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a varied scene, Unkindness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep marked, like all below, With checkered shades of joy and woe; Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Marked cities lost, and empires changed, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men; Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fevered the progress of these years, Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem The recollection of a dream, So still we glide down to the sea Of fathomless eternity. Even now it scarcely seems a day, Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, That now, November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, Have donned their wintry shrouds again: And mountain dark, and flooded mead, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly; The shepherd, who in summer sun, Had something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, The features traced of hill and glen; - He who, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessened tide; - At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain. When red hath set the beamless sun, Through heavy vapours dark and dun; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half-asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, Against the casement's tinkling pane; The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers, and he guides, To open downs, and mountain-sides, Where, fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast that whistles o'er the fells, Stiffens his locks to icicles; Oft he looks back, while, streaming far, His cottage window seems a star - Loses its feeble gleam,—and then Turns patient to the blast again, And, facing to the tempest's sweep, Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, Benumbing death is in the gale: His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, Close to the hut, no more his own, Close to the aid he sought in vain, The morn may find the stiffened swain: The widow sees, at dawning pale, His orphans raise their feeble wail: And, close beside him, in the snow, Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, Couches upon his master's breast, And licks his cheek to break his rest. Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes tuned on high, To Marion of the blithesome eye; His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed? Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage, Against the winter of our age: As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy; But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Called ancient Priam forth to arms. Then happy those, since each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain, Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given; Whose lenient sorrows find relief, Whose joys are chastened by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou, of late, wert doomed to twine - Just when thy bridal hour was by - The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her sire had smiled, And blessed the union of his child, When Love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe Affection's filial tear. Nor did the actions next his end, Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold - Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honoured urn Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried, Pour at his name a bitter tide; And frequent falls the grateful dew, For benefits the world ne'er knew. If mortal charity dare claim The Almighty's attributed name, Inscribe above his mouldering clay, "The widow's shield, the orphan's stay." Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem My verse intrudes on this sad theme; For sacred was the pen that wrote, "Thy father's friend forget thou not:" And grateful title may I plead, For many a kindly word and deed, To bring my tribute to his grave:- 'Tis little—but 'tis all I have. To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing naught—and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do - The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way, Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely labouring to portray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; I spelling o'er, with much delight, The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, ycleped the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions viewed, And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the Mayflower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossomed bough than we. And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When winter stript the summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear, The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl. Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more; And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, And one whose name I may not say - For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he - In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drowned the whistling wind. Mirth was within; and Care without Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene - Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. Such nights we've had; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day, or the drill, Seem less important now—yet still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain! And mark how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.
CANTO FOURTH.—THE CAMP.
I.
Eustace, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark. The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, And with their light and lively call, Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. Whistling they came, and free of heart, But soon their mood was changed; Complaint was heard on every part, Of something disarranged. Some clamoured loud for armour lost; Some brawled and wrangled with the host; "By Becket's bones," cried one, "I fear That some false Scot has stol'n my spear!" Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire, Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder, Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder, "Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all! Bevis lies dying in his stall: To Marmion who the plight dare tell, Of the good steed he loves so well?" Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw The charger panting on his straw; Till one who would seem wisest, cried, "What else but evil could betide, With that cursed Palmer for our guide? Better we had through mire and bush Been lantern-led by Friar Rush."
II.
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, Nor wholly understood, His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed; He knew Lord Marmion's mood. Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, And found deep plunged in gloomy thought, And did his tale display Simply, as if he knew of nought To cause such disarray. Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvelled at the wonders told - Passed them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse.
III.
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost Had reckoned with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, "Ill thou deserv'st thy hire," he said; "Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? Fairies have ridden him all the night, And left him in a foam! I trust that soon a conjuring band, With English cross, and blazing brand, Shall drive the devils from this land, To their infernal home: For in this haunted den, I trow, All night they trampled to and fro." The laughing host looked on the hire - "Gramercy, gentle southern squire, And if thou com'st among the rest, With Scottish broadsword to be blest, Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, And short the pang to undergo." Here stayed their talk; for Marmion Gave now the signal to set on. The Palmer showing forth the way, They journeyed all the morning day.
IV.
The greensward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood; A forest glade, which, varying still, Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed, till overhead A vaulted screen the branches made. "A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said, "Such as where errant-knights might see Adventures of high chivalry; Might meet some damsel flying fast, With hair unbound, and looks aghast; And smooth and level course were here, In her defence to break a spear. Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells; And oft, in such, the story tells, The damsel kind, from danger freed, Did grateful pay her champion's meed." He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind; Perchance to show his lore designed; For Eustace much had pored Upon a huge romantic tome, In the hall-window of his home, Imprinted at the antique dome Of Caxton, or De Worde, Therefore he spoke—but spoke in vain, For Marmion answered nought again.
V.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, In notes prolonged by wood and hill, Were heard to echo far: Each ready archer grasped his bow, But by the flourish soon they know, They breathed no point of war. Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, Lord Marmion's order speeds the band, Some opener ground to gain; And scarce a furlong had they rode, When thinner trees, receding, showed A little woodland plain. Just in that advantageous glade, The halting troop a line had made, As forth from the opposing shade Issued a gallant train.
VI.
First came the trumpets, at whose clang So late the forest echoes rang; On prancing steeds they forward pressed, With scarlet mantle, azure vest; Each at his trump a banner wore, Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: Heralds and pursuivants, by name Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, In painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing, Attendant on a king-at-arms, Whose hand the armorial truncheon held, That feudal strife had often quelled, When wildest its alarms.
VII.
He was a man of middle age; In aspect manly, grave, and sage, As on king's errand come; But in the glances of his eye, A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home; The flash of that satiric rage, Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume. From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast, Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, Embroidered round and round. The double tressure might you see, First by Achaius borne, The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, And gallant unicorn. So bright the king's armorial coat, That scarce the dazzled eye could note, In living colours, blazoned brave, The lion, which his title gave; A train, which well beseemed his state, But all unarmed, around him wait. Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-Arms!
VIII.
Down from his horse did Marmion spring, Soon as he saw the Lion-King; For well the stately baron knew To him such courtesy was due, Whom royal James himself had crowned, And on his temples placed the round Of Scotland's ancient diadem; And wet his brow with hallowed wine, And on his finger given to shine The emblematic gem. Their mutual greetings duly made, The Lion thus his message said:- "Though Scotland's king hath deeply swore Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, And strictly hath forbid resort From England to his royal court; Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name, And honours much his warlike fame, My liege hath deemed it shame, and lack Of courtesy, to turn him back: And, by his order, I, your guide, Must lodging fit and fair provide, Till finds King James meet time to see The flower of English chivalry."
IX.
