Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave--
'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935
'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 940
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.'-- 945
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 950
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, 955
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! 960
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.'
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.