Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field in Six Cantos

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MARMION: A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD IN SIX CANTOS BY SIR WALTER SCOTT EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY THOMAS BAYNE

EDITOR'S PREFACE.

I. SCOTT AT ASHESTIEL.

Sir Walter Scott's love of the country induced him, after his marriage in 1797, to settle in a cottage at the pretty village of Lasswade, near Edinburgh. Four years after leaving this district he took Mr. Morritt of Rokeby to see the little dwelling, telling him that, though not worth looking at, 'it was our first house when newly married, and many a contrivance it had to make it comfortable.' He then enumerated various devices, by which he had secured for Mrs. Scott and himself what seemed to both, at the time, additional convenience and elegance in and about their home. His reminiscences culminated in an account of an arch over the gate-way, which he had constructed by fastening together the tops of two convenient willows and placing above them 'a cross made of two sticks.' This is very beautiful and characteristic; and there is much freshness and charm in the further picture of the young cottagers rejoicing over the success of the arrangements. 'To be sure,' Scott concluded, 'it is not much of a lion to show a stranger; but I wanted to see it again myself, for I assure you after I constructed it, Mamma (Mrs. Scott) and I both of us thought it so fine, we turned out to see it by moonlight, and walked backwards from it to the cottage-door in admiration of our own magnificence and its picturesque effect.' It was his way to invest his circumstances with an interest over and above what intrinsically belonged to them, and to prompt his friends to a share in his delight.

When, in 1804, Scott was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, a condition attaching to his post was that he should reside during part of the year within the bounds of his sheriffdom. He then removed from Lasswade, and settled at Ashestiel on the Tweed, seven miles from Selkirk. This is his own account of the new home:--

'We found a delightful retirement, by my becoming the tenant of my intimate friend and cousin-german, Colonel Russell, in his mansion of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied during his absence on military service in India. The house was adequate to our accommodation, and the exercise of a limited hospitality. The situation is uncommonly beautiful, by the side of a fine river, whose streams are there very favourable for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural woods, and by hills abounding in game. In point of society, according to the heartfelt phrase of Scripture, we dwelt "amongst our own people"; and as the distance from the metropolis was only thirty miles, we were not out of reach of our Edinburgh friends, in which city we spent the terms of the summer and winter Sessions of the Court, that is, five or six months in the year.'

The functions of the Sheriff of Selkirkshire admitted of considerable leisure, and Scott settled at Ashestiel full of literary projects, as well as heartily prepared to meet his new responsibilities and to add to his numerous and valuable friendships. An enterprise that early engaged his attention was a complete edition of the British poets, but the deliberations on the subject came to nothing except in so far as they helped towards the preparation of Campbell's 'Specimens of the British Poets,' which appeared in 1819. Writing Scott regarding his project of a complete edition of the poets, his friend George Ellis said, 'Much as I wish for a corpus poetarum, edited as you would edit it, I should like still better another Minstrel Lay by the last and best Minstrel; and the general demand for the poem seems to prove that the public are of my opinion.' The work of editing, however, he seemed at the time determined on having, and he finally abandoned the idea of an exhaustive issue of the British poetry previous to his own time and settled down to edit Dryden. This was a work much needed, and Scott did it extremely well, as may be seen by comparing his own issue of Dryden's Life and Works in 1808 with the recent reproduction of it, admirably edited by Mr. George Saintsbury.

He had likewise, as he mentions in the General Preface to the Novels, begun Waverley 'about 1805,' and other literary engagements received their share of attention. He wrote articles for the Edinburgh Review, besides doing such minor if useful literary service as editing for Constable 'Original Memoirs written during the Great Civil Wars,' and so on. At the same time, there were prospects of professional advancement, an account of which he gives in the following terms, in the 1830 Introduction to 'Marmion':--

'An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had been held out to me from an influential quarter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety which I must have otherwise felt, as one upon the precarious tenure of whose own life rested the principal prospects of his family, and especially as one who had necessarily some dependence upon the favour of the public, which is proverbially capricious; though it is but justice to add, that, in my own case, I have not found it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my personal friend, the Right Hon. William Dundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland, that some fitting opportunity should be taken to be of service to me; and as my views and wishes pointed to a future rather than an immediate provision, an opportunity of accomplishing this was soon found. One of the Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called, (official persons who occupy an important and responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable income,) who had served upwards of thirty years, felt himself, from age, and the infirmity of deafness with which it was accompanied, desirous of retiring from his official situation. As the law then stood, such official persons were entitled to bargain with their successors, either for a sum of money, which was usually a considerable one, or for an interest in the emoluments of the office during their life. My predecessor, whose services had been unusually meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments of his office during his life, while I should enjoy the survivorship, on the condition that I discharged the duties of the office in the meantime. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the interval, his administration was dissolved, and was succeeded by that known by the name of the Fox and Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far completed, that my commission lay in the office subscribed by his Majesty; but, from hurry or mistake, the interest of my predecessor was not expressed in it, as had been usual in such cases. Although, therefore, it only required payment of the fees, I could not in honour take out the commission in the present state, since, in the event of my dying before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must have lost the vested interest which he had stipulated to retain. I had the honour of an interview with Earl Spencer on the subject, and he, in the most handsome manner, gave directions that the commission should issue as originally intended; adding, that the matter having received the royal assent, he regarded only as a claim of justice what he would have willingly done as an act of favour. I never saw Mr. Fox on this, or on any other occasion, and never made any application to him, conceiving that in doing so I might have been supposed to express political opinions contrary to those which I had always professed. In his private capacity, there is no man to whom I would have been more proud to owe an obligation, had I been so distinguished.

'By this arrangement I obtained the survivorship of an office, the emoluments of which were fully adequate to my wishes; and as the law respecting the mode of providing for superannuated officers was, about five or six years after, altered from that which admitted the arrangement of assistant and successor, my colleague very handsomely took the opportunity of the alteration, to accept of the retiring annuity provided in such cases, and admitted me to the full benefit of the office.'

At Ashestiel Scott systematically planned his day. He had his mornings for his multifarious work, and the after part of the day was given to necessary recreation and to his friends. He was an ardent member of the Edinburgh Light Horse, at a time when volunteers of a practical and energetic character seemed likely to be needed, and at Ashestiel he combined a certain military routine with his legal and literary arrangements. James Skene of Rubislaw, one of his best friends and most frequent visitors, mentions that 'before beginning his desk-work in the morning he uniformly visited his favourite steed, and neither Captain nor Lieutenant, nor the Lieutenant's successor, Brown Adam (so called after one of the heroes of the Minstrelsy), liked to be fed except by him.' Skene is the friend to whom Scott addresses the Introduction to Canto IV, charged with touching and beautiful reminiscences of earlier days. They were comrades in the Edinburgh Light Horse Volunteers, Scott being Quartermaster and Skene Cornet. Their friendship had been one of eleven years' standing when the dedicatory epistle was written:--

'Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand.'