Though inly chafed at this delay, Lord Marmion bears it as he may. The Palmer, his mysterious guide, Beholding thus his place supplied, Sought to take leave in vain: Strict was the Lion-King's command, That none, who rode in Marmion's band Should sever from the train: "England has here enow of spies In Lady Heron's witching eyes:" To Marchmount thus, apart, he said, But fair pretext to Marmion made. The right hand path they now decline, And trace against the stream the Tyne.
X.
At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assigned A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That castle rises on the steep Of the green vale of Tyne: And far beneath, where slow they creep, From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep, You hear her streams repine. The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows The builders' various hands: A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fired its foes, The vengeful Douglas bands.
XI.
Crichtoun! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep, Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort, Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honour or pretence, Quartered in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, Adorn thy ruined stair. Still rises unimpaired below, The courtyard's graceful portico; Above its cornice, row and row Of fair hewn facets richly show Their pointed diamond form, Though there but houseless cattle go To shield them from the storm. And, shuddering, still may we explore, Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy massy-more; Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.
XII.
Another aspect Crichtoun showed, As through its portal Marmion rode; But yet 'twas melancholy state Received him at the outer gate; For none were in the castle then, But women, boys, or aged men. With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame, To welcome noble Marmion came; Her son, a stripling twelve years old, Proffered the baron's rein to hold; For each man that could draw a sword Had marched that morning with their lord, Earl Adam Hepburn—he who died On Flodden, by his sovereign's side Long may his lady look in vain! She ne'er shall see his gallant train Come sweeping back through Crichtoun Dean. 'Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.
XIII.
And here two days did Marmion rest, With every rite that honour claims, Attended as the king's own guest; - Such the command of royal James, Who marshalled then his land's array, Upon the Borough Moor that lay. Perchance he would not foeman's eye Upon his gathering host should pry, Till full prepared was every band To march against the English land. Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise - Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece, And policies of war and peace.
XIV.
It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walked, And, by the slowly fading night, Of varying topics talked; And, unaware, the herald-bard Said, Marmion might his toil have spared, In travelling so far; For that a messenger from heaven In vain to James had counsel given Against the English war: And, closer questioned, thus he told A tale, which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enrolled: -
XV.
SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE.
"Of all the palaces so fair, Built for the royal dwelling, In Scotland far beyond compare, Linlithgow is excelling; And in its park, in jovial June, How sweet the merry linnet's tune, How blithe the blackbird's lay; The wild-buck bells from ferny brake, The coot dives merry on the lake; The saddest heart might pleasure take To see all nature gay. But June is, to our sovereign dear, The heaviest month in all the year: Too well his cause of grief you know, June saw his father's overthrow, Woe to the traitors, who could bring The princely boy against his king! Still in his conscience burns the sting. In offices as strict as Lent, King James's June is ever spent.
XVI.
"When last this ruthful .month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome The King, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chanters sung, the bells did toll, The bishop mass was saying - For now the year brought round again The day the luckless king was slain - In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt, With sackcloth-shirt and iron belt, And eyes with sorrow streaming; Around him, in their stalls of state, The Thistle's knight-companions sate, Their banners o'er them beaming. I too was there, and, sooth to tell, Bedeafened with the jangling knell, Was watching where the sunbeams fell, Through the stained casement gleaming; But, while I marked what next befell, It seemed as I were dreaming. Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white; His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair. Now, mock me not, when, good my lord, I pledged to you my knightly word, That, when I saw his placid grace. His simple majesty of face, His solemn bearing, and his pace So stately gliding on, Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint So just an image of the Saint, Who propped the Virgin in her faint - The loved Apostle John!
XVII.
"He stepped before the monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made: Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these he said, In a low voice—but never tone So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:- 'My mother sent me from afar, Sir King, to warn thee not to war - Woe waits on thine array; If war thou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: God keep thee as he may!' The wondering monarch seemed to seek For answer, and found none; And when he raised his head to speak, The monitor was gone. The marshal and myself had cast To stop him as he outward passed: But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, He vanished from our eyes, Like sunbeam on the billow cast, That glances but, and dies."
XVIII.
While Lindesay told his marvel strange, The twilight was so pale, He marked not Marmion's colour change, While listening to the tale; But, after a suspended pause, The baron spoke:- "Of Nature's laws So strong I held the force, That never superhuman cause Could e'er control their course; And, three days since, had judged your aim Was but to make your guest your game. But I have seen, since passed the Tweed, What much has changed my sceptic creed, And made me credit aught." He stayed, And seemed to wish his words unsaid: But, by that strong emotion pressed, Which prompts us to unload our breast, E'en when discovery's pain, To Lindesay did at length unfold The tale his village host had told, At Gifford, to his train. Nought of the Palmer says he there, And nought of Constance, or of Clare: The thoughts which broke his sleep, he seems To mention but as feverish dreams.
XIX.
"In vain," said he, "to rest I spread My burning limbs, and couched my head: Fantastic thoughts returned; And, by their wild dominion led, My heart within me burned. So sore was the delirious goad, I took my steed, and forth I rode, And, as the moon shone bright and cold, Soon reached the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I passed through, And halted, and my bugle blew. Methought an answer met my ear - Yet was the blast so low and drear, So hollow, and so faintly blown, It might be echo of my own.
XX.
"Thus judging, for a little space I listened, ere I left the place; But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they served me true, When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue, A mounted champion rise. I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, In single fight, and mixed affray, And ever, I myself may say, Have borne me as a knight; But when this unexpected foe Seemed starting from the gulf below, I care not though the truth I show, I trembled with affright; And as I placed in rest my spear, My hand so shook for very fear, I scarce could couch it right.
XXI.
"Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course—my charger fell; What could he 'gainst the shock of hell? I rolled upon the plain. High o'er my head, with threatening hand, The spectre took his naked brand - Yet did the worst remain: My dazzled eyes I upward cast - Not opening hell itself could blast Their sight, like what I saw! Full on his face the moonbeam strook - A face could never be mistook! I knew the stern vindictive look, And held my breath for awe. I saw the face of one who, fled To foreign climes, has long been dead - I well believe the last; For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare A human warrior, with a glare So grimly and so ghast. Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I prayed, The first time e'er I asked his aid, He plunged it in the sheath; And, on his courser mounting light, He seemed to vanish from my sight; The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath. 'Twere long to tell what cause I have To know his face, that met me there, Called by his hatred from the grave, To cumber upper air; Dead or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy."
XXII.
Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; Then, learned in story, 'gan recount Such chance had happed of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, With Brian Bulmer bold, And trained him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. "And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid, And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-trees shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromunchty, or Glenmore. And yet whate'er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain; For seldom hath such spirit power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin." Lord Marmion turned him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then pressed Sir David's hand - But nought at length in answer said, And here their farther converse stayed, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland's camp to take their way - Such was the King's command.
XXIII.
