 |
XXII.
Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415 Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,—alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And 'shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, 430 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.
XXIII.
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! 435 For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;— Who enters at such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 445 Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were display'd, And building tools in order laid.
XXIV.
These executioners were chose, 450 As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired; Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455 Of some foul crime the stain; For, as the vassals of her will, Such men the Church selected still, As either joy'd in doing ill, Or thought more grace to gain, 460 If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and knew not where.
XXV.
And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465 To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose, Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 470 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip; Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475 You seem'd to hear a distant rill— 'Twas ocean's swells and falls; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480 So massive were the walls.
XXVI.
At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart, And light came to her eye, And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 485 A hectic and a flutter'd streak, Like that left on the Cheviot peak, By Autumn's stormy sky; And when her silence broke at length, Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 490 And arm'd herself to bear. It was a fearful sight to see Such high resolve and constancy, In form so soft and fair.
XXVII.
'I speak not to implore your grace, 495 Well know I, for one minute's space Successless might I sue: Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; For if a death of lingering pain, To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500 Vain are your masses too.— I listen'd to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bow'd my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505 And well my folly's meed he gave, Who forfeited, to be his slave, All here, and all beyond the grave.— He saw young Clara's face more fair, He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more.— 'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, 515 Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!
XXVIII.
'The King approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim, Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge—and on they came, In mortal lists to fight. Their oaths are said, Their prayers are pray'd, 525 Their lances in the rest are laid, They meet in mortal shock; And hark! the throng, with thundering cry, Shout "Marmion, Marmion I to the sky, De Wilton to the block!" 530 Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide When in the lists two champions ride, Say, was Heaven's justice here? When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death, 535 Beneath a traitor's spear? How false the charge, how true he fell, This guilty packet best can tell.'— Then drew a packet from her breast, Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest. 540
XXIX.
'Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent fled the maid, The hated match to shun. "Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried, "Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 545 If she were sworn a nun." One way remain'd—the King's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land! I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd For Clara and for me: 550 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby's shrine repair, And, by his drugs, my rival fair A saint in heaven should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555 Whose cowardice has undone us both.
XXX.
'And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to assure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, This packet, to the King convey'd, Had given him to the headsman's stroke, Although my heart that instant broke.— Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565 For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.
XXXI.
'Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! 570 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends! 575 The altars quake, the crosier bends, The ire of a despotic King Rides forth upon destruction's wing; Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep; 580 Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.'
XXXII.
Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 585 Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seem'd to rise more high; Her voice, despair's wild energy 590 Had given a tone of prophecy. Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listen'd for the avenging storm; 595 The judges felt the victim's dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:— 'Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600 Sinful brother, part in peace!' From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb, Paced forth the judges three; Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 605 The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery.
XXXIII.
An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day; 610 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair, And many a stifled groan: With speed their upward way they take, (Such speed as age and fear can make,) 615 And cross'd themselves for terror's sake, As hurrying, tottering on, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seem'd to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll 620 For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, His beads the wakeful hermit told, 625 The Bamborough peasant raised his head, But slept ere half a prayer he said; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630 Listed before, aside, behind, Then couch'd him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound, so dull and stern.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.
TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
Like April morning clouds, that pass, With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain north, 5 Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away, 10 And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deems its murmur past; Thus various, my romantic theme Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 15 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; Pleased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 20 Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!
Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell I love the license all too well, In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 25 To raise the desultory song? Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, Some transient fit of lofty rhyme To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse For many an error of the muse, 30 Oft hast thou said, 'If, still misspent, Thine hours to poetry are lent, Go, and to tame thy wandering course, Quaff from the fountain at the source; Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 35 Immortal laurels ever bloom: Instructive of the feebler bard, Still from the grave their voice is heard; From them, and from the paths they show'd, Choose honour'd guide and practised road; 40 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days.
'Or deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse 45 For Brunswick's venerable hearse? What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, When valour bleeds for liberty?— Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivall'd light sublime,— 50 Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Though banded Europe stood her foes— The star of Brandenburgh arose! Thou couldst not live to see her beam 55 For ever quench'd in Jena's stream. Lamented Chief!—it was not given To thee to change the doom of Heaven, And crush that dragon in its birth, Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60 Lamented Chief!—not thine the power, To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield! Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 65 And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; 70 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, And witness woes thou could'st not heal! On thee relenting Heaven bestows For honour'd life an honour'd close; And when revolves, in time's sure change, 75 The hour of Germany's revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK'S tomb, 80
'Or of the Red-Cross hero teach Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar: Alike to him the war that calls 85 Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, 90 When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd; Or that, where Vengeance and Affright Howl'd round the father of the fight, Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand, 95 The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.
'Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung 100 By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, 105 And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.' 110
Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 115 That secret power by all obey'd, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source conceal'd or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120 One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier term'd the sway Of habit, form'd in early day? Howe'er derived, its force confest 125 Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 130 He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see 135 The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; 140 Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145 And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between? No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range; Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 150 Bennevis grey, and Carry's lake.
Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; 155 And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. Though no broad river swept along, 160 To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; 165 Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliff's were rudely piled; But ever and anon between 170 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honey-suckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 175 I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round survey'd; And still I thought that shatter'd tower The mightiest work of human power; And marvell'd as the aged hind 180 With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185 And, home returning, fill'd the hall With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. Methought that still with trump and clang, The gateway's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seam'd with scars, 190 Glared through the window's rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 195 Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While stretch'd at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war display'd; 205 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before.
Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brighten'd at our evening fire! 210 From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, Show'd what in youth its glance had been; 215 Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable Priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint 220 Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 225 But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caress'd.
From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conn'd task? Nay, Erskine, nay—On the wild hill 230 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay—Since oft thy praise 235 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; Since oft thy judgment could refine My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line; Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!
CANTO THIRD.
THE HOSTEL, OR INN.
I.
The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer show'd By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road, 5 For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down; 10 On wing of jet, from his repose In the deep heath, the black-cock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began, 15 By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. The noon had long been pass'd before They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, 20 Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.
II.
No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour. To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 25 His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes. On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch, whose front was graced 30 With bush and flagon trimly placed, Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seem'd large, though rude; Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. 35 Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall: 40 Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.
III
Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 45 The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar, And savoury haunch of deer. 50 The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside, Were tools for housewives' hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, 55 The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And view'd around the blazing hearth. His followers mix in noisy mirth; 60 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.
IV.
Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest; 65 And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 70 To win the soldier's hardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 75 Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady's bower:— Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India's fires to Zembla's frost.
V.
Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 80 Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fix'd on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 85 Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer's visage fell.
VI.
By fits less frequent from the crowd 90 Was heard the burst of laughter loud; For still, as squire and archer stared On that dark face and matted beard, Their glee and game declined. All gazed at length in silence drear, 95 Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, Thus whispered forth his mind:— 'Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100 Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our Lord he sets his eye; For his best palfrey, would not I Endure that sullen scowl.' 105
VII.
But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who saw The ever-varying fire-light show That figure stern and face of woe, Now call'd upon a squire:— 110 'Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away? We slumber by the fire.'—
VIII.
'So please you,' thus the youth rejoin'd, 'Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 115 Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, And wake the lover's lute alike; To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 120 Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, No nightingale her love-lorn tune More sweetly warbles to the moon. Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, Detains from us his melody, 125 Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. Now must I venture as I may, To sing his favourite roundelay.'
IX.
A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130 The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On Lowland plains, the ripen'd ear. 135 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, As it came soften'd up the hill, And deem'd it the lament of men 140 Who languish'd for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound, On Susquehanna's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 145 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again!
X.
Song
Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, 150 Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow. 155
CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; 160 There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never!
CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! 165
XI.
Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, 170 Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.
CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap 175 O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; 180 Blessing shall hallow it,— Never, O never.
CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!
XII.
It ceased, the melancholy sound; And silence sunk on all around. 185 The air was sad; but sadder still It fell on Marmion's ear, And plain'd as if disgrace and ill, And shameful death, were near. He drew his mantle past his face, 190 Between it and the band, And rested with his head a space, Reclining on his hand. His thoughts I scan not; but I ween, That, could their import have been seen, 195 The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.
XIII.
High minds, of native pride and force, 200 Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave! Yet fatal strength they boast to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 205 Even while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil conflict in the heart. For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,- 'Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 210 Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister's soul? Say, what may this portend?'— Then first the Palmer silence broke, 215 (The livelong day he had not spoke) 'The death of a dear friend.'
XIV.
