XXII.

“His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain, That while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched him with a beverage rare; His words no faith could gain. With Clare alone he credence won, Who, rather than wed Marmion, Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair, To give our house her livings fair, And die a vestal vot’ress there. The impulse from the earth was given, But bent her to the paths of heaven. A purer heart, a lovelier maid, Ne’er sheltered her in Whitby’s shade, No, not since Saxon Edelfled: Only one trace of earthly strain, That for her lover’s loss She cherishes a sorrow vain, And murmurs at the cross. And then her heritage;—it goes Along the banks of Tame; Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, In meadows rich the heifer lows, The falconer and huntsman knows Its woodlands for the game. Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, And I, her humble vot’ress here, Should do a deadly sin, Her temple spoiled before mine eyes, If this false Marmion such a prize By my consent should win; Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn That Clare shall from our house be torn; And grievous cause have I to fear Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.