Early they took Dunedin's road, And I could trace each step they trode; Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, Lies on the path to me unknown. Much might it boast of storied lore; But, passing such digression o'er, Suffice it that their route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid, They passed the glen and scanty rill, And climbed the opposing bank, until They gained the top of Blackford Hill.
XXIV.
Blackford! on whose uncultured breast, Among the broom, and thorn, and whin, A truant-boy, I sought the nest, Or listed, as I lay at rest, While rose on breezes thin, The murmur of the city crowd, And, from his steeple jangling loud, Saint Giles's mingling din. Now, from the summit to the plain, Waves all the hill with yellow grain And o'er the landscape as I look, Nought do I see unchanged remain, Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. To me they make a heavy moan, Of early friendships past and gone.
XXV.
But different far the change has been, Since Marmion, from the crown Of Blackford, saw that martial scene Upon the bent so brown: Thousand pavilions, white as snow, Spread all the Borough Moor below, Upland, and dale, and down:- A thousand, did I say? I ween, Thousands on thousands there were seen, That chequered all the heath between The streamlet and the town; In crossing ranks extending far, Forming a camp irregular; Oft giving way, where still there stood Some relics of the old oak wood, That darkly huge did intervene, And tamed the glaring white with green: In these extended lines there lay A martial kingdom's vast array.
XXVI.
For from Hebudes, dark with rain, To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, And from the southern Redswire edge, To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge; From west to east, from south to north. Scotland sent all her warriors forth. Marmion might hear the mingled hum Of myriads up the mountain come; The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, And charger's shrilling neigh; And see the shifting lines advance While frequent flashed, from shield and lance, The sun's reflected ray.
XXVII.
Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare, To embers now the brands decayed, Where the night-watch their fires had made. They saw, slow rolling on the plain, Full many a baggage-cart and wain, And dire artillery's clumsy car, By sluggish oxen tugged to war; And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omened gift! the guns remain The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.
XXVIII.
Nor marked they less, where in the air A thousand streamers flaunted fair; Various in shape, device, and hue, Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square, Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there O'er the pavilions flew. Highest and midmost, was descried The royal banner floating wide; The staff, a pine-tree strong and straight, Pitched deeply in a massive stone - Which still in memory is shown - Yet bent beneath the standard's weight Whene'er the western wind unrolled, With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, And gave to view the dazzling field, Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield, The ruddy lion ramped in gold.
XXIX.
Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright - He viewed it with a chief's delight - Until within him burned his heart And lightning from his eye did part, As on the battle-day; Such glance did falcon never dart, When stooping on his prey. "Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said, Thy king from warfare to dissuade Were but a vain essay: For, by Saint George, were that host mine, Not power infernal, nor divine. Should once to peace my soul incline, Till I had dimmed their armour's shine In glorious battle-fray!" Answered the bard, of milder mood - "Fair is the sight—and yet 'twere good That kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has blessed, 'Tis better to sit still at rest, Than rise, perchance to fall."
XXX.
Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o'er it go, And mark the distant city glow With gloomy splendour red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston Bay and Berwick Law: And, broad between them rolled, The gallant Frith the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, And raised his bridle hand, And making demivolte in air, Cried, "Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land!" The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.
XXXI.
Thus while they looked, a flourish proud, Where mingled trump and clarion loud, And fife and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, And war-pipe with discordant cry, And cymbal clattering to the sky, Making wild music bold and high, Did up the mountain come; The whilst the bells, with distant chime, Merrily tolled the hour of prime, And thus the Lindesay spoke: "Thus clamour still the war-notes when The King to mass his way has ta'en, Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, Or chapel of Saint Rocque. To you they speak of martial fame; But me remind of peaceful game, When blither was their cheer, Thrilling in Falkland woods the air, In signal none his steed should spare, But strive which foremost might repair To the downfall of the deer.
XXXII.
"Nor less," he said, "when looking forth, I view yon empress of the North Sit on her hilly throne; Her palace's imperial bowers, Her castle, proof to hostile powers, Her stately halls and holy towers - Nor less," he said, "I moan, To think what woe mischance may bring, And how these merry bells may ring The death-dirge of our gallant king; Or with the 'larum call The burghers forth to watch and ward, 'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard Dunedin's leaguered wall. But not for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought! Lord Marmion, I say nay: God is the guider of the field, He breaks the champion's spear and shield - But thou thyself shalt say, When joins yon host in deadly stowre, That England's dames must weep in bower, Her monks the death-mass sing; For never saw'st thou such a power Led on by such a king." And now, down winding to the plain, The barriers of the camp they gain, And there they made a stay. There stays the minstrel, till he fling His hand o'er every Border string, And fit his harp the pomp to sing, Of Scotland's ancient court and king, In the succeeding lay.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH. To GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ. Edinburgh.
When dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sunbeam throws, Upon the weary waste of snows, A cold and profitless regard, Like patron on a needy bard, When silvan occupation's done, And o'er the chimney rests the gun, And hang, in idle trophy, near, The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employed no more, Cumber our parlour's narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed Is long condemned to rest and feed; When from our snow-encircled home, Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, Since path is none, save that to bring The needful water from the spring; When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o'er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politican, crossed Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains Of carriers' snow-impeded wains; When such the country cheer, I come, Well pleased, to seek our city home; For converse, and for books, to change The Forest's melancholy range, And welcome, with renewed delight, The busy day and social night. Not here need my desponding rhyme Lament the ravages of time, As erst by Newark's riven towers, And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers. True—Caledonia's Queen is changed, Since on her dusky summit ranged, Within its steepy limits pent, By bulwark, line, and battlement, And flanking towers, and laky flood, Guarded and garrisoned she stood, Denying entrance or resort, Save at each tall embattled port; Above whose arch, suspended, hung Portcullis spiked with iron prong. That long is gone,—but not so long, Since, early closed, and opening late, Jealous revolved the studded gate, Whose task, from eve to morning tide, A wicket churlishly supplied. Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow, Dunedin! Oh, how altered now, When safe amid thy mountain court Thou sitt'st, like empress at her sport, And liberal, unconfined, and free, Flinging thy white arms to the sea, For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower, That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, Thou gleam'st against the western ray Ten thousand lines of brighter day. Not she, the championess of old, In Spenser's magic tale enrolled, She for the charmed spear renowned, Which forced each knight to kiss the ground - Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, What time she was Malbecco's guest, She gave to flow her maiden vest; When from the corslet's grasp relieved, Free to the sight her bosom heaved; Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, Erst hidden by the aventayle; And down her shoulders graceful rolled Her locks profuse, of paly gold. They who whilom, in midnight fight, Had marvelled at her matchless might, No less her maiden charms approved, But looking liked, and liking loved. The sight could jealous pangs beguile, And charm Malbecco's cares a while; And he, the wandering squire of dames, Forgot his Columbella's claims, And passion, erst unknown, could gain The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; Nor durst light Paridel advance, Bold as he was, a looser glance. She charmed at once, and tamed the heart, Incomparable Britomarte! So thou, fair city! disarrayed Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, As stately seem'st, but lovelier far Than in that panoply of war. Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne Strength and security are flown; Still as of yore Queen of the North! Still canst thou send thy children forth. Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, Than now, in danger, shall be thine, Thy dauntless voluntary line; For fosse and turret proud to stand, Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. Thy thousands, trained to martial toil, Full red would stain their native soil, Ere from thy mural crown there fell The slightest knosp or pinnacle. And if it come—as come it may, Dunedin! that eventful day - Renowned for hospitable deed, That virtue much with Heaven may plead In patriarchal times whose care Descending angels deigned to share; That claim may wrestle blessings down On those who fight for the good town, Destined in every age to be Refuge of injured royalty; Since first, when conquering York arose, To Henry meek she gave repose, Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. Truce to these thoughts!—for, as they rise, How gladly I avert mine eyes, Bodings, or true or false, to change, For Fiction's fair romantic range, Or for tradition's dubious light, That hovers 'twixt the day and night: Dazzling alternately and dim, Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see Creation of my fantasy, Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, And make of mists invading men. Who love not more the night of June Than dull December's gloomy noon? The moonlight than the fog of frost? And can we say which cheats the most? But who shall teach my harp to gain A sound of the romantic strain, Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere Could win the royal Henry's ear, Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved The minstrel, and his lay approved? Who shall these lingering notes redeem, Decaying on Oblivion's stream; Such notes as from the Breton tongue Marie translated, Blondel sung? O! born Time's ravage to repair, And make the dying muse thy care; Who, when his scythe her hoary foe Was poising for the final blow, The weapon from his hand could wring, And break his glass, and shear his wing, And bid, reviving in his strain, The gentle poet live again; Thou, who canst give to lightest lay An unpedantic moral gay, Nor less the dullest theme bid flit On wings of unexpected wit; In letters as in life approved, Example honoured and beloved - Dear Ellis! to the bard impart A lesson of thy magic art, To win at once the head and heart - At once to charm, instruct, and mend, My guide, my pattern, and my friend! Such minstrel lesson to bestow Be long thy pleasing task—but, oh! No more by thy example teach - What few can practise, all can preach - With even patience to endure Lingering disease, and painful cure, And boast affliction's pangs subdued By mild and manly fortitude. Enough, the lesson has been given: Forbid the repetition, Heaven! Come, listen, then! for thou hast known, And loved the minstrel's varying tone, Who, like his Border sires of old, Waked a wild measure rude and bold, Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, With wonder heard the Northern strain. Come, listen! bold in thy applause, The bard shall scorn pedantic laws; And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, Irregularly traced and planned, But yet so glowing and so grand - So shall he strive in changeful hue, Field, feast, and combat to renew, And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, And all the pomp of chivalry.
CANTO FIFTH.—THE COURT.
I.
The train has left the hills of Braid; The barrier guard have open made (So Lindesay bade) the palisade, That closed the tented ground; Their men the warders backward drew, And carried pikes as they rode through Into its ample bound. Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, Upon the Southern band to stare. And envy with their wonder rose, To see such well-appointed foes; Such length of shaft, such mighty bows, So huge, that many simply thought, But for a vaunt such weapons wrought; And little deemed their force to feel, Through links of mail, and plates of steel, When rattling upon Flodden vale, The clothyard arrows flew like hail.
II.
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view Glance every line and squadron through; And much he marvelled one small land Could marshal forth such various band: For men-at-arms were here, Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, Like iron towers for strength and weight, On Flemish steeds of bone and height, With battle-axe and spear. Young knights and squires, a lighter train, Practised their chargers on the plain, By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, Each warlike feat to show, To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, The high curvet, that not in vain The sword sway might descend amain On foeman's casque below. He saw the hardy burghers there March armed, on foot, with faces bare, For vizor they wore none, Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; But burnished were their corslets bright, Their brigantines, and gorgets light, Like very silver shone. Long pikes they had for standing fight, Two-handed swords they wore, And many wielded mace of weight, And bucklers bright they bore.
III.
On foot the yeomen too, but dressed In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, With iron quilted well; Each at his back (a slender store) His forty days' provision bore, As feudal statutes tell. His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, A crossbow there, a hagbut here, A dagger-knife, and brand. Sober he seemed, and sad of cheer, As loth to leave his cottage dear, And march to foreign strand; Or musing who would guide his steer To till the fallow land. Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye Did aught of dastard terror lie; More dreadful far his ire Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name, In eager mood to battle came, Their valour like light straw on flame, A fierce but fading fire.
IV.
Not so the Borderer:- bred to war, He knew the battle's din afar, And joyed to hear it swell. His peaceful day was slothful ease; Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please Like the loud slogan yell. On active steed, with lance and blade, The light-armed pricker plied his trade - Let nobles fight for fame; Let vassals follow where they lead, Burghers to guard their townships bleed, But war's the Borderer's game. Their gain, their glory, their delight, To sleep the day, maraud the night O'er mountain, moss, and moor; Joyful to fight they took their way, Scarce caring who might win the day, Their booty was secure. These, as Lord Marmion's train passed by, Looked on at first with careless eye, Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know The form and force of English bow; But when they saw the lord arrayed In splendid arms and rich brocade, Each Borderer to his kinsman said:- "Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! Canst guess which road they'll homeward ride? Oh! could we but on Border side, By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide, Beset a prize so fair! That fangless Lion, too, their guide, Might chance to lose his glistering hide; Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied Could make a kirtle rare."
V.
Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, Of different language, form, and face - Avarious race of man; Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed, And wild and garish semblance made The chequered trews and belted plaid, And varying notes the war-pipes brayed To every varying clan; Wild through their red or sable hair Looked out their eyes with savage stare On Marmion as he passed; Their legs above the knee were bare; Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, And hardened to the blast; Of taller race, the chiefs they own Were by the eagle's plumage known. The hunted red-deer's undressed hide Their hairy buskins well supplied; The graceful bonnet decked their head; Back from their shoulders hung the plaid; A broadsword of unwieldy length, A dagger proved for edge and strength, A studded targe they wore, And quivers, bows, and shafts,—but, oh! Short was the shaft and weak the bow To that which England bore. The Islesmen carried at their backs The ancient Danish battle-axe. They raised a wild and wondering cry As with his guide rode Marmion by. Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, And, with their cries discordant mixed, Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt.
VI.
