O, Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; 905 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: 910 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; 915 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, 920 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 .Grey . 925 Who . built . this . cross . and . well . She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A Monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought 930 To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. XXXI. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave-- 'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935 '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 940 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!'-- 'Alas!' she said, 'the while,-- O, think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She--died at Holy Isle.'-- 945 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 950 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, 955 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! 960 A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling Monk. XXXII.