 |
VIL
Old Holy-Rood rung merrily, That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee: King James within her princely bower Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's power, Summon'd to spend the parting hour; 175 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 180 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. 185 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-ear'd cap, and motley vest, 190 The licensed fool retail'd 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, 195 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 200 To battle march a lover true— Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, Nor own her share of pain.
VIII.
Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game, The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 205 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 doff'd, to Marmion bending low, 210 His broider'd cap and plume. For royal was his garb and mien, His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild; His vest of changeful satin sheen, 215 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, 220 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 button'd with a ruby rare: 225 And Marmion deem'd 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; 230 And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye, His short curl'd beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists; 235 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, 240 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. I said he joy'd in banquet bower; But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, How suddenly his cheer would change, His look o'ercast and lower, 245 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, 250 Soon as the passing pang was o'er, Forward he rush'd, with double glee, Into the stream of revelry: Thus, dim-seen object of affright Startles the courser in his flight, 255 And half he halts, half springs aside; But feels the quickening spur applied, And, straining on the tighten'd rein, Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.
X.
O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 260 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, 265 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 turquois ring and glove, 270 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 275 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; 280 And thus, for both, he madly plann'd 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, 285 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, 290 The war against her native soil, Her monarch's risk in battle broil:— And in gay Holy-Rood, the while, Dame Heron rises with a smile Upon the harp to play. 295 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er The strings her fingers flew; And as she touch'd and tuned them all, Ever her bosom's rise and fall Was plainer given to view; 300 For, all for heat, was laid aside Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitch'd her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the King, And then around the silent ring; 305 And laugh'd, and blush'd, 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, 310 A soft, yet lively, air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung:—
XII.
LOCHINVAR.
Lady Heron's Song
O, 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, 315 He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 320 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 enter'd the Netherby Hall, 325 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,) 'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'— 330
'I long woo'd 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, 335 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'
The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 340 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, 345 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ''Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 350 So light to the croupe 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; 355 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? 360
XIII.
The Monarch o'er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer, and more near, He whisper'd praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied; 365 And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seem'd to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, 370 A real or feign'd 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; 375 For monarchs ill can rivals brook, Even in a word, or smile, or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad, Which Marmion's high commission show'd: 'Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 380 Our peaceful liege-men robb'd,' he said; 'On day of truce our Warden slain, Stout Barton kill'd, his vessels ta'en— Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 385 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 view'd: I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 390 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: 395 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, 400 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 405 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; 410 And even 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 ruin'd tower, 415 Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower: His locks and beard in silver grew; His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 420 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, 425 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,— 430 A chief unlike his sires of old. He wears their motto on his blade, Their blazon o'er his towers display'd; Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, More than to face his country's foes. 435 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. 440 Under your guard, these holy maids Shall safe return to cloister shades, And, while they at Tantallon stay, Requiem for Cochran's soul may say.' And, with the slaughter'd favourite's name, 445 Across the Monarch's brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.
XVI.
In answer nought could Angus speak; His proud heart swell'd wellnigh to break: He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 450 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! 455 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, 460 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, 465 And whisper'd 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, 470 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!' 475
XVII.
Displeased was James, that stranger view'd And tamper'd 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; 480 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, 485 And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: 'Much honour'd were my humble home, If in its halls King James should come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshire men are stem of mood; 490 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, 495 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 turn'd away, And to his nobles loud did call,— 500 '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.' 505
XVIII.
Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, Whose galley, as they sail'd again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 510 Till James should of their fate decide; And soon, by his command, Were gently summon'd to prepare To journey under Marmion's care, As escort honour'd, safe, and fair, 515 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 fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 520 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, 525 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, 530 Mid bustle of a war begun? They deem'd it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.
XIX.
Their lodging, so the King assign'd, To Marmion's, as their guardian, join'd; 535 And thus it fell, that, passing nigh, The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, Who warn'd him by a scroll, She had a secret to reveal, That much concern'd the Church's weal, 540 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, 545 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. 550 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, 555 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, 560 Were here wrapt deep in shade; There on their brows the moon-beam broke, Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements play'd. And other light was none to see, 565 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; 570 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,— 575 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 woo'd 580 Clara de Clare, of Gloster'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, 585 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,— 590 And down he threw his glove:—the thing Was tried, as wont, before the King; Where frankly did De Wilton own, That Swart in Guelders he had known; And that between them then there went 595 Some scroll of courteous compliment. For this he to his castle sent; But when his messenger return'd, Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd! For in his packet there were laid 600 Letters that claim'd disloyal aid, And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. His fame, thus blighted, in the field He strove to clear, by spear and shield;— To clear his fame in vain he strove, 605 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? 610
XXII.