Thus through the Scottish camp they passed, And reached the city gate at last, Where all around, a wakeful guard, Armed burghers kept their watch and ward. Well had they cause of jealous fear, When lay encamped, in field so near, The Borderer and the Mountaineer. As through the bustling streets they go, All was alive with martial show; At every turn, with dinning clang, The armourer's anvil clashed and rang; Or toiled the swarthy smith, to wheel The bar that arms the charger's heel; Or axe or falchion to the side Of jarring grindstone was applied. Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace, Through street and lane and market-place Bore lance, or casque, or sword; While burghers, with important face, Described each new-come lord, Discussed his lineage, told his name, His following and his warlike fame. The Lion led to lodging meet, Which high o'erlooked the crowded street; There must the baron rest Till past the hour of vesper tide, And then to Holyrood must ride - Such was the king's behest. Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns A banquet rich, and costly wines, To Marmion and his train; And when the appointed hour succeeds, The baron dons his peaceful weeds, And following Lindesay as he leads, The palace-halls they gain.
VII.
Old Holyrood rung merrily That night with wassail, mirth, and glee: King James within her princely bower Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power, Summoned to spend the parting hour; For he had charged that his array Should southward march by break of day. Well loved that splendid monarch aye The banquet and the song, By day the tourney, and by night The merry dance, traced fast and light, The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, The revel loud and long. This feast outshone his banquets past: It was his blithest—and his last. The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, Cast on the Court a dancing ray; Here to the harp did minstrels sing; There ladies touched a softer string; With long-eared cap and motley vest The licensed fool retailed his jest; His magic tricks the juggler plied; At dice and draughts the gallants vied; While some, in close recess apart, Courted the ladies of their heart, Nor courted them in vain; For often in the parting hour Victorious Love asserts his power O'er coldness and disdain; And flinty is her heart, can view To battle march a lover true - Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, Nor own her share of pain.
VIII.
Through this mixed crowd of glee and game, The King to greet Lord Marmion came, While, reverent, all made room. An easy task it was, I trow, King James's manly form to know, Although, his courtesy to show, He doffed, to Marmion bending low, His broidered cap and plume. For royal was his garb and mien: His cloak, of crimson velvet piled. Trimmed with the fur of martin wild; His vest of changeful satin sheen The dazzled eye beguiled; His gorgeous collar hung adown, Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown, The thistle brave, of old renown; His trusty blade, Toledo right, Descended from a baldric bright: White were his buskins, on the heel His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; His bonnet, all of crimson fair, Was buttoned with a ruby rare: And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen A prince of such a noble mien.
IX.
The monarch's form was middle size: For feat of strength or exercise Shaped in proportion fair; And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye His short curled beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists: And, oh! he had that merry glance That seldom lady's heart resists. Lightly from fair to fair he flew, And loved to plead, lament, and sue - Suit lightly won and short-lived pain, For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. I said he joyed in banquet bower; But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange How suddenly his cheer would change, His look o'ercast and lower, If, in a sudden turn, he felt The pressure of his iron belt, That bound his breast in penance pain, In memory of his father slain. Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, Soon as the passing pang was o'er Forward he rushed, with double glee, Into the stream of revelry: Thus dim-seen object of affright Startles the courser in his flight, And half he halts, half springs aside; But feels the quickening spur applied, And, straining on the tightened rein, Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.
X.
O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway: To Scotland's Court she came, To be a hostage for her lord, Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, And with the king to make accord Had sent his lovely dame. Nor to that lady free alone Did the gay king allegiance own; For the fair Queen of France Sent him a turquoise ring and glove, And charged him, as her knight and love, For her to break a lance; And strike three strokes with Scottish brand, And march three miles on Southron land, And bid the banners of his band In English breezes dance. And thus for France's queen he drest His manly limbs in mailed vest; And thus admitted English fair His inmost counsels still to share: And thus, for both, he madly planned The ruin of himself and land! And yet, the sooth to tell, Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, From Margaret's eyes that fell, His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.
XI.
The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day, The war against her native soil, Her monarch's risk in battle broil; And in gay Holyrood the while Dame Heron rises with a smile Upon the harp to play. Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er The strings her fingers flew; And as she touched and tuned them all, Ever her bosom's rise and fall Was plainer given to view; For, all for heat, was laid aside Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitched her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring; And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say Her pretty oath, By yea and nay, She could not, would not, durst not play! At length upon the harp with glee, Mingled with arch simplicity, A soft yet lively air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung: -
XII.—LOCHINVAR.
Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone; So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword - For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word - "Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar - "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume: And the bride's-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung. "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
XIII.
The monarch o'er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer and more near, He whispered praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied, And ladies winked and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seemed to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, A real or feigned disdain: Familiar was the look, and told Marmion and she were friends of old. The king observed their meeting eyes With something like displeased surprise: For monarchs ill can rivals brook, E'en in a word or smile or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad Which Marmion's high commission showed: "Our Borders sacked by many a raid, Our peaceful liegemen robbed," he said; "On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta'en - Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne."
XIV.
He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the pageant viewed - I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder's dreary flat: Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, Its dungeons and its towers, Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. Though now in age he had laid down His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand, Yet often would flash forth the fire That could in youth a monarch's ire And minion's pride withstand; And e'en that day, at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal lord.
XV.
His giant form like ruined tower, Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower: His locks and beard in silver grew; His eyebrows kept their sable hue. Near Douglas when the monarch stood, His bitter speech he thus pursued: "Lord Marmion, since these letters say That in the north you needs must stay While slightest hopes of peace remain, Uncourteous speech it were, and stern, To say—return to Lindisfarne Until my herald come again. Then rest you in Tantallon Hold; Your host shall be the Douglas bold - A chief unlike his sires of old. He wears their motto on his blade, Their blazon o'er his towers displayed; Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, More than to face his country's foes. And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, But e'en this morn to me was given A prize, the first-fruits of the war, Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, A bevy of the maids of Heaven. Under your guard these holy maids Shall safe return to cloister shades; And, while they at Tantallon stay, Requiem for Cochrane's soul may say." And with the slaughtered favourite's name Across the monarch's brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.
XVI.
In answer nought could Angus speak; His proud heart swelled well-nigh to break: He turned aside, and down his cheek A burning tear there stole. His hand the monarch sudden took; That sight his kind heart could not brook: "Now, by the Bruce's soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive! For sure as doth his spirit live, As he said of the Douglas old, I well may say of you - That never king did subject hold In speech more free, in war more bold, More tender and more true: Forgive me, Douglas, once again." And while the king his hand did strain, The old man's tears fell down like rain. To seize the moment Marmion tried, And whispered to the king aside: "Oh! let such tears unwonted plead For respite short from dubious deed! A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, A stripling for a woman's heart: But woe awaits a country when She sees the tears of bearded men. Then, oh! what omen, dark and high, When Douglas wets his manly eye!"
XVII.
