'Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun. "Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried, "Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 545 If she were sworn a nun." One way remain'd--the King's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land! I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd For Clara and for me: 550 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby's shrine repair, And, by his drugs, my rival fair A saint in heaven should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555 Whose cowardice has undone us both. 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. 560 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, This packet, to the King convey'd, Had given him to the headsman's stroke, Although my heart that instant broke.-- Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565 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! 570 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! 575 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; 580 Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.' XXXII. Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 585 Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seem'd to rise more high; Her voice, despair's wild energy 590 Had given a tone of prophecy. Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listen'd for the avenging storm; 595 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; 600 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 605 The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery. XXXIII.