With regard to the Introductions, it may now be said that they are better where they are than if the poet had published them separately, as at one time he seems to have intended (see Notes, p. 187). It is sometimes said by those anxious to learn the story that these introductory Epistles should be steadily ignored, and the cantos read in strict succession. In answer to an assertion of opinion like this, it is hardly necessary to say more than that probably those interested in the narrative alone could not do better than avoid the Introductions. But it will be well for them to miss various other things besides: will they, for example, care for the impassioned address of Constance to her judges, for the landlord's tale of grammarye, for Sir David Lyndsay's narrative, or even for the many descriptive passages that interrupt the free progress of the tale? Their reading would appear to be done on the plan of those who get through novels, or other works of imagination, by carefully omitting the dialogue and all those passages in which the author pauses to describe or to reflect. It is needless to say that this is not the spirit in which to approach 'Marmion' as it stands. Scott wrote with his friends about him, and it was part of his own enjoyment of his work to interest them in what for the time was receiving the main part of his attention. His talk with Mr. Morritt in front of the little cottage at Lasswade is highly significant as illustrative of his attitude towards his friends. His healthy, humorous, happy nature wanted sympathy, appreciation, sociality, and good cheer for its complete normal development, and this alone would explain the writing of the Introductions. But there is more than this. He talked over his subject and his progress with friends competent to discuss and advise, and he showed them portions of the poem as he advanced. There are indications in the Introductions of certain discussions that had arisen over his conception and treatment, and surely few readers would like to miss from the volume the clever and humorous apology for his own method which the poet advances in the Introduction to the third canto. William Erskine, refined critic and life-long friend, is asked to be patient and generous while the poet proceeds in his own way:--

'Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend,
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!'

Further, the Introductions do not in any case interrupt the progress of the Poem. Scott was dealing with a great national theme--a cause he and his friends could understand and appreciate--and both before starting and at every pause he has something to say that is apposite and suggestive. His country's wintry state is the key-note of the first Introduction, which is an appropriate prelude to a great national tragedy; weird Border legends and the touching and mysterious silences of lone St. Mary's Lake fitly introduce the 'mysterious Man of Woe'; the third and the fourth Introductions, with their features of personal interest and their bright reminiscences of 'tales that charmed' and scenes on 'the field-day, or the drill,' are easily connected with the Hostel and the Camp; Spenser's 'wandering Squire of Dames,' the vigorous description of the 'Queen of the North,' and the tribute to the notes that 'Marie translated, Blondel sung,' all tell in their due place as preparatory to the canto on The Court; while the ominous record, emanating from a Yule-tide retreat, could not be more fitly interrupted than by a battle of national disaster. Scott, then, may have thought of publishing the Introductions separately, but it is well that he ultimately allowed his better judgment to prevail. It is not necessary to dwell on their special descriptive features, which readily assert themselves and give Scott a high and honoured place among Nature-poets. His quick and minute observation, his sense of colour and harmonious effects, and his skill of arrangement are admirable throughout.

II. COMPOSITION OF 'MARMION.'

In 1791 Scott accompanied an uncle into Northumberland, and made his first acquaintance with the scene of Flodden. Writing to his friend William Clerk (Lockhart's Life, ii. 182), he says, 'Never was an affair more completely bungled than that day's work was. Suppose one army posted upon the face of a hill, and secured by high grounds projecting on each flank, with the river Till in front, a deep and still river, winding through a very extensive valley called Milfield Plain, and the only passage over it by a narrow bridge, which the Scots artillery, from the hill, could in a moment have demolished. Add that the English must have hazarded a battle while their troops, which were tumultuously levied, remained together; and that the Scots, behind whom the country was open to Scotland, had nothing to do but to wait for the attack as they were posted. Yet did two- thirds of the army, actuated by the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum, rush down and give an opportunity to Stanley to occupy the ground they had quitted, by coming over the shoulder of the hill, while the other third, under Lord Home, kept their ground, and having seen their King and about 10,000 of their countrymen cut to pieces, retired into Scotland without loss.' Fifteen years after this was written Scott began the composition of 'Marmion,' and it is interesting to note that, so early in life as the date of this letter indicates, he was so keenly alive to the great blunder in military tactics made by James IV and his advisers, and so manifestly stirred to eloquent expression of his feeling.

In November 1806 Scott began 'Marmion,' designed as a romance of Feudalism to succeed the Border study in 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel.' The circumstances of the time, no doubt, to some extent prompted the choice of subject. Napoleon was diligently working out his ambitious scheme of a Western Empire, and plotting the ruin of Great Britain as an indispensable feature of the arrangement. Scott was not always intimately acquainted with the details of current politics, but when a subject fairly roused his interest he was not slow to take part in its discussion. This is notably illustrated, in this very year 1806, by the outspoken and energetic political ballad he produced over the acquittal of Lord Melville from a serious charge. This ballad, which went very straight to the heart of its subject, and left no doubt as to the party feeling of the writer, not only arrested general attention but gave considerable offence to the leaders on the side so sharply handled. It is given, with an explanation of the circumstances that called it forth, in Lockhart's Life, ii. 106, 1837 ed.

While, however, party politics was not always a subject that interested Scott, patriotism was a constituent element of his character. He had a keen sense of national dignity and honour--as the extract from his Flodden letter alone sufficiently testifies-- and, had circumstances demanded it of him, he would almost certainly have distinguished himself as a trooper on the field of battle. Thus it was not only his love of a picturesque theme that inspired him with his Tale of Flodden Field, but likewise his patriotic ardour and his desire to touch the national heart. 'Marmion' is epical in character and movement; and it is at the same time a brilliant and suggestive delineation of a national effort, illustrating keen sense of honour, resolute purpose, and pathetic manly devotion. James IV was probably wrong, and he was certainly very rash, in attempting to do battle with Henry VIII, but although his people were aware of his mistake, and his advisers did all in their power to dissuade him, he was supported to the last with a heroism that recalls Thermopylae. This was a display of national character that appealed directly and powerfully to Scott, prompting him to the production of his loftiest and most energetic verse. Mournful associations will ever cluster around the tragic battle of Flodden--that 'most dolent day,' as Lyndsay aptly calls it--but all the same the record remains of what heroic men had it in them to do for King and country, where

'Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well.'

Scott intended to work slowly and carefully through his new poem, but, as he explains in the 1830 Introduction, circumstances interrupted his design. 'Particular passages,' he says, 'of a poem, which was finally called "Marmion," were laboured with a good deal of care, by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed.' The publication, however, was hastened by 'the misfortunes of a near relation and friend.' Lockhart (Life, ii. 115) explains that the reference is to 'his brother Thomas's final withdrawal from the profession of Writer to the Signet, which arrangement seems to have been quite necessary towards the end of 1806.' At any rate, the poem was finished in a shorter time than had been at first intended. The subject suited Scott so exactly that, even in default of a special stimulus, there need be no surprise at the rapidity of his composition after he had fairly begun to move forward with it. Dryden, it may be remembered, was so held and fascinated by his 'Alexander's Feast' that he wrote it off in a night. Cowper had a similar experience with 'John Gilpin,' and Burns's powerful dramatic tale, 'Tam O'Shanter,' was produced with great ease and rapidity. De Quincey records that, in his own case, his very best work was frequently done when he was writing against time. Scott's energy and fluency of composition are clearly indicated in the following passage in Lockharts Life, ii. 117:--

'When the theme was of a more stirring order, he enjoyed pursuing it over brake and fell at the full speed of his Lieutenant. I well remember his saying, as I rode with him across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one day in his declining years--"Oh, man, I had many a grand gallop among these braes when I was thinking of 'Marmion,' but a trotting canny pony must serve me now." His friend, Mr. Skene, however, informs me that many of the more energetic descriptions, and particularly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck out while he was in quarters again with his cavalry, in the autumn of 1807. "In the intervals of drilling," he says, "Scott used to delight in walking his powerful black steed up and down by himself upon the Portobello sands, within the beating of the surge; and now and then you would see him plunge in his spurs and go off as if at the charge, with the spray dashing about him. As we rode back to Musselburgh, he often came and placed himself beside me to repeat the verses that he had been composing during these pauses of our exercise."'

