His courser would he feed and stroke,
And, tucking up his sable frocke,
Would first his mettle bold provoke,
Then soothe or quell his pride.
Old Hubert said, that never one
He saw, except Lord Marmion,
A steed so fairly ride.
XXVIII.
Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,
By Eustace govern’d fair,
A troop escorting Hilda’s Dame,
With all her nuns, and Clare.
No audience had Lord Marmion sought;
Ever he fear’d to aggravate
Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;
And safer ‘twas, he thought,
To wait till, from the nuns removed,
The influence of kinsmen loved,
And suit by Henry’s self approved,
Her slow consent had wrought.
His was no flickering flame, that dies
Unless when fann’d by looks and sighs,
And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;
He long’d to stretch his wide command
O’er luckless Clara’s ample land:
Besides, when Wilton with him vied,
Although the pang of humbled pride
The place of jealousy supplied,
Yet conquest, by that meanness won
He almost loath’d to think upon,
Led him, at times, to hate the cause,
Which made him burst through honour’s laws.
If e’er he loved, ‘twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone.
XXIX.
And now, when close at hand they saw
North Berwick’s town, and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while,
Before a venerable pile,
Whose turrets view’d, afar,
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle,
The ocean’s peace or war.
At tolling of a bell, forth came
The convent’s venerable Dame,
And pray’d Saint Hilda’s Abbess rest
With her, a loved and honour’d guest,
Till Douglas should a bark prepare
To wait her back to Whitby fair.
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,
And thank’d the Scottish Prioress;
And tedious were to tell, I ween,
The courteous speech that pass’d between.
O’erjoy’d the nuns their palfreys leave;
But when fair Clara did intend,
Like them, from horseback to descend,
Fitz-Eustace said,-’I grieve,
Fair lady, grieve e’en from my heart,
Such gentle company to part;-
Think not discourtesy,
But lords’ commands must be obey’d;
And Marmion and the Douglas said,
That you must wend with me.
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,
Which to the Scottish Earl he show’d,
Commanding, that, beneath his care,
Without delay, you shall repair
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.’
XXX.
The startled Abbess loud exclaim’d;
But she, at whom the blow was aim’d,
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead,-
She deem’d she heard her death-doom read.
‘Cheer thee, my child!’ the Abbess said,
‘They dare not tear thee from my hand,
To ride alone with armed band.’-
‘Nay, holy mother, nay,’
Fitz-Eustace said, ‘the lovely Clare
Will be in Lady Angus’ care,
In Scotland while we stay;
And, when we move, an easy ride
Will bring us to the English side,
Female attendance to provide
Befitting Gloster’s heir;
Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord,
By slightest look, or act, or word,
To harass Lady Clare.
Her faithful guardian he will be,
Nor sue for slightest courtesy
That e’en to stranger falls,
Till he shall place her, safe and free,
Within her kinsman’s halls.’
He spoke, and blush’d with earnest grace;
His faith was painted on his face,
And Clare’s worst fear relieved.
The Lady Abbess loud exclaim’d
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed,
Entreated, threaten’d, grieved;
To martyr, saint, and prophet pray’d,
Against Lord Marmion inveigh’d,
And call’d the Prioress to aid,
To curse with candle, bell, and book.
Her head the grave Cistertian shook:
‘The Douglas, and the King,’ she said,
‘In their commands will be obey’d;
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon hall.’
XXXI.
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,
Assumed her wonted state again,
For much of state she had,-
Composed her veil, and raised her head,
And-‘Bid,’ in solemn voice she said,
‘Thy master, bold and bad,
The records of his house turn o’er,
And, when he shall there written see,
That one of his own ancestry
Drove the monks forth of Coventry,
Bid him his fate explore!
Prancing in pride of earthly trust,
His charger hurl’d him to the dust,
And, by a base plebeian thrust,
He died his band before.
God judge ‘twixt Marmion and me;
He is a Chief of high degree,
And I a poor recluse;
Yet oft, in holy writ, we see
Even such weak minister as me
May the oppressor bruise:
For thus, inspired, did Judith slay
The mighty in his sin,
And Jael thus, and Deborah’-
Here hasty Blount broke in: