Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stooped his brow to lave—
“Is it the hand of Clare,” he said,
“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;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!”
“Alas!” she said, “the while,
Oh, think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal;
She—died at Holy Isle.”
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
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,
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!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.”
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk
Supported by the trembling monk.