This is wholly in keeping with the production of such poetry of movement as that of 'Marmion,' and it deserves its due place in estimating the work of Scott, just as Wordsworth's staid and sober walks around his garden, or among the hills by which he was surrounded, are carefully considered in connexion with his deliberate, meditative verse. Scott wrote the Introduction to Canto IV just a year after he had begun the poem, and between that time and the middle of February 1808 the work was finished. There is no rashness in saying that rapidity of production did not detract from excellence of result. Indeed, it is admiration rather than criticism that is challenged by the reflection that, in these short months, the poet should have turned out so much verse of high and enduring quality.

III. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE POEM.

'Marmion' is avowedly a descriptive poem. It is a series of skilful and impressive pictures, not only remarkable in themselves, but conspicuous in their own kind in poetical literature. Scott is said to have been deficient, or at any rate imperfectly trained, in certain sense activities, but there is no denying his quick perception of colour and his strong sense of the leading points in a landscape. Even minute features are seized and utilized with ease and precision, while the larger elements of a scene are depicted with breadth, sense of proportion, and clearness and impressiveness of arrangement. This holds true whether the description is merely a vivid presentment of what the imagination of the poet calls from the remote past, or a delineation of what has actually come under his notice. Norham at twilight, with the solitary warder on the battlements, and Crichtoun castle, as Scott himself saw it, instantly commend themselves by their realistic vigour and their consistent verisimilitude. Any visitor to Norham will still be able to imagine the stir and the imposing spectacle described in the opening stanzas of the first canto; and it is a pleasure to follow Scott's minute and faithful picture of Crichtoun by examining the imposing ruin as it stands at the present day. Then it is impossible not to feel that the Edinburgh of the sixteenth century was exactly as it is depicted in the poem, and that the troops on the Borough Moor were disposed as seen by the trained military eye of Sir Walter Scott. It would be difficult to find anywhere a more striking ancient stronghold than Tantallon, nor would it be easy to conceive a more appropriate scene for that grim and exciting morning interview in which the venerable Douglas found that he had harboured a recreant knight. Above all, there is the great battle scene, standing alone in literature for its carefully detailed delineation- -its persistent minuteness, its rapidity of movement, its balanced effects, its energetic purpose--and surpassing everything in modern verse for its vivid Homeric realism. Fifteen years before, as we have seen, Scott had the progress of the battle in his mind's eye, and at length he produced his description as if he had been present in the character of a skilful and interested spectator. There are envious people who decline to admit that Scott discovered his scenery, and who contend that others knew all about it before and appreciated it in their own way. Be it so; and yet the fact remains that Scott likewise saw and appreciated in the way peculiar to him, and thereby enabled his numerous readers to share his enjoyment. A very interesting and suggestive account of the new popularity given to the Flodden district by the publication of 'Marmion' will be found in Lockhart's Life, iii. 12. In the autumn of 1812 Scott visited Rokeby, doing the journey on horseback, along with his eldest boy and girl on ponies. The following is an episode of the way:--

'Halting at Flodden to expound the field of battle to his young folks, he found that "Marmion" had, as might have been expected, benefited the keeper of the public-house there very largely; and the village Boniface, overflowing with gratitude, expressed his anxiety to have a Scott's Head for his sign-post. The poet demurred to this proposal, and assured mine host that nothing could be more appropriate than the portraiture of a foaming tankard, which already surmounted his doorway. "Why, the painter man has not made an ill job," said the landlord, "but I would fain have something more connected with the book that has brought me so much good custom." He produced a well-thumbed copy, and handing it to the author, begged he would at least suggest a motto from the Tale of Flodden Field. Scott opened the book at the death-scene of the hero, and his eye was immediately caught by the "inscription" in black letter:--

"Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray
For the kind soul of Sibyl Grey," &c.

"Well, my friend," said he, "what more would you have? You need but strike out one letter in the first of these lines, and make your painter-man, the next time he comes this way, print between the jolly tankard and your own name:--

'Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and PAY.'"

Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that this suggestion had been adopted, and for aught I know the romantic legend may still be visible.'

The characters in the poem are hardly less vigorous in conception and presentation than the descriptions. It may be true, as Carlyle asserts in his ungenerous essay on Scott, that he was inferior to Shakespeare in delineation of character, but, even admitting that, we shall still have ample room for approval and admiration of his work. So far as the purposes of the poem are concerned the various personages are admirably utilized. We come to know Marmion himself very intimately, the interest gradually deepening as the real character of the Palmer and his relations to the hero are steadily developed. These two take prominent rank with the imaginary characters of literature. James IV, that 'champion of the dames,' and likewise undoubted military leader, is faithfully delineated in accordance with historical records and contemporary estimates. Those desirous of seeing him as he struck the imagination of a poet in his own day should read the eulogy passed upon him by Barclay in his 'Ship of Fools.' The passage in which this occurs is an interpolation in the division of the poem entitled 'Of the Ruine and Decay of the Holy Faith Catholique.' The other characters are all distinctly suited to the parts they have to perform. Acting on the licence sanctioned by Horatian authority:--

'Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet,
Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum'--

Scott appropriates Sir David Lyndsay to his purpose, presenting him, even as he presents the stately and venerable Angus, with faithful and striking picturesqueness. Bishop Douglas is exactly suited to his share in the development of events; and had room likewise been found for the Court poet Dunbar--author of James's Epithalamium, the 'Thrissill and the Rois'--it would have been both a fit and a seemly arrangement. Had Scott remembered that Dunbar was a favourite of Queen Margaret's he might have introduced him into an interesting episode. The passage devoted to the Queen herself is exquisite and graceful, its restrained and effective pathos making a singularly direct and significant appeal. The other female characters are well conceived and sustained, while Constance in the Trial scene reaches an imposing height of dramatic intensity.

After the descriptions and the characterisation, the remaining important features of the poem are its marked practical irony and its episodes. Marmion, despite his many excellences, is throughout- -and for obvious reasons--the victim of a persistent Nemesis. Scott is much interested in his hero; one fancies that if it were only possible he would in the end extend his favour to him, and grant him absolution; but his sense of artistic fitness prevails, and he will abate no jot of the painful ordeal to which he feels bound to submit him. Marmion is a knight with a claim to nothing more than the half of the proverbial qualifications. He is sans peur, but not sans reproche; and it is one expression of the practical irony that constantly lurks to assail him that even his fearlessness quails for a time before the Phantom Knight on Gifford Moor. The whole attitude of the Palmer is ironical; and, after the bitter parting with Angus at Tantallon, Marmion is weighted with the depressing reflection that numerous forces are conspiring against him, and with the knowledge that it is his old rival De Wilton that has thrown off the Palmer's disguise and preceded him to the scene of war. In his last hour the practical irony of his position bears upon him with a concentration of keen and bitter thrusts. Clare, whom he intended to defraud, ministers to his last needs; he learns that Constance died a bitter death at Lindisfarne; and just when he recognises his greatest need of strength his life speedily ebbs away. There is a certain grandeur of impressive tragical effort in his last struggles, as he feels that whatever he may himself have been he suffers in the end from the merciless machinery of a false ecclesiastical system. The practical irony follows him even after his death, for it is a skilful stroke that leaves his neglected remains on the field of battle and places a nameless stranger in his stately tomb.

As regards the episodes, it may just be said in a word that they are appropriate, and instead of retarding the movement of the piece, as has sometimes been alleged, they serve to give it breadth and massiveness of effect. Of course, there will always be found those who think them too long, just as there are those whose narrowness of view constrains them to wish the Introductions away. If the poet's conception of Marmion be fully considered, it will be seen that the Host's Tale is an integral part of his purpose; and there is surely no need to defend either Sir David Lyndsay's Tale or the weird display at the cross of Edinburgh. The episode of Lady Heron's singing carries its own defence in itself, seeing that the song of 'Lochinvar' holds a place of distinction among lyrics expressive of poetical motion. After all, we must bear in mind that though it pleases Scott to speak of his tale as flowing on 'wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,' he was still conscious that he was engaged upon a poem, and that a poem is regulated by certain artistic laws. If we strive to grasp his meaning we shall not be specially inclined to carp at his method. It may at the same time be not unprofitable to look for a moment at some of the notable criticisms of the poem.

IV. CRITICISMS OF THE POEM.

When 'Marmion' was little more than begun Scott's publishers offered him a thousand pounds for the copyright, and as this soon became known it naturally gave rise to varied comment. Lord Byron thought it sufficient to warrant a gratuitous attack on the author in his 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' This is a portion of the passage:--

'And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance.
Though Murray with his Miller may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade.'

As a matter of fact, there was on Scott's part no trade whatever in the case. If a publisher chose to secure in advance what he anticipated would be a profitable commodity, that was mainly the publisher's affair, and the poet would have been a simpleton not to close with the offer if he liked it. Scott admirably disposes of Byron as follows in the 1830 Introduction:--

'The publishers of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," emboldened by the success of that poem, willingly offered a thousand pounds for "Marmion." The transaction being no secret, afforded Lord Byron, who was then at general war with all who blacked paper, an apology for including me in his satire, entitled "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." I never could conceive how an arrangement between an author and his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, could afford matter of censure to any third party. I had taken no unusual or ungenerous means of enhancing the value of my merchandise--I had never higgled a moment about the bargain, but accepted at once what I considered the handsome offer of my publishers. These gentlemen, at least, were not of opinion that they had been taken advantage of in the transaction, which indeed was one of their own framing; on the contrary, the sale of the Poem was so far beyond their expectation, as to induce them to supply the author's cellars with what is always an acceptable present to a young Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of excellent claret.'

A second point on which Scott was attacked was the character of Marmion. It was held that such a knight as he undoubtedly was should have been incapable of forgery. Scott himself; of course, knew better than his critics whether or not this was the case, but, with his usual good nature and generous regard for the opinion of others, he admitted that perhaps he had committed an artistic blunder. Dr. Leyden, in particular, for whose judgment he had special respect, wrote him from India 'a furious remonstrance on the subject.' Fortunately, he made no attempt to change what he had written, his main reason being that 'corrections, however in themselves judicious, have a bad effect after publication.' He might have added that any modification of the hero's guilt would have entirely altered the character of the poem, and might have ruined it altogether. He had never, apparently, gone into the question thoroughly after his first impressions of the type of knights existing in feudal times, for though he states that 'similar instances were found, and might be quoted,' he is inclined to admit that the attribution of forgery was a 'gross defect.' Readers interested in the subject will find by reference to Pike's 'History of Crime,' i. 276, that Scott was perfectly justified in his assumption that a feudal knight was capable of forgery. Those who understand how intimate his knowledge was of the period with which he was dealing will, of course, be the readiest to believe him rather than his critics; but when he seems doubtful of himself, and ready to yield the point, it is well that the strength of his original position can thus be supported by the results of recent investigation.

Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, not being able to understand and appreciate this new devotion to romance, and probably stimulated by his misreading of the reference to Fox in the Introduction to Canto I, did his utmost to cast discredit on 'Marmion.' Scott was too large a man to confound the separate spheres of Politics and Literature; whereas it was frequently the case with Jeffrey--as, indeed, it was to some extent with literary critics on the other side as well--to estimate an author's work in reference to the party in the State to which he was known to belong. It was impossible to deny merits to Scott's descriptions, and the extraordinary energy of the most striking portions of the Poem, but Jeffrey groaned over the inequalities he professed to discover, and lamented that the poet should waste his strength on the unprofitable effort to resuscitate an old-fashioned enthusiasm. They had been the best of friends previously--and Scott, as we have seen, worked for the Edinburgh Review--but it was now patent that the old literary intimacy could not pleasantly continue. Nor is it surprising that Scott should have felt that the Edinburgh Review had become too autocratic, and that he should have given a helping hand towards the establishing of the Quarterly Review, as a political and literary organ necessary to the balance of parties.

V. THE TEXT OF THE POEM.

Scott himself revised 'Marmion' in 1831, and the interleaved copy which he used formed the basis of the text given by Lockhart in the uniform edition of the Poetical Works published in 1833. This will remain the standard text. It is that which is followed in the present volume, in which there will be found only three--in reality only two--important instances of divergence from Lockhart's readings. The earlier editions have been collated with that of 1833, and Mr. W. J. Rolfe's careful and scholarly Boston edition has likewise been consulted. It has not been considered necessary to follow Mr. Rolfe in several alterations he has made on Lockhart; but he introduces one emendation which readily commends itself to the reader's intelligence, and it is adopted in the present volume. This is in the punctuation of the opening lines in the first stanza of Canto II. Lockhart completes a sentence at the end of the fifth line, whereas the sense manifestly carries the period on to the eleventh line. In the third Introd., line 228, the reading of the earlier editions is followed in giving 'From me' instead of 'For me,' as the meaning is thereby simplified and made more direct. In III. xiv. 234, the modern versions of Lockhart's text give 'proudest princes VEIL their eyes,' where Lockhart himself agrees with the earlier editions in reading 'VAIL'. The restoration of the latter form needs no defence. The Elizabethan words in the Poem are not infrequent, giving it, as they do, a certain air of archaic dignity, and there can be little doubt that 'vail' was Scott's word here, used in its Shakespearian sense of 'lower' or 'cast down,' and recalling Venus as 'she vailed her eyelids.'

MARMION A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD IN SIX CANTOS

Alas! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell! That Scottish Bard should wake the string, The triumph of our foes to tell! LEYDEN.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY, LORD MONTAGUE

&c. &c. &c.

THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED

BY

THE AUTHOR

ADVERTISEMENT * * * It is hardly to be expected, that an Author whom the Public have honoured with some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the Author of MARMION must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first Poem may have procured him. The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprize his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for the manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity of THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Public.

The Poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of Flodden, 9th September, 1513.
Ashestiel, 1808,

MARMION.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.

TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, 5 You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled greenwood grew, So feeble trill'd the streamlet through: Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, 10 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with double speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red 15 Upon our Forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; Away hath pass'd the heather-bell That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell; 20 Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yair. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To sheltered dale and down are driven, Where yet some faded herbage pines, 25 And yet a watery sunbeam shines: In meek despondency they eye The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill: 30 The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, And wraps him closer from the cold; His dogs no merry circles wheel, But, shivering, follow at his heel; A cowering glance they often cast, 35 As deeper moans the gathering blast.

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower; 40 Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, And anxious ask,--Will spring return, And birds and lambs again be gay, And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 45 Again shall paint your summer bower; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie; The lambs upon the lea shall bound, The wild birds carol to the round, 50 And while you frolic light as they, Too short shall seem the summer day.

To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, 55 And in her glory reappears. But oh! my Country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise; 60 The mind that thought for Britain's weal, The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine, 65 Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine: And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart! 70 Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found, 75 Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroyed,--and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, 80 And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, 85 For Britain's sins, an early grave! His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of power, Spum'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; 90 Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd, Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 95 And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the freeman's laws.

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; 100 By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne: Now is the stately column broke, 105 The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill!