Marmion, whose steady heart and eye Ne'er changed in worst extremity; Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 220 Even from his King, a haughty look; Whose accents of command controll'd, In camps, the boldest of the bold— Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him now, Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow: 225 For either in the tone, Or something in the Palmer's look, So full upon his conscience strook, That answer he found none. Thus oft it haps, that when within 230 They shrink at sense of secret sin, A feather daunts the brave; A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes vail their eyes Before their meanest slave. 235
XV.
Well might he falter!—By his aid Was Constance Beverley betray'd. Not that he augur'd of the doom, Which on the living closed the tomb: But, tired to hear the desperate maid 240 Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid; And wroth, because, in wild despair, She practised on the life of Clare; Its fugitive the Church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave; 245 And deem'd restraint in convent strange Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge, Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear, Secure his pardon he might hold, 250 For some slight mulct of penance-gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way, When the stern priests surprised their prey. His train but deem'd the favourite page Was left behind, to spare his age; 255 Or other if they deem'd, none dared To mutter what he thought and heard: Woe to the vassal, who durst pry Into Lord Marmion's privacy!
XVI.
His conscience slept—he deem'd her well, 260 And safe secured in yonder cell; But, waken'd by her favourite lay, And that strange Palmer's boding say, That fell so ominous and drear, Full on the object of his fear, 265 To aid remorse's venom'd throes, Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose; And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd, All lovely on his soul return'd; Lovely as when, at treacherous call, 270 She left her convent's peaceful wall, Crimson'd with shame, with terror mute, Dreading alike escape, pursuit, Till love, victorious o'er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 275
'Alas!' he thought, 'how changed that mien! How changed these timid looks have been, Since years of guilt, and of disguise, Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes! No more of virgin terror speaks 280 The blood that mantles in her cheeks; Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, Frenzy for joy, for grief despair; And I the cause—for whom were given Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!— 285 Would,' thought he, as the picture grows, 'I on its stalk had left the rose! Oh, why should man's success remove The very charms that wake his love!— Her convent's peaceful solitude 290 Is now a prison harsh and rude; And, pent within the narrow cell, How will her spirit chafe and swell! How brook the stern monastic laws! The penance how—and I the cause!— 295 Vigil, and scourge—perchance even worse!'— And twice he rose to cry, 'To horse!' And twice his Sovereign's mandate came, Like damp upon a kindling flame; And twice he thought, 'Gave I not charge 300 She should be safe, though not at large? They durst not, for their island, shred One golden ringlet from her head.'
XVIII.
While thus in Marmion's bosom strove Repentance and reviving love, 305 Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard, And, talkative, took up the word: 'Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 310 From Scotland's simple land away, To visit realms afar, Full often learn the art to know Of future weal, or future woe, By word, or sign, or star; 315 Yet might a knight his fortune hear, If, knight-like, he despises fear, Not far from hence;—if fathers old Aright our hamlet legend told.'— These broken words the menials move, (For marvels still the vulgar love,) 320 And, Marmion giving license cold, His tale the host thus gladly told:—
XIX.
The Host's Tale
'A Clerk could tell what years have flown Since Alexander fill'd our throne, 325 (Third monarch of that warlike name,) And eke the time when here he came To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: A braver never drew a sword; A wiser never, at the hour 330 Of midnight, spoke the word of power: The same, whom ancient records call The founder of the Goblin-Hall. I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay Gave you that cavern to survey. 335 Of lofty roof, and ample size, Beneath the castle deep it lies: To hew the living rock profound, The floor to pave, the arch to round, There never toil'd a mortal arm, 340 It all was wrought by word and charm; And I have heard my grandsire say, That the wild clamour and affray Of those dread artisans of hell, Who labour'd under Hugo's spell, 345 Sounded as loud as ocean's war, Among the caverns of Dunbar.
XX.
'The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, Deep labouring with uncertain thought; Even then he mustered all his host, 350 To meet upon the western coast; For Norse and Danish galleys plied Their oars within the Frith of Clyde. There floated Haco's banner trim, Above Norweyan warriors grim, 355 Savage of heart, and large of limb; Threatening both continent and isle, Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 360 And tarried not his garb to change, But, in his wizard habit strange, Came forth,—a quaint and fearful sight; His mantle lined with fox-skins white; His high and wrinkled forehead bore 365 A pointed cap, such as of yore Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore: His shoes were mark'd with cross and spell, Upon his breast a pentacle; His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 370 Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, Bore many a planetary sign, Combust, and retrograde, and trine; And in his hand he held prepared, A naked sword without a guard. 375
XXI.
