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.
XXIV.
‘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!’-
XXV.
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:-
XXVI.
‘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 alclass="underline"
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;
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye;
De Wilton, erst of Aberley,
The self-same thundering voice did say.-
But then another spoke:
‘Thy fatal summons I deny,
And thine infernal Lord defy,
Appealing me to Him on high,
Who burst the sinner’s yoke.’
At that dread accent, with a scream,
Parted the pageant like a dream,
The summoner was gone.
Prone on her face the Abbess fell,
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;
Her nuns came, startled by the yell,
And found her there alone.
She mark’d not, at the scene aghast,
What time, or how, the Palmer pass’d.
XXVII.
Shift we the scene.-The camp doth move,
Dun-Edin’s streets are empty now,
Save when, for weal of those they love,
To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,
The tottering child, the anxious fair,
The grey-hair’d sire, with pious care,
To chapels and to shrines repair-
Where is the Palmer now? and where
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?-
Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair
They journey in thy charge:
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,
The Palmer still was with the band;
Angus, like Lindesay, did command,
That none should roam at large.
But in that Palmer’s altered mien
A wondrous change might now be seen;
Freely he spoke of war,
Of marvels wrought by single hand,
When lifted for a native land;
And still look’d high, as if he plann’d
Some desperate deed afar.