Oh, think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey, 110 With Palinure's unalter'd mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood; Each call for needful rest repell'd, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, 115 The steerage of the realm gave way! Then, while on Britain's thousand plains, One unpolluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 120 But still, upon the hallow'd day, Convoke the swains to praise and pray; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear,- He, who preserved them, PITT, lies here! 125

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh; Nor be thy requiescat dumb, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, 130 When best employ'd, and wanted most; Mourn genius high, and lore profound, And wit that loved to play, not wound; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine; 135 And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,-- They sleep with him who sleeps below: And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppress'd, 140 And sacred be the last long rest. HERE, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; 145 HERE, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song, As if some angel spoke agen, 'All peace on earth, good-will to men;' If ever from an English heart, 150 O, HERE let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record, that Fox a Briton died! When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 155 And the firm Russian's purpose brave, Was barter'd by a timorous slave, Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, The sullied olive-branch return'd, Stood for his country's glory fast, 160 And nail'd her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honour'd grave, And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust. 165

With more than mortal powers endow'd, How high they soar'd above the crowd! Theirs was no common party race, Jostling by dark intrigue for place; Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 170 Shook realms and nations in its jar; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Look'd up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known The names of PITT and Fox alone. 175 Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 180 The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, Where--taming thought to human pride!-- The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 185 Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, And Fox's shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry,-- 190 'Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom, Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?' 195

Rest, ardent Spirits! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise; Not even your Britain's groans can pierce The leaden silence of your hearse; Then, O, how impotent and vain 200 This grateful tributary strain! Though not unmark'd from northern clime, Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The Bard you deign'd to praise, your deathless names has sung.

Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, My wilder'd fancy still beguile! From this high theme how can I part, Ere half unloaded is my heart! For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 210 And all the raptures fancy knew, And all the keener rush of blood, That throbs through bard in bard-like mood, Were here a tribute mean and low, Though all their mingled streams could flow-- 215 Woe, wonder, and sensation high, In one spring-tide of ecstasy!-- It will not be--it may not last-- The vision of enchantment's past: Like frostwork in the morning ray, 220 The fancied fabric melts away; Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone, And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone; And, lingering last, deception dear, The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 225 Now slow return the lonely down, The silent pastures bleak and brown, The farm begirt with copsewood wild The gambols of each frolic child, Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 230 Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on.

Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son: Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day, 235 In plucking from yon fen the reed, And watch it floating down the Tweed; Or idly list the shrilling lay, With which the milkmaid cheers her way, Marking its cadence rise and fail, 240 As from the field, beneath her pail, She trips it down the uneven dale: Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, The ancient shepherd's tale to learn; Though oft he stop in rustic fear, 245 Lest his old legends tire the ear Of one, who, in his simple mind, May boast of book-learn'd taste refined.

But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell, (For few have read romance so well,) 250 How still the legendary lay O'er poet's bosom holds its sway; How on the ancient minstrel strain Time lays his palsied hand in vain; And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 255 By warriors wrought in steely weeds, Still throb for fear and pity's sake; As when the Champion of the Lake Enters Morgana's fated house, Or in the Chapel Perilous, 260 Despising spells and demons' force, Holds converse with the unburied corse; Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move, (Alas, that lawless was their love!) He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 265 And freed full sixty knights; or when, A sinful man, and unconfess'd, He took the Sangreal's holy quest, And, slumbering, saw the vision high, He might not view with waking eye. 270

The mightiest chiefs of British song Scorn'd not such legends to prolong: They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream, And mix in Milton's heavenly theme; And Dryden, in immortal strain, 275 Had raised the Table Round again, But that a ribald King and Court Bade him toil on, to make them sport; Demanded for their niggard pay, Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 280 Licentious satire, song, and play; The world defrauded of the high design, Profaned the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line.

Warm'd by such names, well may we then, Though dwindled sons of little men, 285 Essay to break a feeble lance In the fair fields of old romance; Or seek the moated castle's cell, Where long through talisman and spell, While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 290 Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept: There sound the harpings of the North, Till he awake and sally forth, On venturous quest to prick again, In all his arms, with all his train, 295 Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scarf, Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, And wizard with his wand of might, And errant maid on palfrey white. Around the Genius weave their spells, 300 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd; And Honour, with his spotless shield; Attention, with fix'd eye; and Fear, That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; 305 And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death; And Valour, lion-mettled lord, Leaning upon his own good sword.
Well has thy fair achievement shown, 310 A worthy meed may thus be won; Ytene's oaks--beneath whose shade Their theme the merry minstrels made, Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold, And that Red King, who, while of old, 315 Through Boldrewood the chase he led, By his loved huntsman's arrow bled-- Ytene's oaks have heard again Renew'd such legendary strain; For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 320 That Amadis so famed in hall, For Oriana, foil'd in fight The Necromancer's felon might; And well in modern verse hast wove Partenopex's mystic love; 325 Hear, then, attentive to my lay, A knightly tale of Albion's elder day.

CANTO FIRST.

THE CASTLE.

I.

Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone: The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates, where captives weep, 5 The flanking walls that round it sweep,
In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seem'd forms of giant height: 10 Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flash'd back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light.

II.

Saint George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray 15
Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the Donjon Tower,
So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, 20
The Castle gates were barr'd; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,
The Warder kept his guard; Low humming, as he paced along, 25 Some ancient Border gathering-song.

III.

A distant trampling sound he hears; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,
Beneath a pennon gay; 30 A horseman, darting from the crowd, Like lightning from a summer cloud, Spurs on his mettled courser proud,
Before the dark array. Beneath the sable palisade, 35 That closed the Castle barricade,
His buglehorn he blew; The warder hasted from the wall, And warn'd the Captain in the hall,
For well the blast he knew; 40 And joyfully that knight did call, To sewer, squire, and seneschal.

IV.

'Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
Bring pasties of the doe, And quickly make the entrance free 45 And bid my heralds ready be, And every minstrel sound his glee,
And all our trumpets blow; And, from the platform, spare ye not To fire a noble salvo-shot; 50
Lord MARMION waits below!' Then to the Castle's lower ward
Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, 55 The lofty palisade unsparr'd,
And let the drawbridge fall.

V.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, Proudly his red-roan charger trode, His helm hung at the saddlebow; 60 Well by his visage you might know He was a stalworth knight, and keen, And had in many a battle been; The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd A token true of Bosworth field; 65 His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire; Yet lines of thought upon his cheek Did deep design and counsel speak. His forehead by his casque worn bare, 70 His thick mustache, and curly hair, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,
But more through toil than age; His square-turn'd joints, and strength of limb, Show'd him no carpet knight so trim, 75 But in close fight a champion grim,
In camps a leader sage.

VI.

Well was he arm'd from head to heel, In mail and plate of Milan steel; But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 80 Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd; Amid the plumage of the crest, A falcon hover'd on her nest, With wings outspread, and forward breast; E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 85 Soar'd sable in an azure field: The golden legend bore aright, Who checks at me, to death is dight. Blue was the charger's broider'd rein; Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane; 90 The knightly housing's ample fold Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold.

VII.

Behind him rode two gallant squires, Of noble name, and knightly sires; They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim: 95 For well could each a warhorse tame, Could draw the bow, the sword could sway, And lightly bear the ring away; Nor less with courteous precepts stored, Could dance in hall, and carve at board, 100 And frame love-ditties passing rare, And sing them to a lady fair.

VIII.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs, With halbert, bill, and battle-axe: They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, 105 And led his sumpter-mules along, And ambling palfrey, when at need Him listed ease his battle-steed. The last and trustiest of the four, On high his forky pennon bore; 110 Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue, Where, blazon'd sable, as before, The towering falcon seem'd to soar. Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 115 In hosen black, and jerkins blue, With falcons broider'd on each breast, Attended on their lord's behest. Each, chosen for an archer good, Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 120 Each one a six-foot bow could bend, And far a cloth-yard shaft could send; Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, And at their belts their quivers rung. Their dusty palfreys, and array, 125 Show'd they had march'd a weary way.

IX.