'His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doom'd to suffer law, Repentant, own'd in vain, That, while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, 615 Had drench'd 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, 620 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, 625 Ne'er shelter'd 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, 630 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, 635 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, 640 Her temple spoil'd 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; 645 And grievous cause have I to fear, Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.
XXIII.
'Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd To evil power, I claim thine aid, By every step that thou hast trod 650 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 betray'd, 655 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! 660 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 665 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 retain'd 670 Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deign'd, Through sinners' perfidy impure, Her house's glory to secure, 675 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! 680 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, 685 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 O! with cautious speed, 690 To Wolsey's hand the papers 'bring, That he may show them to the King: And, for thy well-earn'd meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine, 695 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, 700 Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, 'Saint Withold, save us!—What is here! Look at yon City Cross! 705 See on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazon'd banners toss!'—
XXV.
Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone, Rose on a turret octagon; 710 (But now is razed that monument, Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland's law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. O! be his tomb as lead to lead, 715 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; 720 Figures that seem'd to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirm'd could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there 725 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, 730 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:— 735
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, 740 I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin, That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust, That e'er defiled your earthly dust,— 745 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 pass'd and gone, I cite you at your Monarch's throne, 750 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, 755 Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,- Why should I tell their separate style? Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile, 760 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.— 765 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.' 770 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; 775 Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She mark'd not, at the scene aghast, What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd.
XXVII.
Shift we the scene.—The camp doth move, 780 Dun-Edin'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-hair'd sire, with pious care, 785 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: 790 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 795 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 look'd high, as if he plann'd 800 Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, And, tucking up his sable frocke, Would first his mettle bold provoke, Then soothe or quell his pride. 805 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 govern'd fair, 810 A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, With all her nuns, and Clare. No audience had Lord Marmion sought; Ever he fear'd to aggravate Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; 815 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. 820 His was no flickering flame, that dies Unless when fann'd by looks and sighs, And lighted oft at lady's eyes; He long'd to stretch his wide command O'er luckless Clara's ample land: 825 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 loath'd to think upon, 830 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 835 North Berwick's town, and lofty Law, Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while, Before a venerable pile, Whose turrets view'd, afar, The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 840 The ocean's peace or war. At tolling of a bell, forth came The convent's venerable Dame, And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest With her, a loved and honour'd guest, 845 Till Douglas should a bark prepare To wait her back to Whitby fair. Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, And thank'd the Scottish Prioress; And tedious were to tell, I ween, 850 The courteous speech that pass'd between. O'erjoy'd the nuns their palfreys leave; But when fair Clara did intend, Like them, from horseback to descend, Fitz-Eustace said,—'I grieve, 855 Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, Such gentle company to part;— Think not discourtesy, But lords' commands must be obey'd; And Marmion and the Douglas said, 860 That you must wend with me. Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd, Commanding, that, beneath his care, Without delay, you shall repair 865 To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.'
XXX.
The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd; But she, at whom the blow was aim'd, Grew pale as death, and cold as lead,— She deem'd she heard her death-doom read. 870 '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 875 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 880 Befitting Gloster'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, 885 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 blush'd with earnest grace; 890 His faith was painted on his face, And Clare's worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaim'd On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threaten'd, grieved; 895 To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd, Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd, And call'd the Prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 900 'The Douglas, and the King,' she said, 'In their commands will be obey'd; Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall The maiden in Tantallon hall.'
XXXI.
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, 905 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, 910 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! 915 Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurl'd him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before. God judge 'twixt Marmion and me; 920 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: 925 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; 930 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, 935 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 940 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, 945 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, 950 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, 955 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 960 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, 965 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. 970
XXXIII.