'Dire dealings with the fiendish race Had mark'd strange lines upon his face; Vigil and fast had worn him grim, His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, As one unused to upper day; 380 Even his own menials with dismay Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, In his unwonted wild attire; Unwonted, for traditions run, He seldom thus beheld the sun.— 385 "I know," he said,—his voice was hoarse, And broken seem'd its hollow force,— "I know the cause, although untold, Why the King seeks his vassal's hold: Vainly from me my liege would know 390 His kingdom's future weal or woe; But yet, if strong his arm and heart, His courage may do more than art.
XXII.
'"Of middle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, 395 Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, The issue of events afar; But still their sullen aid withhold, Save when by mightier force controll'd. Such late I summon'd to my hall; 400 And though so potent was the call, That scarce the deepest nook of hell I deem'd a refuge from the spell, Yet, obstinate in silence still, The haughty demon mocks my skill. 405 But thou,—who little know'st thy might, As born upon that blessed night When yawning graves, and dying groan, Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown,— With untaught valour shalt compel 410 Response denied to magic spell."— "Gramercy," quoth our Monarch free, "Place him but front to front with me, And, by this good and honour'd brand, The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 415 Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, The demon shall a buffet bide."— His bearing bold the wizard view'd, And thus, well pleased, his speech renew'd:— "There spoke the blood of Malcolm!—mark: 420 Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, The rampart seek, whose circling crown Crests the ascent of yonder down: A southern entrance shalt thou find; There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 425 And trust thine elfin foe to see, In guise of thy worst enemy: Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed— Upon him! and Saint George to speed! If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 Whate'er these airy sprites can show:— If thy heart fail thee in the strife, I am no warrant for thy life."
XXIII.
'Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and arm'd, forth rode the King 435 To that old camp's deserted round: Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound, Left hand the town,—the Pictish race, The trench, long since, in blood did trace; The moor around is brown and bare, 440 The space within is green and fair. The spot our village children know, For there the earliest wild-flowers grow; But woe betide the wandering wight, That treads its circle in the night! 445 The breadth across, a bowshot clear, Gives ample space for full career; Opposed to the four points of heaven, By four deep gaps are entrance given. The southernmost our Monarch past, 450 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; And on the north, within the ring, Appeared the form of England's King, Who then a thousand leagues afar, In Palestine waged holy war: 455 Yet arms like England's did he wield, Alike the leopards in the shield, Alike his Syrian courser's frame, The rider's length of limb the same: Long afterwards did Scotland know, 460 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.
XXIV.
'The vision made our Monarch start, But soon he mann'd his noble heart, And in the first career they ran, The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man; 465 Yet did a splinter of his lance Through Alexander's visor glance, And razed the skin—a puny wound. The King, light leaping to the ground, With naked blade his phantom foe 470 Compell'd the future war to show. Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, Where still gigantic bones remain, Memorial of the Danish war; Himself he saw, amid the field, 475 On high his brandish'd war-axe wield, And strike proud Haco from his car, While all around the shadowy Kings Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings. 'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 480 Remoter visions met his sight, Foreshowing future conquest far, When our sons' sons wage northern war; A royal city, tower and spire, Redden'd the midnight sky with fire, 485 And shouting crews her navy bore, Triumphant, to the victor shore. Such signs may learned clerks explain, They pass the wit of simple swain.
XXV.
'The joyful King turn'd home again, 490 Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; But yearly, when return'd the night Of his strange combat with the sprite, His wound must bleed and smart; Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 495 "Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay The penance of your start." Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, King Alexander fills his grave, Our Lady give him rest! 500 Yet still the knightly spear and shield The Elfin Warrior doth wield, Upon the brown hill's breast; And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 505 But all have foully sped; Save two, as legends tell, and they Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.— Gentles, my tale is said.'
XXVI.
The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, 510 And on the tale the yeoman-throng Had made a comment sage and long, But Marmion gave a sign: And, with their lord, the squires retire; The rest around the hostel fire, 515 Their drowsy limbs recline: For pillow, underneath each head, The quiver and the targe were laid. Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore: 520 The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange.
