CANTO VI.
179
Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray .
925 for . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Grey .
Who . built . this . cross . and . well .
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
930A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray .
925 for . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Grey .
Who . built . this . cross . and . well .
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
930A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
XXXI.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave—
935'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.
940Short 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;
945 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.
950'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!
955For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave—
935'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.
940Short 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;
945 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.
950'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!
955For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