But scant three miles the band had rode, When o'er a height they pass'd, And, sudden, close before them show'd His towers, Tantallon vast; Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 975 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. 980 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, 985 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, 990 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? 995 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 1000 Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then, That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. At that sore marvell'd Marmion;— And Douglas hoped his Monarch's hand Would soon subdue Northumberland: 1005 But whisper'd 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.— 1010 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 1015 On that high ridge had made their post, Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain; And that brave Surrey many a band Had gather'd in the Southern land, And march'd into Northumberland, 1020 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 1025 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! 1030 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. 1035
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 deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer: 5 Even, 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, 10 Where shields and axes deck'd the wall, They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnaw'd rib, and marrow-bone, 15 Or listen'd all, in grim delight, While scalds yell'd 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, 20 They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recall The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 25 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; 30 On Christmas eve the mass was sung: That only night in all the year, Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen; The hall was dress'd with holly green; 35 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then open'd wide the Baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, 40 And Ceremony doff'd 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.' 45 All hail'd, with uncontroll'd 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, 50 Went roaring up the chimney wide: The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. 55 Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell, 60 How, when, and where, the monster fell; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassel round, in good brown bowls, Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls. 65 There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie: Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, 70 And carols roar'd 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; 75 White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But, O! what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when 80 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. 85
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-fetch'd claim 90 To Southron 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, 95 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: 100 Small thought was his, in after time E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banish'd race of kings revered, 105 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 110 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, 115 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:— 120 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, 125 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. 130 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! 135 What! leave the lofty Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse's charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjurer and ghost, 140 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 145 Ulysses meets Alcides' WRAITH; Aeneas, upon Thracia's shore, The ghost of murder'd Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, locutus Bos. 150 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, 155 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 160 The battle turn'd on Maida's shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If ask'd to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: 165 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, 170 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amass'd through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchemont. 175 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: 180 An '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 hollow'd to a hound. 185 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, 190 And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the Conjurer's words will make The stubborn Demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 195 Fast as 'tis open'd, 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 clench'd the spell, 200 When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure cell. An hundred years are pass'd and gone, And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 205 Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven, That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 210 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 215 Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse 220 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 pilfer'd gem. 225 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?— 230 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.
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, 5 He snuff'd 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; 10 Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the Dame's devotions share: For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid. And, with short interval, did pass 15 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 press'd Upon her intervals of rest, 20 Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart.
II.
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 25 Hung o'er the margin of the deep. Many a rude tower and rampart there Repell'd the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 30 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, 35 The cognizance 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. 40 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, 45 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. 50 Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gate-works, and walls, were strongly mann'd; No need upon the sea-girt side; The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Approach of human step denied; 55 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, 60 And list the sea-bird's cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark-grey bulwarks' side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. 65 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, 70 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, 75 Again adorn'd 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 80 Remain'd a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er, Her breviary book. 85 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 dress'd, With book in hand, and cross on breast, 90 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,— 95 Some love-lorn 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, 100 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; 105 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, 110 Hovering upon the sunny air, And smiling on her votaries' prayer. O! wherefore, to my duller eye, Did still the Saint her form deny! Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 115 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, 120 And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! condemn'd to bide My doom from this dark tyrant's pride.— But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 125 That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 130
V.
'But see!—what makes this armour here?'— For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm;—she view'd them near.— 'The breast-plate pierced!—Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, 135 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, 140 On yon disastrous day!'— She raised her eyes in mournful mood,— WILTON himself before her stood! It might have seem'd his passing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; 145 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 150 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; 155 Brightening 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 display'd: 160 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, 165 By many a tender word delay'd, 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. 170 Thence dragg'd,—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, 175 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,— 180 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 return'd to wake despair; 185 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, 190 With him I left my native strand, And, in a Palmer's weeds array'd My hated name and form to shade, I journey'd many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, 195 But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 200 My friend at length fell sick, and said, God would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed, He begg'd of me a boon— If e'er my deadliest enemy 205 Beneath my brand should conquer'd 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, 210 Full well the paths I knew. Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perish'd of my wound,— None cared which tale was true: 215 And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his Palmer's dress; For now that sable slough is shed, And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the glass. 220 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, 225 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; 230 But in my bosom muster'd 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; 235 Which wrought upon his moody sprite, And sent him armed forth by night. I borrow'd steed and mail, And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, 240 We met, and 'counter'd, hand to hand,— He fell on Gifford-moor. For the death-stroke my brand I drew, (O then my helmed head he knew, The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 245 Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid,— My hand the thought of Austin staid; I left him there alone.— O good old man! even from the grave, 250 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, 255 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, 260 Or featly was some juggle play'd, 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, 265 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 270 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; 275 For nought, he said, was in his halls, But ancient armour on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and grey-hair'd men; The rest were all in Twisel glen. 280 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! 285 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. 290 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? 295 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?— 300 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, 305 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!' 310
XI.