XXVII.
Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 525 The foldings of his mantle green: Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Of sport by thicket, or by stream, Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 530 A cautious tread his slumber broke, And, close beside him, when he woke, In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 535 His master Marmion's voice he knew.
XXVIII.
—'Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, And graver thoughts have chafed my mood: The air must cool my feverish blood; 540 And fain would I ride forth, to see The scene of elfin chivalry. Arise, and saddle me my steed; And, gentle Eustace, take good heed Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 545 I would not, that the prating knaves Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, That I could credit such a tale.'— Then softly down the steps they slid, Eustace the stable door undid, 550 And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd, While, whispering, thus the Baron said:—
XXIX.
'Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, That on the hour when I was born, Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle, 555 Down from his steed of marble fell, A weary wight forlorn? The flattering chaplains all agree, The champion left his steed to me. I would, the omen's truth to show, 560 That I could meet this Elfin Foe! Blithe would I battle, for the right To ask one question at the sprite:- Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be, An empty race, by fount or sea, 565 To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the green oak wheel their ring.' Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, And from the hostel slowly rode.
XXX.
Fitz-Eustace follow'd him abroad, 570 And mark'd him pace the village road, And listen'd to his horse's tramp, Till, by the lessening sound, He judged that of the Pictish camp Lord Marmion sought the round. 575 Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held, and wise,—- Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received For gospel, what the Church believed,— Should, stirr'd by idle tale, 580 Ride forth in silence of the night, As hoping half to meet a sprite, Array'd in plate and mail. For little did Fitz-Eustace know, That passions, in contending flow, 585 Unfix the strongest mind; Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, We welcome fond credulity, Guide confident, though blind.
XXXI.
Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 590 But, patient, waited till he heard, At distance, prick'd to utmost speed, The foot-tramp of a flying steed, Come town-ward rushing on; First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 595 Then, clattering on the village road,— In other pace than forth he yode, Return'd Lord Marmion. Down hastily he sprung from selle, And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 600 To the squire's hand the rein he threw, And spoke no word as he withdrew: But yet the moonlight did betray, The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay; And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 605 By stains upon the charger's knee, And his left side, that on the moor He had not kept his footing sure. Long musing on these wondrous signs, At length to rest the squire reclines, 610 Broken and short; for still, between, Would dreams of terror intervene: Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.
TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 'Where is the life which late we led?' That motley clown in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jacques with envy view'd, Not even that clown could amplify, 5 On this trite text, so long as I. Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well; Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; 10 And sure, through many a varied scene,, Unkindness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep mark'd, like all below, 15 With chequer'd shades of joy and woe; Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men; 20 Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever'd the progress of these years, Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem The recollection of a dream, So still we glide down to the sea 25 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, 30 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 vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 35 Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again: And mountain dark, and flooded mead, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40 Earlier than wont along the sky, Mix'd 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, 45 The features traced of hill and glen;— He who, outstretch'd the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, View'd the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 50 Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessen'd tide;— At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain.
When red hath set the beamless sun, 55 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; 60 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, 65 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, 70 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, 75 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, 80 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. 85 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, 90 The morn may find the stiffen'd 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, 95 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, 100 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? 105
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, 110 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, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 115 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, 120 Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou, of late, wert doom'd to twine,— Just when thy bridal hour was by,— The cypress with the myrtle tie. 125 Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And bless'd 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, 130 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— 135 Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honour'd urn, Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140 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, 145 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, 150 '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. 155
To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing nought,—and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do,— The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160 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, 165 We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely labouring to pourtray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; I spelling o'er, with much delight, 170 The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 175 And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180 Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossom'd bough, than we.
And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185 The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190 Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more; And thou, and I, and dear-loved R—, And one whose name I may not say,— 195 For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,— In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drown'd the whistling wind. Mirth was within; and care without 200 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: 205 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, 210 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. 215
CANTO FOURTH.
THE CAMP.
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, 5 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. 10 Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host; 'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear, That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'— Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire, 15 Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder, Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,— 20 '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 25 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 30 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'
II.
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd, Nor wholly understood, His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd; He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 35 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. 40 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,— Pass'd them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse.
III.
