Walter Scott - Marmion

‘O, holy Palmer!’ she began,-
‘For sure he must be sainted man,
Whose blessed feet have trod the ground
Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found,-

For His dear Church’s sake, my tale
Attend, nor deem of light avail,
Though I must speak of worldly love,-
How vain to those who wed above!-

De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo’d
Clara de Clare, of Gloster’s blood;
(Idle it were of Whitby’s dame,
To say of that same blood I came;)

And once, when jealous rage was high,
Lord Marmion said despiteously,
Wilton was traitor in his heart,
And had made league with Martin Swart,
When he came here on Simnel’s part;

And only cowardice did restrain
His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain,-
And down he threw his glove:-the thing
Was tried, as wont, before the King;

Where frankly did De Wilton own,
That Swart in Guelders he had known;
And that between them then there went
Some scroll of courteous compliment.
For this he to his castle sent;

But when his messenger return’d,
Judge how De Wilton’s fury burn’d!
For in his packet there were laid
Letters that claim’d disloyal aid,
And proved King Henry’s cause betray’d.

His fame, thus blighted, in the field
He strove to clear, by spear and shield;-
To clear his fame in vain he strove,
For wondrous are His ways above!

Perchance some form was unobserved;
Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved;
Else how could guiltless champion quail,
Or how the blessed ordeal fail?

‘His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doom’d to suffer law,
Repentant, own’d in vain,
That, while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair,
Had drench’d him with a beverage rare;
His words no faith could gain.

With Clare alone he credence won,
Who, rather than wed Marmion,
Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair,
To give our house her livings fair,
And die a vestal vot’ress there.

The impulse from the earth was given,
But bent her to the paths of heaven.

A purer heart, a lovelier maid,
Ne’er shelter’d her in Whitby’s shade,
No, not since Saxon Edelfled;

Only one trace of earthly strain,
That for her lover’s loss
She cherishes a sorrow vain,
And murmurs at the cross.

And then her heritage;-it goes
Along the banks of Tame;
Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,
In meadows rich the heifer lows,
The falconer and huntsman knows
Its woodlands for the game.

Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,
And I, her humble vot’ress here,
Should do a deadly sin,
Her temple spoil’d before mine eyes,
If this false Marmion such a prize
By my consent should win;

Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn,
That Clare shall from our house be torn;
And grievous cause have I to fear,
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

‘Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’d
To evil power, I claim thine aid,
By every step that thou hast trod
To holy shrine and grotto dim,
By every martyr’s tortured limb,
By angel, saint, and seraphim,
And by the Church of God!

For mark:-When Wilton was betray’d,
And with his squire forged letters laid,
She was, alas! that sinful maid,
By whom the deed was done,-
Oh! shame and horror to be said!
She was a perjured nun!

No clerk in all the land, like her,
Traced quaint and varying character.
Perchance you may a marvel deem,
That Marmion’s paramour
(For such vile thing she was) should scheme
Her lover’s nuptial hour;
But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,
As privy to his honour’s stain,
Illimitable power:

For this she secretly retain’d
Each proof that might the plot reveal,
Instructions with his hand and seal;
And thus Saint Hilda deign’d,

Through sinners’ perfidy impure,
Her house’s glory to secure,
And Clare’s immortal weal.

‘Twere long, and needless, here to tell,
How to my hand these papers fell;
With me they must not stay.
Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!
Who knows what outrage he might do,
While journeying by the way?-
O, blessed Saint, if e’er again
I venturous leave thy calm domain,
To travel or by land or main,
Deep penance may I pay!-

Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:
I give this packet to thy care,
For thee to stop they will not dare;
And O! with cautious speed,
To Wolsey’s hand the papers ‘bring,
That he may show them to the King:
And, for thy well-earn’d meed,
Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine
A weekly mass shall still be thine,
While priests can sing and read.

What ail’st thou?-Speak!’-For as he took
The charge, a strong emotion shook
His frame; and, ere reply,
They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,
Like distant clarion feebly blown,
That on the breeze did die;

And loud the Abbess shriek’d in fear,
‘Saint Withold, save us!-What is here!
Look at yon City Cross!
See on its battled tower appear
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,
And blazon’d banners toss!’-

Dun-Edin’s Cross, a pillar’d stone,
Rose on a turret octagon;

(But now is razed that monument,
Whence royal edict rang,
And voice of Scotland’s law was sent
In glorious trumpet-clang.

O! be his tomb as lead to lead,
Upon its dull destroyer’s head!-
A minstrel’s malison is said.)-

Then on its battlements they saw
A vision, passing Nature’s law,
Strange, wild, and dimly seen;
Figures that seem’d to rise and die,
Gibber and sign, advance and fly,
While nought confirm’d could ear or eye
Discern of sound or mien.

Yet darkly did it seem, as there
Heralds and Pursuivants prepare,
With trumpet sound, and blazon fair,
A summons to proclaim;
But indistinct the pageant proud,
As fancy forms of midnight cloud,
When flings the moon upon her shroud
A wavering tinge of flame;
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,
From midmost of the spectre crowd,
This awful summons came:-

‘Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,
Whose names I now shall call,
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!
Subjects of him who sent me here,
At his tribunal to appear,
I summon one and all:

I cite you by each deadly sin,
That e’er hath soil’d your hearts within;
I cite you by each brutal lust,
That e’er defiled your earthly dust,-
By wrath, by pride, by fear,
By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone,
By the dark grave, and dying groan!
When forty days are pass’d and gone,
I cite you at your Monarch’s throne,
To answer and appear.’-

Then thundered forth a roll of names:-
The first was thine, unhappy James!
Then all thy nobles came;
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,
Why should I tell their separate style?
Each chief of birth and fame,
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,
Fore-doom’d to Flodden’s carnage pile,
Was cited there by name;