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.--
O, 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.
With fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,
"_In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the
dying!_"
So the notes rung:--
"Avoid thee, Fiend!--with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!--
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:
O, think on faith and bliss!--
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.
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