That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, And pour'd its silver light, and pure, Through loop-hole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon tower and hall; 315 But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel's pride, The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though seam'd with scars, Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 320 Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry The chapel's carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, 325 Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright, A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful eye 330 But little pride of prelacy; More pleased that, in a barbarous age, He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, Than that beneath his rule he held The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 335 Beside him ancient Angus stood, Doff'd his furr'd gown, and sable hood: O'er his huge form and visage pale, He wore a cap and shirt of mail; And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand 340 Upon the huge and sweeping brand Which wont of yore, in battle fray, His foeman's limbs to shred away, As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. He seem'd as, from the tombs around 345 Rising at judgment-day, Some giant Douglas may be found In all his old array; So pale his face, so huge his limb, So old his arms, his look so grim. 350
XII.
Then at the altar Wilton kneels, And Clare the spurs bound on his heels; And think what next he must have felt, At buckling of the falchion belt! And judge how Clara changed her hue, 355 While fastening to her lover's side A friend, which, though in danger tried, He once had found untrue! Then Douglas struck him with his blade: 'Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 360 I dub thee knight. Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir! For King, for Church, for Lady fair, See that thou fight.'— And Bishop Gawain, as he rose, 365 Said—'Wilton! grieve not for thy woes, Disgrace, and trouble; For He, who honour best bestows, May give thee double.'— De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must— 370 'Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust That Douglas is my brother!' 'Nay, nay,' old Angus said, 'not so; To Surrey's camp thou now must go, Thy wrongs no longer smother. 375 I have two sons in yonder field; And, if thou meet'st them under shield, Upon them bravely—do thy worst; And foul fall him that blenches first!'
XIII.
Not far advanced was morning day, 380 When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey's camp to ride; He had safe-conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide: 385 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whisper'd in an under tone, 'Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.'— The train from out the castle drew, 390 But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu:- 'Though something I might plain,' he said, 'Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid; 395 Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand.'— But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:— 'My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 400 Be open, at my Sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my King's alone, From turret to foundation-stone— 405 The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'—
XIV.
Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, 410 And—'This to me!' he said, 'An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 'To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 415 He, who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, 420 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st, I am not peer 425 To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!'— On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: 430 Fierce he broke forth,—'And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?— No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! 435 Up drawbridge, grooms—what, Warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.'— Lord Marmion turn'd,—well was his need, And dash'd the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung, 440 The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.
XV.
The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; 445 Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reach'd his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, 450 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 'Horse! horse!' the Douglas cried, 'and chase!' But soon he rein'd his fury's pace: 'A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.— 455 A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! Did ever knight so foul a deed! At first in heart it liked me ill, When the King praised his clerkly skill. Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 460 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line: So swore I, and I swear it still, Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.— Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 465 I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too,' he cried; 'Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.' With this his mandate he recalls, 470 And slowly seeks his castle halls.
XVI.
The day in Marmion's journey wore; Yet, e'er his passion's gust was o'er, They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-moor. His troop more closely there he scann'd, 475 And miss'd the Palmer from the band.— 'Palmer or not,' young Blount did say, ' He parted at the peep of day; Good sooth, it was in strange array.'— 'In what array?' said Marmion, quick. 480 'My Lord, I ill can spell the trick; But all night long, with clink and bang, Close to my couch did hammers clang; At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, And from a loop-hole while I peep, 485 Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep, Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair, As fearful of the morning air; Beneath, when that was blown aside, A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 490 By Archibald won in bloody work, Against the Saracen and Turk: Last night it hung not in the hall; I thought some marvel would befall. And next I saw them saddled lead 495 Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed; A matchless horse, though something old, Prompt to his paces, cool and bold. I heard the Sheriff Sholto say, The Earl did much the Master pray 500 To use him on the battle-day; But he preferr'd'—'Nay, Henry, cease! Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.— Eustace, thou bear'st a brain—I pray, What did Blount see at break of day?' 505
XVII.
