Читать книгу Marmion - Вальтер Скотт - Страница 7

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke

  Round Norham Castle roll’d,

When all the loud artillery spoke,

With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,

As Marmion left the Hold, –                                   5

It curl’d not Tweed alone, that breeze,

For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

  It freshly blew, and strong,

Where, from high Whitby’s cloister’d pile,

Bound to Saint Cuthbert’s Holy Isle,                        10

  It bore a bark along.

Upon the gale she stoop’d her side,

And bounded o’er the swelling tide,

  As she were dancing home;

The merry seamen laugh’d, to see                            15

Their gallant ship so lustily

Furrow the green sea-foam.

Much joy’d they in their honour’d freight;

For, on the deck, in chair of state,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,                          20

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

‘Twas sweet, to see these holy maids,

Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,

  Their first flight from the cage,

How timid, and how curious too,                            25

For all to them was strange and new,

And all the common sights they view,

  Their wonderment engage.

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,

  With many a benedicite;                                  30

One at the rippling surge grew pale,

  And would for terror pray;

Then shriek’d, because the seadog, nigh,

His round black head, and sparkling eye,

  Rear’d o’er the foaming spray;                            35

And one would still adjust her veil,

Disorder’d by the summer gale,

Perchance lest some more worldly eye

Her dedicated charms might spy;

Perchance, because such action graced                      40

Her fair-turn’d arm and slender waist.

Light was each simple bosom there,

Save two, who ill might pleasure share, -

The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.

The Abbess was of noble blood,                              45

But early took the veil and hood,

Ere upon life she cast a look,

Or knew the world that she forsook.

Fair too she was, and kind had been

As she was fair, but ne’er had seen                        50

For her a timid lover sigh,

Nor knew the influence of her eye.

Love, to her ear, was but a name,

Combined with vanity and shame;

Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all                    55

Bounded within the cloister wall:

The deadliest sin her mind could reach

Was of monastic rule the breach;

And her ambition’s highest aim

To emulate Saint Hilda’s fame.                              60

For this she gave her ample dower,

To raise the convent’s eastern tower;

For this, with carving rare and quaint,

She deck’d the chapel of the saint,

And gave the relic-shrine of cost,                          65

With ivory and gems emboss’d.

The poor her Convent’s bounty blest,

The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule

Reform’d on Benedictine school;                            70

Her cheek was pale, her form was spare:

Vigils, and penitence austere,

Had early quench’d the light of youth,

But gentle was the dame, in sooth;

Though, vain of her religious sway,                        75

She loved to see her maids obey,

Yet nothing stern was she in cell,

And the nuns loved their Abbess well.

Sad was this voyage to the dame;

Summon’d to Lindisfame, she came,                          80

There, with Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot old,

And Tynemouth’s Prioress, to hold

A chapter of Saint Benedict,

For inquisition stern and strict,

On two apostates from the faith,                            85

And, if need were, to doom to death.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare,

Save this, that she was young and fair;

As yet a novice unprofess’d,

Lovely and gentle, but distress’d.                          90

She was betroth’d to one now dead,

Or worse, who had dishonour’d fled.

Her kinsmen bade her give her hand

To one, who loved her for her land:

Herself, almost broken-hearted now,                        95

Was bent to take the vestal vow,

And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom,

Her blasted hopes and wither’d bloom.

She sate upon the galley’s prow,

And seem’d to mark the waves below;                        100

Nay, seem’d, so fix’d her look and eye,

To count them as they glided by.

She saw them not-‘twas seeming all-

Far other scene her thoughts recall, -

A sun-scorch’d desert, waste and bare,                    105

Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur’d there;

There saw she, where some careless hand

O’er a dead corpse had heap’d the sand,

To hide it till the jackals come,

To tear it from the scanty tomb. –                         110

See what a woful look was given,

As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

Lovely, and gentle, and distress’d-

These charms might tame the fiercest breast:

Harpers have sung, and poets told,                        115

That he, in fury uncontroll’d,

The shaggy monarch of the wood,

Before a virgin, fair and good,

Hath pacified his savage mood.

But passions in the human frame,                          120

Oft put the lion’s rage to shame:

And jealousy, by dark intrigue,

With sordid avarice in league,

Had practised with their bowl and knife,

Against the mourner’s harmless life.                      125

This crime was charged ‘gainst those who lay

Prison’d in Cuthbert’s islet grey.

And now the vessel skirts the strand

Of mountainous Northumberland;

Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise,                130

And catch the nuns’ delighted eyes.