'Tis meet that I should tell you now, How fairly arm'd, and order'd how,
The soldiers of the guard, With musket, pike, and morion, 130 To welcome noble Marmion,
Stood in the Castle-yard; Minstrels and trumpeters were there, The gunner held his linstock yare,
For welcome-shot prepared: 135 Enter'd the train, and such a clang, As then through all his turrets rang,
Old Norham never heard.

X.

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced,
The trumpets flourish'd brave, 140 The cannon from the ramparts glanced,
And thundering welcome gave. A blithe salute, in martial sort,
The minstrels well might sound, For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, 145
He scatter'd angels round. 'Welcome to Norham, Marmion!
Stout heart, and open hand! Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,
Thou flower of English land!' 150

XI.

Two pursuivants, whom tabarts deck, With silver scutcheon round their neck,
Stood on the steps of stone, By which you reach the donjon gate, And there, with herald pomp and state, 155
They hail'd Lord Marmion: They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
Of Tamworth tower and town; And he, their courtesy to requite, 160 Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight,
All as he lighted down. 'Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,
Knight of the crest of gold! A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 165 Ne'er guarded heart so bold.'

XII.

They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside, And loudly nourish'd the trumpet-call,
And the heralds loudly cried, 170 --'Room, lordings, room for Lord Marmion,
With the crest and helm of gold! Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold: There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 175
'Gainst Marmion's force to stand; To him he lost his lady-love,
And to the King his land. Ourselves beheld the listed field,
A sight both sad and fair; 180 We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare; We saw the victor win the crest,
He wears with worthy pride; And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 185
His foeman's scutcheon tied. Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay, For him who conquer'd in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye!' 190

XIII.

Then stepp'd, to meet that noble Lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold. He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 195
Raised o'er the pavement high, And placed him in the upper place-
They feasted full and high; The whiles a Northern harper rude Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 200
'How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all,
Stout Willimondswick,
And Hardriding Dick,
And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' the Wall,
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, 205 And taken his life at the Deadman's-shaw.'
Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook
The harper's barbarous lay;
Yet much he praised the pains he took,
And well those pains did pay 210 For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain, By knight should ne'er be heard in vain,

XIV.

'Now, good Lord Marmion,' Heron says,
'Of your fair courtesy, I pray you bide some little space 215
In this poor tower with me. Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well; Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust
Or feat of arms befell: 220 The Scots can rein a mettled steed;
And love to couch a spear:-- Saint George! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near. Then stay with us a little space, 225
Our northern wars to learn; I pray you, for your lady's grace!'--
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.

XV.

The Captain mark'd his alter'd look,
And gave a squire the sign; 230 A mighty wassell-bowl he took,
And crown'd it high with wine. 'Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:
But first I pray thee fair, Where hast thou left that page of thine, 235
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare? When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed, And often mark'd his cheeks were wet, 240
With tears he fain would hide: His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed; But meeter seem'd for lady fair, 245 To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead: His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom--when he sigh'd, 250 The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride! Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady's bower? Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 255
A gentle paramour?'

XVI.

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;
He roll'd his kindling eye, With pain his rising wrath suppress'd,
Yet made a calm reply: 260 'That boy thou thought'st so goodly fair,
He might not brook the northern air. More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarn: Enough of him.--But, Heron, say, 265 Why does thy lovely lady gay Disdain to grace the hall to-day? Or has that dame, so fair and sage, Gone on some pious pilgrimage?'-- He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 270 Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame.

XVII.

Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt,
Careless the Knight replied, 'No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt,
Delights in cage to bide: 275 Norham is grim and grated close, Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower; And better loves my lady bright To sit in liberty and light, 280
In fair Queen Margaret's bower. We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove; But where shall we find leash or band,
For dame that loves to rove? 285 Let the wild falcon soar her swing, She'll stoop when she has tired her wing.'--

XVIII.

'Nay, if with Royal James's bride The lovely Lady Heron bide, Behold me here a messenger, 290 Your tender greetings prompt to bear; For, to the Scottish court address'd, I journey at our King's behest, And pray you, of your grace, provide For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 295 I have not ridden in Scotland since James back'd the cause of that mock prince, Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. Then did I march with Surrey's power, 300 What time we razed old Ayton tower.'--

XIX.

'For such-like need, my lord, I trow, Norham can find you guides enow; For here be some have prick'd as far, On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar; 305 Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, And driven the beeves of Lauderdale; Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, And given them light to set their hoods.'--

XX.

'Now, in good sooth,' Lord Marmion cried, 310 'Were I in warlike wise to ride, A better guard I would not lack, Than your stout forayers at my back; But as in form of peace I go, A friendly messenger, to know, 315 Why through all Scotland, near and far, Their King is mustering troops for war, The sight of plundering Border spears Might justify suspicious fears, And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 320 Break out in some unseemly broil: A herald were my fitting guide; Or friar, sworn in peace to bide; Or pardoner, or travelling priest, Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.' 325

XXI.

The Captain mused a little space, And pass'd his hand across his face. --'Fain would I find the guide you want, But ill may spare a pursuivant, The only men that safe can ride 330 Mine errands on the Scottish side: And though a bishop built this fort, Few holy brethren here resort; Even our good chaplain, as I ween, Since our last siege, we have not seen: 335 The mass he might not sing or say, Upon one stinted meal a-day; So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, And pray'd for our success the while. Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 340 Is all too well in case to ride; The priest of Shoreswood--he could rein The wildest war-horse in your train; But then, no spearman in the hall Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 345 Friar John of Tillmouth were the man: A blithesome brother at the can, A welcome guest in hall and bower, He knows each castle, town, and tower, In which the wine and ale is good, 350 'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. But that good man, as ill befalls, Hath seldom left our castle walls, Since, on the vigil of St. Bede, In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, 355 To teach Dame Alison her creed. Old Bughtrig found him with his wife; And John, an enemy to strife, Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 360 That, if again he venture o'er, He shall shrieve penitent no more. Little he loves such risks, I know; Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.'

XXII.

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 365 Carved to his uncle and that lord, And reverently took up the word. 'Kind uncle, woe were we each one, If harm should hap to brother John. He is a man of mirthful speech, 370 Can many a game and gambol teach; Full well at tables can he play, And sweep at bowls the stake away. None can a lustier carol bawl, The needfullest among us all, 375 When time hangs heavy in the hall, And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, And we can neither hunt, nor ride A foray on the Scottish side. The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, 380 May end in worse than loss of hood. Let Friar John, in safety, still In chimney-corner snore his fill, Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill: Last night, to Norham there came one, 385 Will better guide Lord Marmion.'-- 'Nephew,' quoth Heron, 'by my fay, Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,'--

XXIII

'Here is a holy Palmer come, From Salem first, and last from Rome; 390 One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, And visited each holy shrine, In Araby and Palestine; On hills of Armenie hath been, Where Noah's ark may yet be seen; 395 By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, Which parted at the Prophet's rod; In Sinai's wilderness he saw The Mount, where Israel heard the law, 'Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin, 400 And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. He shows Saint James's cockle-shell, Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;
And of that Grot where Olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, 405 From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.

XXIV.

'To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410 For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. He knows the passes of the North, And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth; Little he eats, and long will wake, And drinks but of the stream or lake. 415 This were a guide o'er moor and dale; But, when our John hath quaff'd his ale, As little as the wind that blows, And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.'-- 420

XXV.

'Gramercy!' quoth Lord Marmion, 'Full loth were I, that Friar John, That venerable man, for me, Were placed in fear or jeopardy. If this same Palmer will me lead 425
From hence to Holy-Rood, Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, Instead of cockle-shell, or bead,
With angels fair and good. I love such holy ramblers; still 430 They know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay: Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, Some lying legend, at the least,
They bring to cheer the way.'-- 435

XXVI.