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 45 Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, 'Ill thou deservest thy hire,' he said; 'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50 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: 55 For in this haunted den, I trow, All night they trampled to and fro.'— The laughing host look'd on the hire,— 'Gramercy, gentle southern squire, And if thou comest among the rest, 60 With Scottish broadsword to be blest, Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, And short the pang to undergo.' Here stay'd their talk,—for Marmion Gave now the signal to set on. 65 The Palmer showing forth the way, They journey'd all the morning day.
IV.
The green-sward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood; A forest-glade, which, varying still, 70 Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed, till over head A vaulted screen the branches made. 'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said; 'Such as where errant-knights might see 75 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. 80 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; 85 Perchance to show his lore design'd; For Eustace much had pored Upon a huge romantic tome, In the hall-window of his home, Imprinted at the antique dome 90 Of Caxton, or de Worde. Therefore he spoke,—but spoke in vain, For Marmion answer'd nought again.
V.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 95 Were heard to echo far; Each ready archer grasp'd his bow, But by the flourish soon they know, They breathed no point of war. Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 100 Lord Marmion's order speeds the band, Some opener ground to gain; And scarce a furlong had they rode, When thinner trees, receding, show'd A little woodland plain. 105 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 110 So late the forest echoes rang; On prancing steeds they forward press'd, With scarlet mantle, azure vest; Each at his trump a banner wore, Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 115 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, 120 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held, That feudal strife had often quell'd, When wildest its alarms.
VII.
He was a man of middle age; In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 125 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, 130 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 135 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, Embroider'd round and round. 140 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, 145 That scarce the dazzled eye could note, In living colours, blazon'd brave, The Lion, which his title gave; A train, which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait. 150 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, 155 Soon as he saw the Lion-King; For well the stately Baron knew To him such courtesy was due, Whom Royal James himself had crown'd, And on his temples placed the round 160 Of Scotland's ancient diadem: And wet his brow with hallow'd wine, And on his finger given to shine The emblematic gem. Their mutual greetings duly made, 165 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; 170 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name, And honours much his warlike fame, My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack Of courtesy, to turn him back; And, by his order, I, your guide, 175 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. 180 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, 185 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. 190 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 assign'd 195 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, 200 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; 205 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, 210 Thy turrets rude, and totter'd 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, 215 Quarter'd in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 220 Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, Adorn thy ruin'd stair. Still rises unimpair'd below, The court-yard's graceful portico; Above its cornice, row and row 225 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, 230 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. 235
XII.
Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, As through its portal Marmion rode; But yet 'twas melancholy state Received him at the outer gate; For none were in the Castle then, 240 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, Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold; 245 For each man that could draw a sword Had march'd 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! 250 She ne'er shall see his gallant train, Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean. 'Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.
XIII.
And here two days did Marmion rest, 255 With every rite that honour claims, Attended as the King's own guest;— Such the command of Royal James, Who marshall'd then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 260 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 265 Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,— Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece, And policies of war and peace. 270
XIV.
It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walk'd, And, by the slowly fading light, Of varying topics talk'd; And, unaware, the Herald-bard 275 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: 280 And, closer question'd, thus he told A tale, which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enroll'd:-
XV.
Sir David Lindsey's Tale.
'Of all the palaces so fair, Built for the royal dwelling, 285 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! 290 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 295 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! 300 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 305 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 310 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, 315 The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, Their banners o'er them beaming. I too was there, and, sooth to tell, Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 320 Through the stain'd casement gleaming; But, while I mark'd what next befell, It seem'd as I were dreaming. Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white; 325 His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair.— Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, I pledge to you my knightly word, That, when I saw his placid grace, 330 His simple majesty of face, His solemn bearing, and his pace So stately gliding on,— Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint So just an image of the Saint, 335 Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,— The loved Apostle John!
XVII.
'He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made; 340 Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant, And words like these he said, In a low voice,—but never tone So thrill'd through vein, and nerve, and bone:— "My mother sent me from afar, 346 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, 350 James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware: God keep thee as He may!"— The wondering monarch seem'd to seek For answer, and found none; And when he raised his head to speak, 355 The monitor was gone. The Marshal and myself had cast To stop him as he outward pass'd; But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, He vanish'd from our eyes, 360 Like sunbeam on the billow cast, That glances but, and dies.'
XVIII.
