To which, as common to each home,

At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night, in secret, there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.

The moon among the clouds rode high,
And all the city hum was by.

Upon the street, where late before

Did din of war and warriors roar,
You might have heard a pebble fall,

A beetle hum, a cricket sing,

An owlet flap his boding wing

On Giles's steeple tall.

The antique buildings, climbing high,

Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,

Were here wrapt deep in shade;

There on their brows the moon-beam broke, Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements play'd.

And other light was none to see,

Save torches gliding far,

Before some chieftain of degree,
Who left the royal revelry

To bowne him for the war.

A solemn scene the Abbess chose ;

A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

XXI.

"O, holy Palmer!" she began,—

"For sure he must be sainted man,

Whose blessed feet have trode the ground

Where the Redeemer's tomb is found;

For his dear Church's sake, my tale
Attend, nor deem of light avail,

Though I must speak of worldly love,-
How vain to those who wed above!—
De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd
Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood;

(Idle it were of Whitby's dame,

To say of that same blood I came ;)

And once, when jealous rage was high,

Lord Marmion said despiteously,

Wilton was traitor in his heart,

And had made league with Martin Swart,*
When he came here on Simnel's part;

And only cowardice did restrain

His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain,—
And down he threw his glove :-the thing
Was tried, as wont, before the king;
Where frankly did De Wilton own,

That Swart in Guelders he had known;

And that between them then there went
Some scroll of courteous compliment.

For this he to his castle sent;

But when his messenger return'd,

Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd!
For in his packet there were laid

* A German general, who commanded the auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and killed at Stokefield.

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,

For wonderous 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?

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,

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,
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,
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,

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,

The falconer, and huntsman, knows
Its woodlands for the game.

Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,

And I, her humble vot'ress here,