'In brief, my lord, we both descried (For then I stood by Henry's side) The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, Upon the Earl's own favourite steed: All sheathed he was in armour bright, 510 And much resembled that same knight, Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: Lord Angus wish'd him speed.'— The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, A sudden light on Marmion broke;— 515 'Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!' He mutter'd; 'Twas nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold, But living man of earthly mould.— O dotage blind and gross! 520 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust, My path no more to cross.— How stand we now?—he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail; 525 'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged brow.— Will Surrey dare to entertain, 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? Small risk of that, I trow. Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; 330 Must separate Constance from the Nun— O, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! A Palmer too!—no wonder why I felt rebuked beneath his eye: 535 I might have known there was but one, Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.'
XVIII.
Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed His troop, and reach'd, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their march; 540 (There now is left but one frail arch, Yet mourn thou not its cells; Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade, A reverend pilgrim dwells, 545 Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, And lodging for his train and Clare. 550 Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, To view afar the Scottish power, Encamp'd on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, 555 Along the dusky ridge. Long Marmion look'd:—at length his eye Unusual movement might descry Amid the shifting lines: The Scottish host drawn out appears, 560 For, flashing on the hedge of spears, The eastern sunbeam shines. Their front now deepening, now extending; Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, 565 The skilful Marmion well could know, They watch'd the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below.
XIX.
Even so it was. From Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host 570 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd The Till by Twisel Bridge. High sight it is, and haughty, while They dive into the deep defile; 575 Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall, Beneath the castle's airy wall. By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, Troop after troop are disappearing; Troop after troop their banners rearing, 580 Upon the eastern bank you see. Still pouring down the rocky den, Where flows the sullen Till, And rising from the dim-wood glen, Standards on standards, men on men, 585 In slow succession still, And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, And pressing on, in ceaseless march, To gain the opposing hill. That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 590 Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang; And many a chief of birth and rank, Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank. Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 595 Had then from many an axe its doom, To give the marching columns room.
XX.
And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, Since England gains the pass the while, 600 And struggles through the deep defile? What checks the fiery soul of James? Why sits that champion of the dames Inactive on his steed, And sees, between him and his land, 605 Between him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead? What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand?— O, Douglas, for thy leading wand! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! 610 O for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight, And cry—'Saint Andrew and our right!' Another sight had seen that morn, From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 615 And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!— The precious hour has pass'd in vain, And England's host has gain'd the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden hill. 620
XXI.
Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 'Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! And see ascending squadrons come Between Tweed's river and the hill, 625 Foot, horse, and cannon:—hap what hap, My basnet to a prentice cap, Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!— Yet more! yet more!—how far array'd They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630 And sweep so gallant by! With all their banners bravely spread, And all their armour flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead, To see fair England's standards fly.'— 635 'Stint in thy prate,' quoth Blount, 'thou'dst best, And listen to our lord's behest.'— With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,— 'This instant be our band array'd; The river must be quickly cross'd, 640 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. If fight King James,—as well I trust, That fight he will, and fight he must,— The Lady Clare behind our lines Shall tarry, while the battle joins.' 645
XXII.
Himself he swift on horseback threw, Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu; Far less would listen to his prayer, To leave behind the helpless Clare. Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 650 And mutter'd as the flood they view, 'The pheasant in the falcon's claw, He scarce will yield to please a daw: Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, So Clare shall bide with me.' 655 Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep, He ventured desperately: And not a moment will he bide, Till squire, or groom, before him ride; 660 Headmost of all he stems the tide, And stems it gallantly. Eustace held Clare upon her horse, Old Hubert led her rein, Stoutly they braved the current's course, 665 And, though far downward driven per force, The southern bank they gain; Behind them, straggling, came to shore, As best they might, the train: Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 670 A caution not in vain; Deep need that day that every string, By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. A moment then Lord Marmion staid, And breathed his steed, his men array'd, 675 Then forward moved his band, Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, He halted by a Cross of Stone, That, on a hillock standing lone, Did all the field command. 680
XXIII.
Hence might they see the full array Of either host, for deadly fray; Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and west, And fronted north and south, And distant salutation pass'd 685 From the loud cannon mouth; Not in the close successive rattle, That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between.— The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion staid: 690 'Here, by this Cross,' he gently said, 'You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: O! think of Marmion in thy prayer!— Thou wilt not?—well, no less my care 695 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.— You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, With ten pick'd archers of my train; With England if the day go hard, To Berwick speed amain.— 700 But if we conquer, cruel maid, My spoils shall at your feet be laid, When here we meet again.' He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, 705 Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurr'd amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took.
