Judge how De Wilton’s fury burn’d! 
For in his packet there were laid 600
Letters that claim’d disloyal aid,
And proved King Henry’s cause betray’d. 
His fame, thus blighted, in the field
He strove to clear, by spear and shield;—­
To clear his fame in vain he strove, 605
For wondrous are His ways above! 
Perchance some form was unobserved;
Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved;
Else how could guiltless champion quail,
Or how the blessed ordeal fail? 610

XXII.

’His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doom’d to suffer law,
  Repentant, own’d in vain,
That, while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair, 615
Had drench’d 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, 620
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, 625
Ne’er shelter’d 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, 630
    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, 635
  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, 640
Her temple spoil’d 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; 645
And grievous cause have I to fear,
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

XXIII.

’Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’d
To evil power, I claim thine aid,
  By every step that thou hast trod 650
To holy shrine and grotto dim,
By every martyr’s tortured limb,
By angel, saint, and seraphim,
And by the Church of God! 
For mark:—­When Wilton was betray’d, 655
And with his squire forged letters laid,
She was, alas! that sinful maid,
  By whom the deed was done,—­
Oh! shame and horror to be said! 
  She was a perjured nun! 660
No clerk in all the land, like her,
Traced quaint and varying character.