Displeased was James, that stranger viewed And tampered with his changing mood. "Laugh those that can, weep those that may," Thus did the fiery monarch say, "Southward I march by break of day; And if within Tantallon strong, The good Lord Marmion tarries long, Perchance our meeting next may fall At Tamworth, in his castle-hall." The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:- "Much honoured were my humble home If in its halls King James should come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshire-men are stern of mood; Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. On Derby hills the paths are steep; In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep; And many a banner will be torn, And many a knight to earth be borne, And many a sheaf of arrows spent, Ere Scotland's king shall cross the Trent: Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may." The monarch lightly turned away, And to his nobles loud did call, "Lords, to the dance—a hall! a hall!" Himself his cloak and sword flung by, And led Dame Heron gallantly; And minstrels, at the royal order, Rung out "Blue Bonnets o'er the Border."
XVIII.
Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, Whose galley, as they sailed again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. Now at Dunedin did they bide, Till James should of their fate decide; And soon, by his command, Were gently summoned to prepare To journey under Marmion's care, As escort honoured, safe, and fair, Again to English land. The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, Nor knew which saint she should implore; For when she thought of Constance, sore She feared Lord Marmion's mood. And judge what Clara must have felt! The sword that hung in Marmion's belt Had drunk De Wilton's blood. Unwittingly, King James had given, As guard to Whitby's shades, The man most dreaded under heaven By these defenceless maids: Yet what petition could avail, Or who would listen to the tale Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 'Mid bustle of a war begun? They deemed it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.
XIX.
Their lodging, so the king assigned, To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined; And thus it fell that, passing nigh, The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, Who warned him by a scroll She had a secret to reveal That much concerned the Church's weal And health of sinner's soul; And with deep charge of secrecy She named a place to meet, Within an open balcony That hung from dizzy pitch, and high Above the stately street; 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 rose 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 moonbeam broke Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements played. 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 trod 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 wooed Clara de Clare, of Gloucester'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 Gueldres 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 returned, Judge how De Wilton's fury burned For in his packet there were laid Letters that claimed disloyal aid, And proved King Henry's cause betrayed. His fame, thus blighted, in the field He strove to clear by spear and shield; To clear his fame in vain he strove, 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?
XXII.
'His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doomed to suffer law, Repentant, owned in vain, That while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drenched 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 sheltered 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, Should do a deadly sin, Her temple spoiled 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; And grievous cause have I to fear Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.
XXIII.
"Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed To evil power, I claim thine aid, By every step that thou hast trod 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 betrayed, 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! No clerk in all the land, like her Traced quaint and varying character. Perchance you may a marvel deem That Marmion's paramour (For such vile thing she was) should scheme Her lover's nuptial hour; But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, As privy to his honour's stain, Illimitable power: For this she secretly retained Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deigned, Through sinners' perfidy impure, Her house's glory to secure And Clare's immortal weal.
XXIV.
"'Twere long and needless here to tell How to my hand these papers fell; With me they must not stay. Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! Who knows what outrage he might do While journeying by the way? O blessed saint, if e'er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, Deep penance may I pay! Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: I give this packet to thy care, For thee to stop they will not dare; And, oh! with cautious speed To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, That he may show them to the king And for thy well-earned meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine While priests can sing and read. What ail'st thou? Speak!" For as he took The charge, a strong emotion shook His frame; and, ere reply, They heard a faint yet shrilly tone, Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear, "Saint Withold, save us! What is here? Look at yon city cross! See, on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazoned banners toss!"
XXV.
Dunedin's Cross, a pillared stone, Rose on a turret octagon; (But now is razed that monument Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland's law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead Upon its dull destroyer's head! - A minstrel's malison is said). Then on its battlements they saw A vision, passing Nature's law, Strange, wild, and dimly seen - Figures that seemed to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirmed could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there Heralds and pursuivants prepare, With trumpet sound and blazon fair, A summons to proclaim; But indistinct the pageant proud, As fancy-forms of midnight cloud, When flings the moon upon her shroud A wavering tinge of flame; It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, From midmost of the spectre crowd, This awful summons came:-
XXVI.
"Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, Whose names I now shall call, Scottish, or foreigner, give ear! Subjects of him who sent me here, At his tribunal to appear I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin That e'er hath soiled your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust That e'er defiled your earthly dust - By wrath, by pride, by fear; By each o'er-mastering passion's tone, By the dark grave and dying groan! When forty days are passed and gone, I cite you, at your monarch's throne, To answer and appear." Then thundered forth a roll of names; The first was thine, unhappy James! Then all thy nobles came:- Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle - Why should I tell their separate style? Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage pile, Was cited there by name; And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye; De Wilton, erst of Aberley, The self-same thundering voice did say. But then another spoke: "Thy fatal summons I deny, And thine infernal lord defy, Appealing me to Him on high, Who burst the sinner's yoke." At that dread accent, with a scream. Parted the pageant like a dream, The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the Abbess fell, And fast and fast her beads did tell; Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She marked not, at the scene aghast, What time, or how, the Palmer passed.
XXVII.
Shift we the scene. The camp doth move; Dunedin's streets are empty now, Save when, for weal of those they love, To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, The tottering child, the anxious fair, The grey-haired sire, with pious care, To chapels and to shrines repair - Where is the Palmer now? and where The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair They journey in thy charge. Lord Marmion rode on his right hand, The Palmer still was with the band; Angus, like Lindesay, did command That none should roam at large. But in that Palmer's altered mien A wondrous change might now be seen; Freely he spoke of war, Of marvels wrought by single hand When lifted for a native land; And still looked high, as if he planned Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, And, tucking up his sable frock, Would first his mettle bold provoke, Then soothe or quell his pride. Old Hubert said, that never one He saw, except Lord Marmion, A steed so fairly ride.
XXVIII.
Some half-hour's march behind, there came, By Eustace governed fair, A troop escorting Hilda's dame, With all her nuns and Clare. No audience had Lord Marmion sought; Ever he feared to aggravate Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; And safer 'twas, he thought, To wait till, from the nuns removed, The influence of kinsmen loved, And suit by Henry's self approved, Her slow consent had wrought. His was no flickering flame, that dies Unless when fanned by looks and sighs, And lighted oft at lady's eyes; He longed to stretch his wide command O'er luckless Clara's ample land; Besides, when Wilton with him vied, Although the pang of humbled pride The place of jealousy supplied, Yet conquest, by that meanness won He almost loathed to think upon, Led him, at times, to hate the cause Which made him burst through honour's laws If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone Who died within that vault of stone.
XXIX.
And now when close at hand they saw North Berwick's town and lofty Law, Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile Before a venerable pile, Whose turrets viewed, afar, The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, The ocean's peace or war. At tolling of a bell, forth came The convent's venerable dame, And prayed Saint Hilda's Abbess rest With her, a loved and honoured guest, Till Douglas should a barque prepare To waft her back to Whitby fair. Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, And thanked the Scottish Prioress; And tedious were to tell, I ween, The courteous speech that passed between. O'erjoyed, the nuns their palfreys leave; But when fair Clara did intend, Like them, from horseback to descend, Fitz-Eustace said, "I grieve, Fair lady—grieve e'en from my heart - Such gentle company to part; Think not discourtesy, But lords' commands must be obeyed; And Marmion and the Douglas said That you must wend with me. Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, Which to the Scottish earl he showed, Commanding that beneath his care Without delay you shall repair To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare."