While Lindesay told his marvel strange, The twilight was so pale, He mark'd not Marmion's colour change, 365 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 370 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 past the Tweed, What much has changed my sceptic creed, 375 And made me credit aught.'—He staid, And seem'd to wish his words unsaid: But, by that strong emotion press'd, Which prompts us to unload our breast, Even when discovery's pain, 380 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; 385 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 couch'd my head: Fantastic thoughts return'd; 390 And, by their wild dominion led, My heart within me burn'd. So sore was the delirious goad, I took my steed, and forth I rode, And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 395 Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I pass'd through, And halted, and my bugle blew. Methought an answer met my ear,— Yet was the blast so low and drear, 400 So hollow, and so faintly blown, It might be echo of my own.
XX.
'Thus judging, for a little space I listen'd, ere I left the place; But scarce could trust my eyes, 405 Nor yet can think they serve 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, 410 In single fight, and mix'd affray, And ever, I myself may say, Have borne me as a knight; But when this unexpected foe Seem'd starting from the gulf below,— 415 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. 420
XXI.
'Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course,—my charger fell;— What could he 'gainst the shock of hell? I roll'd upon the plain. High o'er my head, with threatening hand, 425 The spectre shook 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! 430 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 435 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. 440 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I pray'd, (The first time e'er I ask'd his aid), He plunged it in the sheath; And, on his courser mounting light, 445 He seem'd to vanish from my sight: The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest night Sunk down upon the heath.— 'Twere long to tell what cause I have To know his face, that met me there, 450 Call'd by his hatred from the grave, To cumber upper air: Dead, or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.'
XXII.
Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount; 455 Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount Such chance had happ'd of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460 With Brian Bulmer bold, And train'd him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. 'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid 465 And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-tree shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 470 And yet, whate'er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold 475 These midnight terrors vain; For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.'— 480 Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then press'd Sir David's hand,— But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid, 485 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 Dun-Edin's road, 490 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 if boast of storied lore; But, passing such digression o'er, 495 Suffice it that their route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid. They pass'd the glen and scanty rill, And climb'd the opposing bank, until They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 500
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, 505 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; 510 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. 515
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, 520 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 chequer'd all the heath between 525 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, 530 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, 535 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. 540 Marmion might hear the mingled hum Of myriads up the mountain come; The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, And charger's shrilling neigh; 545 And see the shifting lines advance, While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance, The sun's reflected ray.
XXVII.
Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare 550 To embers now the brands decay'd, 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, 555 By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war; And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 560
XXVIII.
Nor mark'd 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-tail'd, and square, 565 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, 570 Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone, Which still in memory is shown, Yet bent beneath the standard's weight Whene'er the western wind unroll'd, With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 575 And gave to view the dazzling field, Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield, The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.
XXIX.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,— He view'd it with a chiefs delight,— 580 Until within him burn'd 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. 585 'Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, Thy King from warfare to dissuade Were but a vain essay: For, by St. George, were that host mine, Not power infernal, nor divine, 590 Should once to peace my soul incline, Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine In glorious battle-fray!' Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood: 'Fair is the sight,—and yet 'twere good, 595 That Kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has bless'd, 'Tis better to sit still at rest, Than rise, perchance to fall.'
XXX.
Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, 600 For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 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 605 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, 610 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, 615 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 kiss'd, 620 It gleam'd a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law; And, broad between them roll'd, The gallant Frith the eye might note, 625 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, 630 And raised his bridle hand, And, making demi-volte in air, Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land!' The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 635 Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.
XXXI.
Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud, Where mingled trump, and clarion loud, And fife, and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640 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, 645 Merrily toll'd 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 Saint Katharine's of Sienne, 650 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, 655 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 660 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, 665 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, 670 'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.— But not for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought! Lord Marmion, I say nay: 675 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, 680 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, 685 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, 695 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, 5 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; 10 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employ'd no more, Cumber our parlour's narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed 15 Is long condemn'd 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; 20 When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politician, cross'd, Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains 25 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, 30 And welcome, with renew'd 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, 35 And Ettrick stripp'd 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, 40 And flanking towers, and laky flood, Guarded and garrison'd she stood, Denying entrance or resort, Save at each tall embattled port; Above whose arch, suspended, hung 45 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, 50 A wicket churlishly supplied. Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow, Dun-Edin! O, how altered now, When safe amid thy mountain court Thou sitt'st, like Empress at her sport, 55 And liberal, unconfined, and free, Flinging thy white arms to the sea, For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower, That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, Thou gleam'st against the western ray 60 Ten thousand lines of brighter day.
