Classic Poem

I

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
 Whistling they came and free of heart,
  But soon their mood was changed;
 Complaint was heard on every part
  Of something disarranged.
Some clamored loud for armor lost;
Some brawled 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,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire,
Although the rated horseboy sware
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder,—
‘Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall;
To Marmion who the plight dare tell
Of the good steed he loves so well?’
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,
‘What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.’

II

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,
 Nor wholly understood,
His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed;
 He knew Lord Marmion's mood.
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
 And did his tale display
Simply, as if he knew of nought
 To cause such disarray.
Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvelled at the wonders told,—
Passed them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckoned with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
‘Ill thou deserv'st thy hire,’ he said;
‘Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night,
 And left him in a foam!
I trust that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land
 To their infernal home;
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.’
The laughing host looked on the hire:
‘Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com'st among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.’
Here stayed their talk, for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journeyed all the morning-day.

IV

The greensward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed till overhead
A vaulted screen the branches made.
‘A pleasant path,’ Fitz-Eustace said;
‘Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry,
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.’
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind,
Perchance to show his lore designed;
 For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome
 Of Caxton or de Worde.
Therefore he spoke,—but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answered nought again.

V

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
 Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasped his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know
 They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band
 Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees receding showed
 A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
 Issued a gallant train.

VI

First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward pressed,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore:
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing,
 Attendant on a king-at-arms,
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held
That feudal strife had often quelled
 When wildest its alarms.

VII

He was a man of middle age,
In aspect manly, grave, and sage,
 As on king's errand come;
But in the glances of his eye
A penetrating, keen, and sly
 Expression found its home;
The flash of that satiric rage
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,
 And broke the keys of Rome.
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;
His cap of maintenance was graced
 With the proud heron-plume.
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
 Silk housings swept the ground,
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
 Embroidered round and round.
The double tressure might you see,
 First by Achains borne,
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
 And gallant unicorn.
So bright the king's armorial coat
That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colors blazoned brave,
The Lion, which his title gave;
A train, which well beseemed his state,
But all unarmed, around him wait.
 Still is thy name in high account,
  And still thy verse has charms,
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
  Lord Lion King-at-arms!

VIII

Down from his horse did Marmion spring
Soon as he saw the Lion-King;
For well the stately baron knew
To him such courtesy was due
Whom royal James himself had crowned,
And on his temples placed the round
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem,
And wet his brow with hallowed wine,
And on his finger given to shine
 The emblematic gem.
Their mutual greetings duly made,
The Lion thus his message said:—
‘Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
From England to his royal court,
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name
And honors much his warlike fame,
My liege hath deemed it shame and lack
Of courtesy to turn him back;
And by his order I, your guide,
Must lodging fit and fair provide
Till finds King James meet time to see
The flower of English chivalry.’

IX

Though inly chafed at this delay,
Lord Marmion bears it as he may.
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,
 Sought to take leave in vain;
Strict was the Lion-King's command
That none who rode in Marmion's band
 Should sever from the train.
‘England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes:’
To Marchmount thus apart he said,
But fair pretext to Marmion made.
The right-hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X

At length up that wild dale they wind,
 Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;
For there the Lion's care assigned
 A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.
That castle rises on the steep
 Of the green vale of Tyne;
And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist and willows weep,
 You bear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose,
Their various architecture shows
 The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
 The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
 But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
 Thy turrets rude and tottered keep
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
 Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
 Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
 Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
 Thy lordly gallery fair,
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
 Adorn thy ruined stair.
Still rises unimpaired below
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show
 Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
 To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
 Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More,
 Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace in undulating line
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII

Another aspect Crichtoun showed
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 't was melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate,
For none were in the castle then
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame
To welcome noble Marmion came;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffered the baron's rein to hold:
For each man that could draw a sword
Had marched that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,—he who died
On Flodden by his sovereign's side.
Long may his lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.
'T was a brave race before the name
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

XIII

And here two days did Marmion rest,
 With every right that honor claims,
Attended as the king's own guest;—
 Such the command of Royal James,
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit
Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind and wise,—
Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace.

XIV

It chanced, as fell the second night,
 That on the battlements they walked,
And by the slowly fading light
 Of varying topics talked;
And, unaware, the herald-hard
Said Marmion might his toil have spared
 In travelling so far,
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
 Against the English war;
And, closer questioned, thus he told
A tale which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enrolled:—

XV

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE

‘Of all the palaces so fair,
 Built for the royal dwelling
In Scotland, far beyond compare
 Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
 How blithe the blackbird's lay!
The wild buck bells from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
 To see all nature gay.
But June is to our sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year;
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors who could bring
The princely boy against his king!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent
King James's June is ever spent.

XVI

‘When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow's holy dome
 The king, as wont, was praying;
While for his royal father's soul
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
 The bishop mass was saying—
For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless king was slain—
In Catherine's aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth shirt and iron belt,
 And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him in their stalls of state
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
 Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
 Through the stained casement gleaming;
But while I marked what next befell
 It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.—
Now, mock me not when, good my lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word
That when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
 So stately gliding on,—
Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the saint
Who propped the Virgin in her faint,
 The loved Apostle John!

XVII

‘He stepped before the monarch's chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
 And little reverence made;
Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
 And words like these he said,
In a low voice,—but never tone
So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:—
“My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,—
 Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:
 God keep thee as He may!”—
The wondering monarch seemed to seek
 For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak,
 The monitor was gone.
The marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward passed;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
 He vanished from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
 That glances but, and dies.’

