Marmion

Were blindfold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er,                  345
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,                              350
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.                              355

XIX

There, met to doom in secrecy,
Were placed the heads of convents three:
All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict
On iron table lay;                                      360
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’s, there,
Sat for a space with visage bare,                          365
Until, to hide her bosom’s swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil:
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,                      370
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,                            375
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 Lindisfarne.                                  380

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 cloak and doublet, loosely tied,                      385
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.                          390
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,                    395
In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister profess’d of Fontevraud,
Whom the Church number’d with the dead,
For broken vows, and convent fled.                        400

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 glistering fair),
Her look composed, and steady eye,                        405
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, bur her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted                                410
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,                            415
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                    420
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,                    425
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,