'Ah! noble sir,' young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid, 'This man knows much, perchance e'en more Than he could learn by holy lore. Still to himself he's muttering, 440 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. Last night we listen'd at his cell; Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er No living mortal could be near. 445 Sometimes I thought I heard it plain, As other voices spoke again. I cannot tell--I like it not-- Friar John hath told us it is wrote, No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 450 Can rest awake, and pray so long. Himself still sleeps before his beads Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds.'--

XXVII.

--'Let pass,' quoth Marmion; 'by my fay, This man shall guide me on my way, 455 Although the great arch-fiend and he Had sworn themselves of company. So please you, gentle youth, to call This Palmer to the Castle-hall.' The summon'd Palmer came in place; 460 His sable cowl o'erhung his face; In his black mantle was he clad, With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,
On his broad shoulders wrought; The scallop shell his cap did deck; 465 The crucifix around his neck
Was from Loretto brought; His sandals were with travel tore, Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore; The faded palm-branch in his hand 470 Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land.

XXVIII.

When as the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal,
Or look'd more high and keen; 475 For no saluting did he wait, But strode across the hall of state, And fronted Marmion where he sate,
As he his peer had been. But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; 480 His cheek was sunk, alas the while! And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye look 'd haggard wild: Poor wretch! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, 485 In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair,
She had not known her child. Danger, long travel, want, or woe, Soon change the form that best we know-- For deadly fear can time outgo, 490
And blanch at once the hair; Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want can quench the eye's bright grace, Nor does old age a wrinkle trace
More deeply than despair. 495 Happy whom none of these befall, But this poor Palmer knew them all.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask; The Palmer took on him the task, So he would march with morning tide, 500 To Scottish court to be his guide. 'But I have solemn vows to pay, And may not linger by the way,
To fair St. Andrews bound, Within the ocean-cave to pray, 505 Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, From midnight to the dawn of day,
Sung to the billows' sound; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 510
And the crazed brain restore: Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!'

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep, 515 Where wine and spices richly steep, In massive bowl of silver deep,
The page presents on knee. Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, The Captain pledged his noble guest, 520 The cup went through among the rest,
Who drain'd it merrily; Alone the Palmer pass'd it by, Though Selby press'd him courteously. This was a sign the feast was o'er; 525 It hush'd the merry wassel roar,
The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard, But the slow footstep of the guard,
Pacing his sober round. 530

XXXI.

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose: And first the chapel doors unclose; Then, after morning rites were done, (A hasty mass from Friar John,) And knight and squire had broke their fast, 535 On rich substantial repast, Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse: Then came the stirrup-cup in course: Between the Baron and his host, No point of courtesy was lost; 540 High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, Solemn excuse the Captain made, Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd That noble train, their Lord the last. Then loudly rung the trumpet call; 545 Thunder'd the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore; Around the castle eddied slow, Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar; 550 Till they roli'd forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there, Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

TO THE REV JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

The scenes are desert now, and bare Where flourish'd once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon Thorn--perchance whose prickly spears 5 Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeers-- Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 10 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; Would he could tell how deep the shade A thousand mingled branches made; How broad the shadows of the oak, How clung the rowan to the rock, 15 And through the foliage show'd his head, With narrow leaves and berries red; What pines on every mountain sprung, O'er every dell what birches hung, In every breeze what aspens shook, 20 What alders shaded every brook!

'Here, in my shade,' methinks he'd say, 'The mighty stag at noon-tide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) 25 With lurching step around me prowl, And stop, against the moon to howl; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 30 Have bounded by, through gay green-wood. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals muster'd round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; 35 And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with crossbow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk, And foresters, in green-wood trim, 40 Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, 45 As fast the gallant greyhounds strain; Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the harquebuss below; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry, 50 And bugles ringing lightsomely.'

Of such proud huntings, many tales Yet linger in our lonely dales, Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. 55 But not more blithe that silvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp, and mean our game, Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. Remember'st thou my greyhounds true? 60 O'er holt or hill there never flew, From slip or leash there never sprang, More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. Nor dull, between each merry chase, Pass'd by the intermitted space; 65 For we had fair resource in store, In Classic and in Gothic lore: We mark'd each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between; Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70 But had its legend or its song. All silent now--for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill! No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 75 And while his honest heart glows warm, At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks, 'The Chieftain of the Hills!' No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 80 Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh; No youthful Baron's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 85 And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon: And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace; Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 90 To show our earth the charms of Heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. No more the widow's deafen'd ear Grows quick that lady's step to hear: 95 At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot; Pensive she turns her humming wheel, Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal, Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100 The gentle hand by which they're fed.

From Yair,--which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil,-- 105 Her long descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 110 When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight They press'd to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I call'd his ramparts holy ground! 115 Kindled their brows to hear me speak; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years, Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, 120 They will not, cannot long endure; Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, You may not linger by the side; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, And passion ply the sail and oar. 125 Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain, and the rill; For trust, dear boys, the time will come, When fiercer transport shall be dumb, And you will think right frequently, 130 But, well I hope, without a sigh, On the free hours that we have spent, Together, on the brown hill's bent.

When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, 135 Something, my friend, we yet may gain, There is a pleasure in this pain: It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 'Tis silent amid worldly toils, 140 And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, 'Twixt resignation and content. 145 Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone Saint Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well,--nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150 At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; 155 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, 160 And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing conceal'd might lie; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; 165 There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness: And silence aids--though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills; In summer tide, so soft they weep, 170 The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; 175 For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 180 Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.

If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, 185 Like that same peaceful hermitage, Where Milton long'd to spend his age. 'Twere sweet to mark the setting day, On Bourhope's lonely top decay; And, as it faint and feeble died 190 On the broad lake, and mountain's side, To say, 'Thus pleasures fade away; Youth, talents, beauty thus decay, And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;' Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, 195 And think on Yarrow's faded Flower: And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, 200 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, To sit upon the Wizard's grave; That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust, From company of holy dust; On which no sunbeam ever shines-- 205 (So superstition's creed divines)-- Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, Heave her broad billows to the shore; And mark the wild-swans mount the gale, Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 210 And ever stoop again, to lave Their bosoms on the surging wave; Then, when against the driving hail No longer might my plaid avail, Back to my lonely home retire, 215 And light my lamp, and trim my fire; There ponder o'er some mystic lay, Till the wild tale had all its sway, And, in the bittern's distant shriek, I heard unearthly voices speak, 220 And thought the Wizard Priest was come, To claim again his ancient home! And bade my busy fancy range, To frame him fitting shape and strange, Till from the task my brow I clear'd, 225 And smiled to think that I had fear'd.

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice; 230 And deem each hour, to musing given, A step upon the road to heaven.

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, Such peaceful solitudes displease; He loves to drown his bosom's jar 235 Amid the elemental war: And my black Palmer's choice had been Some ruder and more savage scene, Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene. There eagles scream from isle to shore; 240 Down all the rocks the torrents roar; O'er the black waves incessant driven, Dark mists infect the summer heaven; Through the rude barriers of the lake, Away its hurrying waters break, 245 Faster and whiter dash and curl, Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, Thunders the viewless stream below, Diving, as if condemn'd to lave 250 Some demon's subterranean cave, Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell, Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. And well that Palmer's form and mien Had suited with the stormy scene, 255 Just on the edge, straining his ken To view the bottom of the den, Where, deep deep down, and far within, Toils with the rocks the roaring linn; Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 260 And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, White as the snowy charger's tail, Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung: 265 Then list to me, and thou shalt know Of this mysterious Man of Woe.

CANTO SECOND.

THE CONVENT.

1.

