Whom the Church number’d with the dead,
For broken vows, and convent fled. 400
XXI.
When thus her face was given to view,
(Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glistering fair),
Her look composed, and steady eye, 405
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, bur her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted 410
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.
XXII.
Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415
Such as does murder for a meed;
Who, but of fear, knows no control,
Because his conscience, sear’d and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed;
One, whose brute-feeling ne’er aspires 420
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs,
To do the savagest of deeds;
For them no vision’d terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death,-alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And ‘shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash, 430
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.
XXIII.
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak! 435
For there were seen in that dark wall,
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;-
Who enters at such grisly door,
Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid, 440
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Show’d the grim entrance of the porch: 445
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display’d,
And building tools in order laid.
XXIV.
These executioners were chose, 450
As men who were with mankind foes,
And with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired;
Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455
Of some foul crime the stain;
For, as the vassals of her will,
Such men the Church selected still,
As either joy’d in doing ill,
Or thought more grace to gain, 460
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own.
By strange device were they brought there,
They knew not how, and knew not where.
XXV.
And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465
To speak the Chapter’s doom,
On those the wall was to enclose,
Alive, within the tomb;
But stopp’d, because that woful Maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essay’d. 470
Twice she essay’d, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain;
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quivering lip;
Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475
You seem’d to hear a distant rill-
’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480
So massive were the walls.
XXVI.
At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart,
And light came to her eye,
And colour dawn’d upon her cheek, 485
A hectic and a flutter’d streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,
By Autumn’s stormy sky;
And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gather’d strength, 490
And arm’d herself to bear.
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,
In form so soft and fair.
XXVII.
‘I speak not to implore your grace, 495
Well know I, for one minute’s space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500
Vain are your masses too.-
I listen’d to a traitor’s tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bow’d my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505
And well my folly’s meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.-
He saw young Clara’s face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.-
’Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read, in story old, 515
Of maiden true betray’d for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me!