XXIV.
'—The good Lord Marmion, by my life! 710 Welcome to danger's hour!— Short greeting serves in time of strife :- Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host, Stout Stanley fronts their right, 715 My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rear-ward of the fight, And succour those that need it most. 720 Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, Would gladly to the vanguard go; Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share; There fight thine own retainers too, 725 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.'— 'Thanks, noble Surrey!' Marmion said, Nor farther greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, 730 Where such a shout there rose Of 'Marmion! Marmion!' that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes.
XXV.
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 735 With Lady Clare upon the hill; On which, (for far the day was spent,) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view: 740 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 'Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day.— But see! look up—on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' 745 And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 750 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, 755 At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.— Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, Until at weapon-point they close.— 760 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, 765 And fiends in upper air; Oh, life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair. Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye 770 Could in the darkness nought descry.
XXVI.
At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; 775 And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 780 Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 785 Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 790 And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight; Although against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 795 And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntly, and with Home.
XXVII.
Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; Though there the western mountaineer 800 Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied. 'Twas vain:—But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 805 Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. 810 The Border slogan rent the sky! A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,—forced back,—now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose; 815 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It waver'd 'mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear: 'By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear 820 I will not see it lost! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter prayer,— I gallop to the host.' And to the fray he rode amain, 825 Follow'd by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large,— The rescued banner rose,— But darkly closed the war around, 830 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground, It sank among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too:—yet staid, As loath to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, 835 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840 A look and sign to Clara cast, To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.
XXVIII.
Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: 845 Perchance her reason stoops, or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone.— The scatter'd van of England wheels;— She only said, as loud in air 850 The tumult roar'd, 'Is Wilton there?'— They fly, or, madden'd by despair, Fight but to die,—'Is Wilton there?'— With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 855 And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strain'd the broken brand; His arms were smear'd with blood and sand: Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 860 With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion! . . . Young Blount his armour did unlace, And gazing on his ghastly face, 865 Said—'By Saint George, he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head! Good-night to Marmion.'— 'Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: 870 He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!'
XXIX.
When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:— 'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! 875 Redeem my pennon,—charge again! Cry-"Marmion to the rescue!"—Vain! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again!— Yet my last thought is England's—fly, 880 To Dacre bear my signet-ring: Tell him his squadrons up to bring.— Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield: 885 Edmund is down;—my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, 890 Or victory and England's lost.— Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone—to die.' They parted, and alone he lay; Clare drew her from the sight away, 895 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmur'd,—'Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring, 900 To slake my dying thirst!'
XXX.
O, Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; 905 When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!— Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: 910 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; 915 For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn!—behold her mark A little fountain cell, 920 Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . for . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil .Grey . 925 Who . built . this . cross . and . well . She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A Monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man, whom duty brought 930 To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
XXXI.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave— 'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935 'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?' Then, as remembrance rose,— 'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare 940 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!'— 'Alas!' she said, 'the while,— O, think of your immortal weal! In vain for Constance is your zeal; She—died at Holy Isle.'— 945 Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound; Though in the action burst the tide, In torrents, from his wounded side. 'Then it was truth,'—he said—'I knew 950 That the dark presage must be true.— I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, 955 And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay. It may not be!—this dizzy trance— Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! 960 A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling Monk.
XXXII.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound: 965 The Monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear; 970 For that she ever sung, 'In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!' So the notes rung;— 'Avoid thee, Fiend!—with cruel hand, 975 Shake not the dying sinner's sand!— O, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine; O, think on faith and bliss! By many a death-bed I have been, 980 And many a sinner's parting seen, But never aught like this.'— The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, And—STANLEY! was the cry;— 985 A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye: With dying hand, above his head, He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted 'Victory!— 990 Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!' Were the last words of Marmion.
XXXIII.
By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, 995 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntly, and where Home?— O, for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, 1000 That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 1005 To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side, Afar, the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 1010 Our Caledonian pride! In vain the wish—for far away, While spoil and havoc mark their way, Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.— 'O Lady,' cried the Monk, 'away!' 1015 And placed her on her steed, And led her to the chapel fair, Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. There all the night they spent in prayer, And at the dawn of morning, there 1020 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
XXXIV.
