitlier term'd the sway

But ever and anon between Of habit, form’d in early day?

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; Howe’er derived, its force confest

And well the lonely infant knew Rules with despotic sway the breast,

Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And drags us on by viewless chain,

And honey-suckle loved to crawl While taste and reason plead in vain.?

Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. Look east, and ask the Belgian why,

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade Beneath Batavia's sultry sky,

The sun in all its round survey'd; He seeks not eager to inhalo

And still I thought that shatter'd tower 4 The freshness of the mountain gale,

The mightiest work of human power ; Content to rear his whiten'd wall

And marvell d as the aged hind Beside the dank and dull canal ?

With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, He'll say, from youth he loved to see

Of forayers, who, with headlong force, The white sail gliding by the tree.

Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,

Their southern rapine to renew, Whose sluggish herds before him wind,

Far in the distant Cheviots blue, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek

And, home returning, filld the hall His northern clime and kindred speak;

With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.5 Through England's laughing meads he goes,

Methought that still with trump and clang, And England's wealth around him flows;

The gateway's broken arches rang; Ask, if it would content him well,

Methought grim features, seam'd with scarz, At ease in those gay plains to dwell,

Glared through the window's rusty bars, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,

And ever, by the winter hearth, And spires and forests intervene,

Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, And the neat cottage peeps between ?

Of lovers’ slights, of ladies' charms, * No ! not for these will be exchange

Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; His dark Lochaber's boundless range:

Of patriot battles, won of old Not for fair Devon's meads forsake

By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Bennevis grey, and Garry's lake.

Of later fields of feud and fight,

When, pouring from their Highland height, Thus while I ape the measure wild

The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, Of tales that charm’d me yet a child,

Had swept the scarlet ranks away. Rude though they be, still with the chime

While stretch'd at length upon the floor, Return the thoughts of early time;

Again I fought each combat o'er, And feelings, roused in life's first day,

Pebbles and shells, in order laid, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.

The mimic ranks of war display'd ;

1 “As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath,

Receives the lurking principle of death;
The young disease, that must subdue at length,
Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength :
So, cast and mingled with his very frame,
The Mind's disease, its Ruling Passion came;
Each vital humour which should feed the whole,
Soon flows to this, in body and in soul;
Whatever warms the heart, or fills the head,
As the mind opens, and its functions spread,
Imagination plies her dangerous art,
And pours it all upon the peccant part.

“ Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse; Wit, Spirit, Faculties, but make it worse :

Reason itself but gives it edge and power;
As Heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour," &c.

Pope's Essay on Alan.-ED. 2 MS.-" The lonely hill, the rocky tower,

That caught attention's wakening hour." 3 MS.—" Recesses where the woodbine grew."

4 Smailholm Tower, in Berwickshire, the scene of the
Author's infancy, is situated about two miles from Dryburgh
Abbey.
6 The two next couplets are not in the MS.
MS.—“ While still with mimic hosts of shells

Again my sport the combat tells –
Onward the Scottish Lion bore,
The scatter'd Southron fled before."

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