XXX.
The startled Abbess loud exclaimed; But she at whom the blow was aimed Grew pale as death, and cold as lead - She deemed she heard her death-doom read. "Cheer thee, my child," the Abbess said; "They dare not tear thee from my hand To ride alone with armed band." "Nay, holy mother, nay," Fitz-Eustace said, "the lovely Clare Will be in Lady Angus' care, In Scotland while we stay; And when we move, an easy ride Will bring us to the English side, Female attendance to provide Befitting Gloucester's heir; Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord, By slightest look, or act, or word, To harass Lady Clare. Her faithful guardian he will be, Nor sue for slightest courtesy That e'en to stranger falls. Till he shall place her, safe and free, Within her kinsman's halls." He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace; His faith was painted on his face, And Clare's worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threatened, grieved; To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed, Against Lord Marmion inveighed, And called the Prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistercian shook: "The Douglas and the King," she said, "In their commands will be obeyed; Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall The maiden in Tantallon Hall."
XXXI.
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, Assumed her wonted state again - For much of state she had - Composed her veil, and raised her head, And—"Bid," in solemn voice she said, "Thy master, bold and bad, The records of his house turn o'er, And when he shall there written see, That one of his own ancestry Drove the monks forth of Coventry, Bid him his fate explore. Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurled him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before. God judge 'twixt Marmion and me; He is a chief of high degree, And I a poor recluse; Yet oft, in Holy Writ, we see Even such weak minister as me May the oppressor bruise: For thus, inspired, did Judith slay The mighty in his sin, And Jael thus, and Deborah" - Here hasty Blount broke in:- "Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; Saint Anton' fire thee! wilt thou stand All day, with bonnet in thy hand, To hear the lady preach? By this good light! if thus we stay, Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, Will sharper sermon teach. Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse; The dame must patience take perforce."
XXXII.
"Submit we, then, to force," said Clare, "But let this barbarous lord despair His purposed aim to win; Let him take living, land, and life; But to be Marmion's wedded wife In me were deadly sin: And if it be the king's decree That I must find no sanctuary In that inviolable dome Where even a homicide might come And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, The kinsmen of the dead; Yet one asylum is my own Against the dreaded hour - A low, a silent, and a lone, Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there. Mother, your blessing, and in prayer Remember your unhappy Clare!" Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows Kind blessings many a one: Weeping and wailing loud arose Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes Of every simple nun. His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. Then took the squire her rein, And gently led away her steed, And, by each courteous word and deed, To cheer her strove in vain.
XXXIII.
But scant three miles the band had rode, When o'er a height they passed, And, sudden, close before them showed His towers, Tantallon vast; Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, And held impregnable in war, On a projecting rock they rose, And round three sides the ocean flows, The fourth did battled walls enclose, And double mound and fosse. By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, Through studded gates, an entrance long, To the main court they cross; It was a wide and stately square; Around were lodgings, fit and fair, And towers of various form, Which on the court projected far, And broke its lines quadrangular. Here was square keep, there turret high, Or pinnacle that sought the sky, Whence oft the warder could descry The gathering ocean-storm.
XXXIV.
Here did they rest. The princely care Of Douglas, why should I declare, Or say they met reception fair? Or why the tidings say, Which, varying, to Tantallon came, By hurrying posts or fleeter fame, With every varying day? And, first, they heard King James had won Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. At that sore marvelled Marmion; And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand Would soon subdue Northumberland: But whispered news there came, That, while his host inactive lay, And melted by degrees away, King James was dallying off the day With Heron's wily dame. Such acts to chronicles I yield: Go seek them there and see; Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, And not a history. At length they heard the Scottish host On that high ridge had made their post Which frowns o'er Milfield Plain, And that brave Surrey many a band Had gathered in the Southern land, And marched into Northumberland, And camp at Wooler ta'en. Marmion, like charger in the stall, That hears, without, the trumpet call, Began to chafe and swear: "A sorry thing to hide my head In castle, like a fearful maid, When such a field is near! Needs must I see this battle-day; Death to my fame if such a fray Were fought, and Marmion away! The Douglas, too, I wot not why, Hath 'bated of his courtesy: No longer in his halls I'll stay." Then bade his band they should array For march against the dawning day.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH. TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. Mertoun House, Christmas.
Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; E'en, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew; Then in his low and pine-built hall, Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone; Or listened all, in grim delight, While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, While wildly-loose their red locks fly, And dancing round the blazing pile, They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recall The boist'rous joys of Odin's hall. And well our Christian sires of old Loved, when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night; On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung; That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of "post and pair." All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell, How, when, and where, the monster fell: What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roared with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But oh! what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale: A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. Still linger, in our Northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim To Southern ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain-stream. And thus my Christmas still I hold Where my great grandsire came of old, With amber beard, and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic air - The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: Small thought was his in after time E'er to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land—but kept his beard. In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand Of the fair dame that rules the land. Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer, Speed on their wings the passing year. And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, When not a leaf is on the bough. Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace: Gladly as he, we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home. How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we've known, And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, "Were pretty fellows in their day;" But time and tide o'er all prevail - On Christmas eve a Christmas tale, Of wonder and of war—"Profane! What! leave the loftier Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse's charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjuror and ghost, Goblin and witch!" Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:- in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides' WRAITH; AEneas, upon Thracia's shore, The ghost of murdered Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, locutus Bos. As grave and duly speaks that ox, As if he told the price of stocks Or held in Rome republican, The place of common-councilman. All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look—the peasant see Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun "the spirit's blasted tree." The Highlander, whose red claymore The battle turned on Maida's shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If asked to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful elfin king, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchemont, Which, like an eagle's nest in air, Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair; Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amassed through rapine and through wrong, By the last Lord of Franchemont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A huntsman sits, its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: And 'twere not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle e'er in brake did sound, Or ever hallooed to a hound. To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged necromantic priest: It is an hundred years at least, Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the conjuror's words will make The stubborn demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, Fast as 'tis opened, shuts again. That magic strife within the tomb May last until the day of doom, Unless the adept shall learn to tell The very word that clenched the spell, When Franchemont locked the treasure cell. A hundred years are past and gone, And scarce three letters has he won. Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from heaven, That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's king, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the monk of Durham's tale, Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Gifford's goblin-cave. But why such instances to you, Who in an instant can renew Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franchemont chest, While gripple owners still refuse To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfered gem. Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can like the owner's self enjoy them? But, hark! I hear the distant drum! The day of Flodden Field is come. Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth!
