Marmion

And that strange Palmer’s boding say, 
That fell so ominous and drear, 
Full on the object of his fear,   
To aid remorse’s venom’d throes, 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

And Constance, late betray’d and scorn’d, 
All lovely on his soul return’d;

Lovely as when, at treacherous call,         
She left her convent’s peaceful wall, 
Crimson’d with shame, with terror mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
Till love, victorious o’er alarms, 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 

‘Alas!’ he thought, ‘how changed that mien! 
How changed these timid looks have been, 
Since years of guilt, and of disguise, 
Have steel’d her brow, and arm’d her eyes!

No more of virgin terror speaks        
The blood that mantles in her cheeks; 
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, 
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;

And I the cause-for whom were given 
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!- 
Would,’ thought he, as the picture grows, 
‘I on its stalk had left the rose!

Oh, why should man’s success remove 
The very charms that wake his love!- 
Her convent’s peaceful solitude          
Is now a prison harsh and rude;

And, pent within the narrow cell, 
How will her spirit chafe and swell! 
How brook the stern monastic laws! 
The penance how-and I the cause!- 

Vigil, and scourge-perchance even worse!’- 
And twice he rose to cry, ‘To horse!’

And twice his Sovereign’s mandate came, 
Like damp upon a kindling flame; 
And twice he thought, ‘Gave I not charge 
She should be safe, though not at large?

They durst not, for their island, shred 
One golden ringlet from her head.’

XVIII.

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove 
Repentance and reviving love,            
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway 
I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey, 
Their Host the Palmer’s speech had heard, 
And, talkative, took up the word:

  ‘Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray      
From Scotland’s simple land away, 
  To visit realms afar, 
Full often learn the art to know 
Of future weal, or future woe, 
  By word, or sign, or star;     

Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
Not far from hence;-if fathers old 
Aright our hamlet legend told.’-

These broken words the menials move, 
(For marvels still the vulgar love,)         
And, Marmion giving license cold, 
His tale the host thus gladly told:-