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,

And Tynemouth’s priory and bay;

They mark’d, amid her trees, the hall

Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;                                  135

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods

Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

They pass’d the tower of Widderington,

Mother of many a valiant son;

At Coquet-isle their beads they tell                      140

To the good Saint who own’d the cell;

Then did the Alne attention claim,

And Warkworth, proud of Percy’s name;

And next, they cross’d themselves, to hear

The whitening breakers sound so near,                      145

There, boiling through the rocks, they roar,

On Dunstanborough’s cavern’d shore;

Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark’d they there,

King Ida’s castle, huge and square,

From its tall rock look grimly down,                      150

And on the swelling ocean frown;

Then from the coast they bore away,

And reach’d the Holy Island’s bay.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,

And girdled in the Saint’s domain:                        155

For, with the flow and ebb, its style

Varies from continent to isle;

Dry-shod, o’er sands, twice every day,

The pilgrims to the shrine find way;

Twice every day, the waves efface                          160

Of staves and sandall’d feet the trace.

As to the port the galley flew,

Higher and higher rose to view

The Castle with its battled walls,

The ancient Monastery’s halls,                            165

A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,

Placed on the margin of the isle.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown’d,

With massive arches broad and round,

  That rose alternate, row and row,                        170

  On ponderous columns, short and low,

    Built ere the art was known,

  By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,

  The arcades of an alley’d walk

    To emulate in stone.                                  175

On the deep walls, the heathen Dane

Had pour’d his impious rage in vain;

And needful was such strength to these,

Exposed to the tempestuous seas,

Scourged by the winds’ eternal sway,                      180

Open to rovers fierce as they,

Which could twelve hundred years withstand

Winds, waves, and northern pirates’ hand.

Not but that portions of the pile,

Rebuilded in a later style,                                185

Show’d where the spoiler’s hand had been;

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen

Had worn the pillar’s carving quaint,

And moulder’d in his niche the saint,

And rounded, with consuming power,                        190

The pointed angles of each tower;

Yet still entire the Abbey stood,

Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.

Soon as they near’d his turrets strong,

The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song,                    195

And with the sea-wave and the wind,

Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,

  And made harmonious close;

Then, answering from the sandy shore,

Half-drown’d amid the breakers’ roar,                      200

  According chorus rose:

Down to the haven of the Isle,

The monks and nuns in order file,

  From Cuthbert’s cloisters grim;

Banner, and cross, and relics there,                      205

To meet Saint Hilda’s maids, they bare;

And, as they caught the sounds on air,

  They echoed back the hymn.

The islanders, in joyous mood,

Rush’d emulously through the flood,                        210

  To hale the bark to land;

Conspicuous by her veil and hood,

Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,

  And bless’d them with her hand.

Suppose we now the welcome said,                          215

Suppose the Convent banquet made:

  All through the holy dome,

Through cloister, aisle, and gallery,

Wherever vestal maid might pry,

No risk to meet unhallow’d eye,                            220

  The stranger sisters roam:

Till fell the evening damp with dew,

And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,

For there, even summer night is chill.

Then, having stray’d and gazed their fill,                225

  They closed around the fire;

And all, in turn, essay’d to paint

The rival merits of their saint,

  A theme that ne’er can tire

A holy maid; for, be it known,                            230

That their saint’s honour is their own.

Then Whitby’s nuns exulting told,

How to their house three Barons bold

  Must menial service do;

While horns blow out a note of shame,                      235

And monks cry ‘Fye upon your name!

In wrath, for loss of silvan game,

  Saint Hilda’s priest ye slew.’-

‘This, on Ascension-day, each year,

While labouring on our harbour-pier,                      240

Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.’-

They told how in their convent-cell

A Saxon princess once did dwell,

  The lovely Edelfled;

And how, of thousand snakes, each one                      245

Was changed into a coil of stone,

  When holy Hilda pray’d;

Themselves, within their holy bound,

Their stony folds had often found.

They told, how sea-fowls’ pinions fail,                    250

As over Whitby’s towers they sail,

And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,

They do their homage to the saint.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail,

To vie with these in holy tale;                            255

His body’s resting-place, of old,

How oft their patron changed, they told;

How, when the rude Dane burn’d their pile,

The monks fled forth from Holy Isle;

O’er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,                  260

From sea to sea, from shore to shore,

Seven years Saint Cuthbert’s corpse they bore.

  They rested them in fair Melrose;

    But though, alive, he loved it well,

  Not there his relics might repose;                      265

    For, wondrous tale to tell!

  In his stone-coffin forth he rides,

  A ponderous bark for river tides,

  Yet light as gossamer it glides,

    Downward to Tilmouth cell.                            270

Nor long was his abiding there,

Far southward did the saint repair;

Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw

His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

  Hail’d him with joy and fear;                            275

And, after many wanderings past,

He chose his lordly seat at last,

Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

  Looks down upon the Wear;

There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade,                      280

His relics are in secret laid;

  But none may know the place,

Save of his holiest servants three,

Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

  Who share that wondrous grace.                          285

Who may his miracles declare!

Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,

  (Although with them they led

Galwegians, wild as ocean’s gale,

And Lodon’s knights, all sheathed in mail,                290

And the bold men of Teviotdale,)

  Before his standard fled.

‘Twas he, to vindicate his reign,

Edged Alfred’s falchion on the Dane,

And turn’d the Conqueror back again,                      295

When, with his Norman bowyer band,

He came to waste Northumberland.

But fain Saint Hilda’s nuns would learn

If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame                    300

The sea-born beads that bear his name:

Such tales had Whitby’s fishers told,

And said they might his shape behold,

  And hear his anvil sound;

A deaden’d clang, – a huge dim form,                        305

Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm

  And night were closing round.

But this, as tale of idle fame,

The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

While round the fire such legends go,                      310

Far different was the scene of woe,

Where, in a secret aisle beneath,

Council was held of life and death.

  It was more dark and lone that vault,

    Than the worst dungeon cell:                          315

  Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,

    In penitence to dwell,

When he, for cowl and beads, laid down

The Saxon battle-axe and crown.

This den, which, chilling every sense                      320

  Of feeling, hearing, sight,

Was call’d the Vault of Penitence,

  Excluding air and light,

Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made

A place of burial for such dead,                          325

As, having died in mortal sin,

Might not be laid the church within.

‘Twas now a place of punishment;

Whence if so loud a shriek were sent,

  As reach’d the upper air,                                330

The hearers bless’d themselves, and said,

The spirits of the sinful dead

  Bemoan’d their torments there.

But though, in the monastic pile,

Did of this penitential aisle                              335

  Some vague tradition go,

Few only, save the Abbot, knew

Where the place lay; and still more few

Were those, who had from him the clew

  To that dread vault to go.                              340

Victim and executioner

Were blindfold when transported there.

In low dark rounds the arches hung,

From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;

The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er,                  345

Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,

Were all the pavement of the floor;

The mildew-drops fell one by one,

With tinkling plash, upon the stone.

A cresset, in an iron chain,                              350

Which served to light this drear domain,

With damp and darkness seem’d to strive,

As if it scarce might keep alive;

And yet it dimly served to show

The awful conclave met below.                              355

There, met to doom in secrecy,

Were placed the heads of convents three:

All servants of Saint Benedict,

The statutes of whose order strict

  On iron table lay;                                      360

In long black dress, on seats of stone,

Behind were these three judges shown

  By the pale cresset’s ray:

The Abbess of Saint Hilda’s, there,

Sat for a space with visage bare,                          365

Until, to hide her bosom’s swell,

And tear-drops that for pity fell,

  She closely drew her veil:

Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,

By her proud mien and flowing dress,                      370

Is Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress,

  And she with awe looks pale:

And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight

Has long been quench’d by age’s night,

Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,                            375

Nor ruth, nor mercy’s trace, is shown,

  Whose look is hard and stern, -

Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot is his style;

For sanctity call’d, through the isle,

The Saint of Lindisfarne.                                  380

Before them stood a guilty pair;

But, though an equal fate they share,

Yet one alone deserves our care.

Her sex a page’s dress belied;

The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,                      385

Obscured her charms, but could not hide.

  Her cap down o’er her face she drew;

    And, on her doublet breast,

She tried to hide the badge of blue,

    Lord Marmion’s falcon crest.                          390

But, at the Prioress’ command,

A Monk undid the silken band

  That tied her tresses fair,

And raised the bonnet from her head,

And down her slender form they spread,                    395

  In ringlets rich and rare.

Constance de Beverley they know,

Sister profess’d of Fontevraud,

Whom the Church number’d with the dead,

For broken vows, and convent fled.                        400

When thus her face was given to view,

(Although so pallid was her hue,

It did a ghastly contrast bear

To those bright ringlets glistering fair),

Her look composed, and steady eye,                        405

Bespoke a matchless constancy;

And there she stood so calm and pale,

That, bur her breathing did not fail,

And motion slight of eye and head,

And of her bosom, warranted                                410

That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,

You might have thought a form of wax,

Wrought to the very life, was there;

So still she was, so pale, so fair.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,                            415

  Such as does murder for a meed;

Who, but of fear, knows no control,

Because his conscience, sear’d and foul,

  Feels not the import of his deed;

One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires                    420

Beyond his own more brute desires.

Such tools the Tempter ever needs,

To do the savagest of deeds;

For them no vision’d terrors daunt,

Their nights no fancied spectres haunt,                    425

One fear with them, of all most base,

The fear of death, – alone finds place.