CANTO SIXTH.—THE BATTLE.
I.
While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanour, changed and cold, Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war He snuffed the battle from afar; And hopes were none, that back again Herald should come from Terouenne, Where England's king in leaguer lay, Before decisive battle-day; Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the dame's devotions share: For the good countess ceaseless prayed To Heaven and saints, her sons to aid, And with short interval did pass From prayer to book, from book to mass, And all in high baronial pride - A life both dull and dignified; Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed Upon her intervals of rest, Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthened prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart.
II.
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep Hung o'er the margin of the deep. Many a rude tower and rampart there Repelled the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vexed the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. Above the rest, a turret square Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; The bloody heart was in the field, And in the chief three mullets stood, The cognisance of Douglas blood. The turret held a narrow stair, Which, mounted, gave you access where A parapet's embattled row Did seaward round the castle go. Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, Sometimes in platform broad extending, Its varying circle did combine Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign: Above the booming ocean leant The far projecting battlement; The billows burst in ceaseless flow Upon the precipice below. Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gateworks and walls were strongly manned; No need upon the sea-girt side; The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Approach of human step denied; And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, Were left in deepest solitude.
III.
And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there, And list the sea-bird's cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark grey bulwark's side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. Oft did the cliff, and swelling main, Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane - A home she ne'er might see again; For she had laid adown, So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, And frontlet of the cloister pale, And Benedictine gown: It were unseemly sight, he said, A novice out of convent shade. Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, Again adorned her brow of snow; Her mantle rich, whose borders round, A deep and fretted broidery bound, In golden foldings sought the ground; Of holy ornament, alone Remained a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broidered o'er, Her breviary book. In such a place, so lone, so grim, At dawning pale, or twilight dim, It fearful would have been To meet a form so richly dressed, With book in hand, and cross on breast, And such a woeful mien. Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, And did by Mary swear - Some lovelorn fay she might have been, Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen; For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen A form so witching fair.
IV.
Once walking thus, at evening tide, It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And, sighing, thought—"The Abbess, there, Perchance, does to her home repair; Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, Walks hand in hand with Charity; Where oft Devotion's tranced glow Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, That the enraptured sisters see High vision, and deep mystery; The very form of Hilda fair, Hovering upon the sunny air, And smiling on her votaries' prayer. Oh! wherefore, to my duller eye, Did still the saint her form deny! Was it that, seared by sinful scorn, My heart could neither melt nor burn? Or lie my warm affections low, With him, that taught them first to glow? Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, To pay thy kindness grateful due, And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! condemned to bide My doom from this dark tyrant's pride. But Marmion has to learn, ere long, That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloucester's Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne'er shall bend, although he break."
V.
"But see;—what makes this armour here?" For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm;—she viewed them near. "The breast-plate pierced!—Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, That hath made fatal entrance here, As these dark blood-gouts say. Thus, Wilton! Oh! not corslet's ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom's guard, On yon disastrous day!" She raised her eyes in mournful mood - Wilton himself before her stood! It might have seemed his passing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; And joy unwonted, and surprise, Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. Expect not, noble dames and lords, That I can tell such scene in words: What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven? Far less can my weak line declare Each changing passion's shade: Bright'ning to rapture from despair, Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, And joy, with her angelic air, And hope, that paints the future fair, Their varying hues displayed: Each o'er its rival's ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending. Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, And mighty Love retains the field. Shortly I tell what then he said, By many a tender word delayed, And modest blush, and bursting sigh, And question kind, and fond reply:-
VI.
DE WILTON'S HISTORY.
"Forget we that disastrous day, When senseless in the lists I lay. Thence dragged—but how I cannot know, For, sense and recollection fled, I found me on a pallet low, Within my ancient beadsman's shed. Austin—remember'st thou, my Clare, How thou didst blush, when the old man, When first our infant love began, Said we would make a matchless pair? Menials and friends and kinsmen fled From the degraded traitor's bed - He only held my burning head, And tended me for many a day, While wounds and fever held their sway But far more needful was his care, When sense returned to wake despair; For I did tear the closing wound, And dash me frantic on the ground, If e'er I heard the name of Clare. At length, to calmer reason brought, Much by his kind attendance wrought, With him I left my native strand, And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed. My hated name and form to shade I journeyed many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason feared, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes upreared. My friend at length fell sick, and said, God would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed, He begged of me a boon - If e'er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquered lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin's sake.
VII.
"Still restless as a second Cain, To Scotland next my route was ta'en, Full well the paths I knew. Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perished of my wound - None cared which tale was true: And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his palmer's dress; For now that sable slough is shed, And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the glass. A chance most wondrous did provide That I should be that baron's guide - I will not name his name! - Vengeance to God alone belongs; But when I think on all my wrongs, My blood is liquid flame! And ne'er the time shall I forget, When, in a Scottish hostel set, Dark looks we did exchange: What were his thoughts I cannot tell; But in my bosom mustered Hell Its plans of dark revenge.
VIII.
"A word of vulgar augury, That broke from me, I scarce knew why, Brought on a village tale; Which wrought upon his moody sprite, And sent him armed forth by night. I borrowed steed and mail, And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, We met, and countered hand to hand - He fell on Gifford Moor. For the death-stroke my brand I drew - Oh, then my helmdd head he knew, The palmer's cowl was gone - Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid - My hand the thought of Austin stayed; I left him there alone. O good old man! even from the grave, Thy spirit could thy master save: If I had slain my foeman, ne'er Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, Given to my hand this packet dear, Of power to clear my injured fame, And vindicate De Wilton's name. Perchance you heard the Abbess tell Of the strange pageantry of Hell, That broke our secret speech - It rose from the infernal shade, Or featly was some juggle played, A tale of peace to teach. Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.
IX.
"Now here, within Tantallon Hold, To Douglas late my tale I told, To whom my house was known of old. Won by my proofs, his falchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight. These were the arms that once did turn The tide of fight on Otterburne, And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, When the dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave—his armourer's care, Ere morn, shall every breach repair; For naught, he said, was in his halls, But ancient armour on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and grey-haired men; The rest were all in Twisel Glen. And now I watch my armour here, By law of arms, till midnight's near; Then, once again a belted knight, Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light.
X.
"There soon again we meet, my Clare! This baron means to guide thee there; Douglas reveres his king's command, Else would he take thee from his band And there thy kinsman Surrey, too, Will give De Wilton justice due. Now meeter far for martial broil, Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, Once more"—"O Wilton! must we then Risk new-found happiness again, Trust fate of arms once more? And is there not an humble glen, Where we, content and poor, Might build a cottage in the shade, A shepherd thou, and I to aid Thy task on dale and moor? - That reddening brow!—too well I know, Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, While falsehood stains thy name: Go, then, to fight! Clare bids thee go! Clare can a warrior's feelings know, And weep a warrior's shame; Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame!" |
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