XVIII

While Lindesay told his marvel strange
 The twilight was so pale,
He marked not Marmion's color change
 While listening to the tale;
But, after a suspended pause,
The baron spoke: ‘Of Nature's laws
 So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause
 Could e'er control their course,
And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game;
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught.’—He stayed,
And seemed to wish his words unsaid,
But, by that strong emotion pressed
Which prompts us to unload our breast
 Even when discovery 's pain,
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
 At Gifford, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance or of Clare;
The thoughts which broke his sleep he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX

‘In vain,’ said he, ‘to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couched my head;
 Fantastic thoughts returned,
And, by their wild dominion led,
 My heart within me burned.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reached the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,—
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX

‘Thus judging, for a little space
I listened ere I left the place,
 But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they 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,
In single fight and mixed affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
 Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
Seemed starting from the gulf below,—
I care not though the truth I show,—
 I trembled with affright;
And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
 I scarce could couch it right.

XXI

‘Why need my tongue the issue tell?
We ran our course,—my charger fell;—
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?
 I rolled upon the plain.
High o'er my head with threatening hand
The spectre 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!
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!—
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
 And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead,—
 I well believe the last;
For ne'er from visor raised did stare
A human warrior with a glare
 So grimly and so ghast.
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade;
But when to good Saint George I prayed,—
The first time e'er I asked his aid,—
 He plunged it in the sheath,
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seemed to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night
 Sunk down upon the heath.—
'T were long to tell what cause I have
 To know his face that met me there,
Called by his hatred from the grave
 To cumber upper air;
Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.’

XXII

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learned in story, gan recount
 Such chance had happed of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,
 With Brian Bulmer bold,
And trained him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
‘And such a phantom, too, 't is said,
With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid,
 And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pine-trees shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
 Dromouchty, or Glemnore.
And yet, whate'er such legends say
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,
 On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should bold
 These midnight terrors vain;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour
When guilt we meditate within
Or harbor unrepented sin.’—
Lord Marmion turned him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
 Then pressed Sir David's band,—
But nought, at length, in answer said;
And here their further converse stayed,
 Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland's camp to take their way,—
 Such was the king's command.

XXIII

Early they took Dun-Edin's road,
And I could trace each step they trode:
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might it boast of storied lore;
But, passing such digression o'er,
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They passed the glen and scanty rill,
And climbed the opposing bank, until
They gained the top of Blackford Hill.

XXIV

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
 Among the broom and thorn and whin,
A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed, as I lay at rest,
 While rose on breezes thin
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,
 Saint Giles's mingling din.
Now, from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
 And o'er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchanged remain,
 Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan
Of early friendships past and gone.

XXV

But different far the change has been,
 Since Marmion from the crown
Of Blackford saw that martial scene
 Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
 Upland, and dale, and down.
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That checkered all the heath between
 The streamlet and the town,
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene
And tamed the glaring white with green:
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.

XXVI

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge
To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge,
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come,—
The horses' tramp and tinkling clank,
Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,
 And charger's shrilling neigh,—
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flashed from shield and lance
 The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII

Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of failing smoke declare
To embers now the brands decayed,
Where the night—watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugged to war;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omened gift! the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII

Nor marked they less where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
 Various in shape, device, and hue,
 Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there
 O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;
 The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
  Pitched deeply in a massive stone,
  Which still in memory is shown,
 Yet bent beneath the standard's weight,
  Whene'er the western wind unrolled
  With toil the huge and cumbrous fold,
 And gave to view the dazzling field,
 Where in proud Scotland's royal shield
  The ruddy lion ramped in gold.

XXIX

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,
He viewed it with a chief's delight,
 Until within him burned his heart,
 And lightning from his eye did part,
  As on the battle-day;
 Such glance did falcon never dart
  When stooping on his prey.
‘Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy king from warfare to dissuade
 Were but a vain essay;
For, by Saint George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal nor divine
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimmed their armor's shine
 In glorious battle-fray!’
Answered the bard, of milder mood:
‘Fair is the sight,—and yet 't were good
 That kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land has blessed,
'T is better to sit still at rest
 Than rise, perchance to fall.’

XXX

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,
For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
 With gloomy splendor red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,
 The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height
Where the huge castle holds its state,
 And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
 Mine own romantic town!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kissed,
It gleamed a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw,
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law;
 And, broad between them rolled,
The gallant Firth the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
 Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace's heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent,
 And raised his bridle hand,
And making demi-volt in air,
Cried, ‘Where 's the coward that would not dare
 To fight for such a land!’
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see,
Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.

XXXI

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
 And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
 Did up the mountain come;
The whilst the bells with distant chime
Merrily tolled the hour of prime,
 And thus the Lindesay spoke:
‘Thus clamor still the war-notes when
The king to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to Saint Catherine's of Sienne,
 Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame,
But me remind of peaceful game,
 When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
 To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII

‘Nor less,’ he said, ‘when looking forth
I view yon Empress of the North
 Sit on her hilly throne,
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers—
 Nor less,’ he said, ‘I moan
To think what woe mischance may bring,
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant king,
 Or with their larum call
The burghers forth to watch and ward,
'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard
 Dun-Edin's leaguered wall.—
But not for my presaging thought,
Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought!
 Lord Marmion, I say nay:
God is the guider of the field,
He breaks the champion's spear and shield;
 But thou thyself shalt say,
When joins you host in deadly stowre,
That England's dames must weep in bower,
 Her monks the death-mass sing;
For never saw'st thou such a power
 Led on by such a king.’
And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain,
 And there they made a stay.—
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing
Of Scotland's ancient court and king,
 In the succeeding lay.