O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou! Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the baron’s casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel’s side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain’s side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?—behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above some half-worn letters say, “Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Gray . Who . built . this . cross . and . well . ” She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion’s head; A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead. XXXI. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave— “Is it the hand of Clare,” he said, “Or injured Constance, bathes my head?” Then, as remembrance rose— “Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!” “Alas!” she said, “the while, Oh, think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She—died at Holy Isle.” Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide In torrents, from his wounded side. “Then it was truth,” he said—“I knew That the dark presage must be true. I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone Might bribe him for delay. It may not be!—this dizzy trance— Curse on yon base marauder’s lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand.” Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk Supported by the trembling monk. XXXII.