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?
XXII.
‘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.
XXIII.
‘Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’d To evil power, I claim thine aid,
