XXX. “And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to assure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. Had fortune my last hope betrayed, This packet, to the King conveyed, Had given him to the headsman’s stroke, Although my heart that instant broke. Now, men of death, work forth your will, For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last. XXXI. “Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! If Marmion’s late remorse should wake, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends! The altars quake, the crosier bends, The ire of a despotic king Rides forth upon destruction’s wing; Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, Burst open to the sea-winds’ sweep; Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.” XXXII. Fixed was her look, and stern her air: Back from her shoulders streamed her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Her voice, despair’s wild energy Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate: With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspirèd form, And listened for the avenging storm; The judges felt the victim’s dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot’s doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:— “Sister, let thy sorrows cease; Sinful brother, part in peace!” From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb, Paced forth the judges three, Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery. XXXIII.