XXXII.

“Submit we, then, to force,” said Clare, “But let this barbarous lord despair His purposed aim to win; Let him take living, land, and life; But to be Marmion’s wedded wife In me were deadly sin: And if it be the king’s decree That I must find no sanctuary In that inviolable dome Where even a homicide might come And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, The kinsmen of the dead; Yet one asylum is my own Against the dreaded hour— A low, a silent, and a lone, Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there. Mother, your blessing, and in prayer Remember your unhappy Clare!” Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows Kind blessings many a one: Weeping and wailing loud arose Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes Of every simple nun. His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. Then took the squire her rein, And gently led away her steed, And, by each courteous word and deed, To cheer her strove in vain.