“His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain, That while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched 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 sheltered 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 spoiled 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 betrayed 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 betrayed, 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 retained Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deigned, 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 blessèd 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, oh! with cautious speed To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king And for thy well-earned 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 shrieked 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 blazoned banners toss!”