This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,

And ‘shamed not loud to moan and howl,

His body on the floor to dash,                            430

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;

While his mute partner, standing near,

Waited her doom without a tear.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,

Well might her paleness terror speak!                      435

For there were seen in that dark wall,

Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; -

Who enters at such grisly door,

Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more.

In each a slender meal was laid,                          440

Of roots, of water, and of bread:

By each, in Benedictine dress,

Two haggard monks stood motionless;

Who, holding high a blazing torch,

Show’d the grim entrance of the porch:                    445

Reflecting back the smoky beam,

The dark-red walls and arches gleam.

Hewn stones and cement were display’d,

And building tools in order laid.

These executioners were chose,                            450

As men who were with mankind foes,

And with despite and envy fired,

Into the cloister had retired;

  Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,

  Strove, by deep penance, to efface                      455

    Of some foul crime the stain;

  For, as the vassals of her will,

  Such men the Church selected still,

  As either joy’d in doing ill,

    Or thought more grace to gain,                        460

If, in her cause, they wrestled down

Feelings their nature strove to own.

By strange device were they brought there,

They knew not how, and knew not where.

And now that blind old Abbot rose,                        465

  To speak the Chapter’s doom,

On those the wall was to enclose,

  Alive, within the tomb;

But stopp’d, because that woful Maid,

Gathering her powers, to speak essay’d.                    470

Twice she essay’d, and twice in vain;

Her accents might no utterance gain;

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip

From her convulsed and quivering lip;

  Twixt each attempt all was so still,                    475

  You seem’d to hear a distant rill-

    ‘Twas ocean’s swells and falls;

  For though this vault of sin and fear

  Was to the sounding surge so near,

  A tempest there you scarce could hear,                  480

    So massive were the walls.

At length, an effort sent apart

The blood that curdled to her heart,

  And light came to her eye,

And colour dawn’d upon her cheek,                          485

A hectic and a flutter’d streak,

Like that left on the Cheviot peak,

  By Autumn’s stormy sky;

And when her silence broke at length,

Still as she spoke she gather’d strength,                  490

  And arm’d herself to bear.

It was a fearful sight to see

Such high resolve and constancy,

  In form so soft and fair.

‘I speak not to implore your grace,                        495

Well know I, for one minute’s space

  Successless might I sue:

Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;

For if a death of lingering pain,

To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,                      500

  Vain are your masses too. -

I listen’d to a traitor’s tale,

I left the convent and the veil;

For three long years I bow’d my pride,

A horse-boy in his train to ride;                          505

And well my folly’s meed he gave,

Who forfeited, to be his slave,

All here, and all beyond the grave. -

He saw young Clara’s face more fair,

He knew her of broad lands the heir,                      510

Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,

And Constance was beloved no more. -

  ‘Tis an old tale, and often told;

    But did my fate and wish agree,

  Ne’er had been read, in story old,                      515

  Of maiden true betray’d for gold,

    That loved, or was avenged, like me!

‘The King approved his favourite’s aim;

In vain a rival barr’d his claim,

  Whose fate with Clare’s was plight,                      520

For he attaints that rival’s fame

With treason’s charge-and on they came,

  In mortal lists to fight.

    Their oaths are said,

    Their prayers are pray’d,                              525

    Their lances in the rest are laid,

  They meet in mortal shock;

And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,

Shout “Marmion, Marmion I to the sky,

  De Wilton to the block!”                                530

Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide

When in the lists two champions ride,

  Say, was Heaven’s justice here?

When, loyal in his love and faith,

Wilton found overthrow or death,                          535

  Beneath a traitor’s spear?

How false the charge, how true he fell,

This guilty packet best can tell.’-

Then drew a packet from her breast,

Paused, gather’d voice, and spoke the rest.                540

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.’

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.

An hundred winding steps convey

That conclave to the upper day;                            610

But, ere they breathed the fresher air,

They heard the shriekings of despair,

  And many a stifled groan:

With speed their upward way they take,

(Such speed as age and fear can make,)                    615

And cross’d themselves for terror’s sake,

  As hurrying, tottering on,

Even in the vesper’s heavenly tone,

They seem’d to hear a dying groan,

And bade the passing knell to toll                        620

For welfare of a parting soul.

Slow o’er the midnight wave it swung,

Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;

To Warkworth cell the echoes roll’d,

His beads the wakeful hermit told,                        625

The Bamborough peasant raised his head,

But slept ere half a prayer he said;

So far was heard the mighty knell,

The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,

Spread his broad nostril to the wind,                      630

Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch’d him down beside the hind,

And quaked among the mountain fern,

To hear that sound, so dull and stern.