But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death, The English shafts in volleys hail'd, In headlong charge their horse assail'd; 1025 Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their King. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 1030 Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, 1035 The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; 1040 Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded King. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shatter'd bands; And from the charge they drew, 1045 As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field, as snow, 1050 When streams are swoln and south winds blow Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disorder'd, through her currents dash, 1055 To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 1060 Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield!
XXXV.
Day dawns upon the mountain's side:— There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one: The sad survivors all are gone.— 1072 View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be; Nor to yon Border castle high, Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain, 1075 That, journeying far on foreign strand, The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080 And fell on Flodden plain: And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clench'd within his manly hand, Beseem'd the monarch slain. But, O! how changed since yon blithe night! 1085 Gladly I turn me from the sight, Unto my tale again.
XXXVI.
Short is my tale:—Fitz-Eustace' care A pierced and mangled body bare To moated Lichfield's lofty pile; 1090 And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, (Now vainly for its site you look; 'Twas levell'd, when fanatic Brook 1095 The fair cathedral storm'd and took; But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a couchant hound, 1100 His hands to Heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, 1105 And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain,— One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 1110 In Scotland mourns as 'wede away': Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied, And dragg'd him to its foot, and died, Close by the noble Marmion's side. The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain, 1115 And thus their corpses were mista'en; And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb, The lowly woodsman took the room.
XXXVII.
Less easy task it were, to show Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 1120 They dug his grave e'en where he lay, But every mark is gone; Time's wasting hand has done away The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, And broke her font of stone: 1123 But yet from out the little hill Oozes the slender springlet still, Oft halts the stranger there, For thence may best his curious eye The memorable field descry; 1130 And shepherd boys repair To seek the water-flag and rush, And rest them by the hazel bush, And plait their garlands fair; Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 1135 That holds the bones of Marmion brave.— When thou shalt find the little hill, With thy heart commune, and be still. If ever, in temptation strong, Thou left'st the right path for the wrong; 1140 If every devious step, thus trod, Still led thee farther from the road; Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom On noble Marmion's lowly tomb; But say, 'He died a gallant knight, 1145 With sword in hand, for England's right.'
XXXVIII.
I do not rhyme to that dull elf, Who cannot image to himself, That all through Flodden's dismal night, Wilton was foremost in the fight; 1150 That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 'Twas Wilton mounted him again; 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd, Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall, 1155 He was the living soul of all; That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again; And charged his old paternal shield With bearings won on Flodden Field. 1160 Nor sing I to that simple maid, To whom it must in terms be said, That King and kinsmen did agree, To bless fair Clara's constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate, 1165 Paint to her mind the bridal's state; That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke: That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Catherine's hand the stocking threw; 1170 And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, 'Love they like Wilton and like Clare!'
L'Envoy.
TO THE READER.
Why then a final note prolong, Or lengthen out a closing song, Unless to bid the gentles speed, Who long have listed to my rede? To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 5 To read the Minstrel's idle strain, Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, And patriotic heart—as PITT! A garland for the hero's crest, And twined by her he loves the best; 10 To every lovely lady bright, What can I wish but faithful knight? To every faithful lover too, What can I wish but lady true? And knowledge to the studious sage; 15 And pillow to the head of age. To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay Has cheated of thy hour of play, Light task, and merry holiday! To all, to each, a fair good-night, 20 And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!
NOTES
by
Thomas Bayne INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST. With regard to the Introductions generally, Lockhart writes, in Life of Scott, ii. 150:—'Though the author himself does not allude to, and had perhaps forgotten the circumstance, when writing the Introductory Essay of 1830—they were announced, by an advertisement early in 1807, as "Six Epistles from Ettrick Forest," to be published in a separate volume, similar to that of the Ballads and Lyrical Pieces; and perhaps it might have been better that this first plan had been adhered to. But however that may be, are there any pages, among all he ever wrote, that one would be more sorry he should not have written? They are among the most delicious portraitures that genius ever painted of itself—buoyant, virtuous, happy genius—exulting in its own energies, yet possessed and mastered by a clear, calm, modest mind, and happy only in diffusing happiness around it. |
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