Not she, the Championess of old, In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd, She for the charmed spear renown'd, Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,— Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 66 What time she was Malbecco's guest, She gave to flow her maiden vest; When from the corselet's grasp relieved, Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 70 Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, Erst hidden by the aventayle; And down her shoulders graceful roll'd Her locks profuse, of paly gold. They who whilom, in midnight fight, 75 Had marvell'd 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; 80 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, 85 Bold as he was, a looser glance. She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart, Incomparable Britomane!
So thou, fair City! disarray'd Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 90 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! 95 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; 100 For fosse and turret proud to stand, Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil, Full red would stain their native soil, Ere from thy mural crown there fell 105 The slightest knosp, or pinnacle. And if it come,—as come it may, Dun-Edin! that eventful day,— Renown'd for hospitable deed, That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 110 In patriarchal times whose care Descending angels deign'd to share; That claim may wrestle blessings down On those who fight for The Good Town, Destined in every age to be 115 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. 120
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, 125 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, 130 Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, And make of mists invading men.— Who loves not more the night of June Than dull December's gloomy noon? The moonlight than the fog of frost? 135 But 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, 140 Famed Beauclerk call'd, 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 145 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, 150 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 155 An unpedantic moral gay, Nor less the dullest theme bid flit On wings of unexpected wit; In letters as in life approved, Example honour'd, and beloved,— 160 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! 165
Such minstrel lesson to bestow Be long thy pleasing task,—but, O! No more by thy example teach,— What few can practise, all can preach,— With even patience to endure 170 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! 175
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, 180 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, 185 Irregularly traced and plann'd, 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, 191 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, 5 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, 10 To see such well-appointed foes; Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, So huge, that many simply thought, But for a vaunt such weapons wrought; And little deem'd their force to feel, 15 Through links of mail, and plates of steel, When rattling upon Flodden vale, The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.
II.
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view Glance every line and squadron through; 20 And much he marvell'd 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, 25 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, 30 Each warlike feat to show, To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, And high curvett, that not in vain The sword sway might descend amain On foeman's casque below. 35 He saw the hardy burghers there March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare, For vizor they wore none, Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; But burnish'd were their corslets bright, 40 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, 45 And bucklers bright they bore.
III.
On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, With iron quilted well; Each at his back (a slender store) 50 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. 55 Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer, As loath to leave his cottage dear, And march to foreign strand; Or musing, who would guide his steer, To till the fallow land. 60 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, 65 Their valour like light straw on name, A fierce but fading fire.
IV.
Not so the Borderer:—bred to war, He knew the battle's din afar, And joy'd to hear it swell. 70 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-arm'd pricker plied his trade,— 75 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, 80 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. 85 These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by, Look'd on at first with careless eye, Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know The form and force of English bow. But when they saw the Lord array'd 90 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?— O! could we but on Border side, 95 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, 100 Could make a kirtle rare.'
V.
Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, Of different language, form, and face, A various race of man; Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 105 And wild and garish semblance made, The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid, And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd, To every varying clan, Wild through their red or sable hair 110 Look'd out their eyes with savage stare, On Marmion as he pass'd; Their legs above the knee were bare; Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, And harden'd to the blast; 115 Of taller race, the chiefs they own Were by the eagle's plumage known. The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide Their hairy buskins well supplied; The graceful bonnet deck'd their head: 120 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, O! 125 Short was the shaft, and weak the bow, To that which England bore. The Isles-men carried at their backs The ancient Danish battle-axe. They raised a wild and wondering cry, 130 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 mix'd, Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 135
VI.
Thus through the Scottish camp they pass'd, And reach'd the City gate at last, Where all around, a wakeful guard, Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward. Well had they cause of jealous fear, 140 When lay encamp'd, 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, 145 The armourer's anvil clash'd and rang; Or toil'd 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. 150 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, 155 Discuss'd his lineage, told his name, His following, and his warlike fame. The Lion led to lodging meet, Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street; There must the Baron rest, 160 Till past the hour of vesper tide, And then to Holy-Rood must ride,— Such was the King's behest. Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns A banquet rich, and costly wines, 165 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. 170 |
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