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke
Round Norham Castle roll'd, When all the loud artillery spoke, With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke, As Marmion left the Hold,-- 5 It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, For, far upon Northumbrian seas,
It freshly blew, and strong, Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd pile, Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 10
It bore a bark along. Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, And bounded o'er the swelling tide,
As she were dancing home; The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 15 Their gallant ship so lustily Furrow the green sea-foam. Much joy'd they in their honour'd freight; For, on the deck, in chair of state, The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20 With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

II.

'Twas sweet, to see these holy maids, Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage, How timid, and how curious too, 25 For all to them was strange and new, And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage. One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite; 30 One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray; Then shriek'd, because the seadog, nigh, His round black head, and sparkling eye,
Rear'd o'er the foaming spray; 35 And one would still adjust her veil, Disorder'd by the summer gale, Perchance lest some more worldly eye Her dedicated charms might spy; Perchance, because such action graced 40 Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist. Light was each simple bosom there, Save two, who ill might pleasure share,-- The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.

III.

The Abbess was of noble blood, 45 But early took the veil and hood, Ere upon life she cast a look, Or knew the world that she forsook. Fair too she was, and kind had been As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 50 For her a timid lover sigh, Nor knew the influence of her eye. Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combined with vanity and shame; Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 55 Bounded within the cloister wall: The deadliest sin her mind could reach Was of monastic rule the breach; And her ambition's highest aim To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 60 For this she gave her ample dower, To raise the convent's eastern tower; For this, with carving rare and quaint, She deck'd the chapel of the saint, And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 65 With ivory and gems emboss'd. The poor her Convent's bounty blest, The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

IV.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule Reform'd on Benedictine school; 70 Her cheek was pale, her form was spare: Vigils, and penitence austere, Had early quench'd the light of youth, But gentle was the dame, in sooth; Though, vain of her religious sway, 75 She loved to see her maids obey, Yet nothing stern was she in cell, And the nuns loved their Abbess well. Sad was this voyage to the dame; Summon'd to Lindisfame, she came, 80 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold A chapter of Saint Benedict, For inquisition stern and strict, On two apostates from the faith, 85 And, if need were, to doom to death.

V.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofess'd, Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 90 She was betroth'd to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. Her kinsmen bade her give her hand To one, who loved her for her land: Herself, almost broken-hearted now, 95 Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom, Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.

VI.

She sate upon the galley's prow, And seem'd to mark the waves below; 100 Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, To count them as they glided by. She saw them not--'twas seeming all-- Far other scene her thoughts recall,-- A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, 105 Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there; There saw she, where some careless hand O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, To hide it till the jackals come, To tear it from the scanty tomb.-- 110 See what a woful look was given, As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

VII.

Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd-- These charms might tame the fiercest breast: Harpers have sung, and poets told, 115 That he, in fury uncontroll'd, The shaggy monarch of the wood, Before a virgin, fair and good, Hath pacified his savage mood. But passions in the human frame, 120 Oft put the lion's rage to shame: And jealousy, by dark intrigue, With sordid avarice in league, Had practised with their bowl and knife, Against the mourner's harmless life. 125 This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet grey.

VIII.

And now the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland; Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 130 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth's priory and bay; They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 135 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods Rush to the sea through sounding woods; They pass'd the tower of Widderington, Mother of many a valiant son; At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140 To the good Saint who own'd the cell; Then did the Alne attention claim, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, 145 There, boiling through the rocks, they roar, On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, 150 And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

IX.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the Saint's domain: 155 For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface 160 Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The Castle with its battled walls, The ancient Monastery's halls, 165 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle.

X.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd, With massive arches broad and round,
That rose alternate, row and row, 170
On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley'd walk
To emulate in stone. 175 On the deep walls, the heathen Dane Had pour'd his impious rage in vain; And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas, Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 180 Open to rovers fierce as they, Which could twelve hundred years withstand Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. Not but that portions of the pile, Rebuilded in a later style, 185 Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been; Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, And moulder'd in his niche the saint, And rounded, with consuming power, 190 The pointed angles of each tower; Yet still entire the Abbey stood, Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.

XI.

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 195 And with the sea-wave and the wind, Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,
And made harmonious close; Then, answering from the sandy shore, Half-drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 200
According chorus rose: Down to the haven of the Isle, The monks and nuns in order file,
From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; Banner, and cross, and relics there, 205 To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; And, as they caught the sounds on air,
They echoed back the hymn. The islanders, in joyous mood, Rush'd emulously through the flood, 210
To hale the bark to land; Conspicuous by her veil and hood, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,
And bless'd them with her hand.

XII.

Suppose we now the welcome said, 215 Suppose the Convent banquet made:
All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pry, No risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 220
The stranger sisters roam: Till fell the evening damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, For there, even summer night is chill. Then, having stray'd and gazed their fill, 225
They closed around the fire; And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The rival merits of their saint,
A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, 230 That their saint's honour is their own.

XIII.

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, How to their house three Barons bold
Must menial service do; While horns blow out a note of shame, 235 And monks cry 'Fye upon your name! In wrath, for loss of silvan game,
Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.'-- 'This, on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pier, 240 Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.'-- They told how in their convent-cell A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edelfled; And how, of thousand snakes, each one 245 Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda pray'd; Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 As over Whitby's towers they sail, And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint.

XIV.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail, To vie with these in holy tale; 255 His body's resting-place, of old, How oft their patron changed, they told; How, when the rude Dane burn'd their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 260 From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore.
They rested them in fair Melrose;
But though, alive, he loved it well,
Not there his relics might repose; 265
For, wondrous tale to tell!
In his stone-coffin forth he rides,
A ponderous bark for river tides,
Yet light as gossamer it glides,
Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 Nor long was his abiding there, Far southward did the saint repair; Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw
Hail'd him with joy and fear; 275 And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last, Where his cathedral, huge and vast,
Looks down upon the Wear; There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 280 His relics are in secret laid;
But none may know the place, Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,
Who share that wondrous grace. 285

XV.

Who may his miracles declare! Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir,
(Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, 290 And the bold men of Teviotdale,)
Before his standard fled. 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, And turn'd the Conqueror back again, 295 When, with his Norman bowyer band, He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne, Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300 The sea-born beads that bear his name: Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, And said they might his shape behold,
And hear his anvil sound; A deaden'd clang,--a huge dim form, 305 Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
And night were closing round. But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go, 310 Far different was the scene of woe, Where, in a secret aisle beneath, Council was held of life and death.
It was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell: 315
Old Colwulf built it, for his fault,
In penitence to dwell, When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling every sense 320
Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was call'd the Vault of Penitence,
Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made A place of burial for such dead, 325 As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within. 'Twas now a place of punishment; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent,
As reach'd the upper air, 330 The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, The spirits of the sinful dead
Bemoan'd their torments there.

XVIII.

But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle 335
Some vague tradition go, Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the place lay; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go. 340 Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. In low dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 345 Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor; The mildew-drops fell one by one, With tinkling plash, upon the stone. A cresset, in an iron chain, 350 Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seem'd to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below. 355

XIX.

There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three: All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict
On iron table lay; 360 In long black dress, on seats of stone, Behind were these three judges shown
By the pale cresset's ray: The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, Sat for a space with visage bare, 365 Until, to hide her bosom's swell, And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil: Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, By her proud mien and flowing dress, 370 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,
And she with awe looks pale: And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quench'd by age's night, Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 375 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern,-- Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style; For sanctity call'd, through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380

XX.

Before them stood a guilty pair; But, though an equal fate they share, Yet one alone deserves our care. Her sex a page's dress belied; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 385 Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down o'er her face she drew;
And, on her doublet breast, She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 390 But, at the Prioress' command, A Monk undid the silken band
That tied her tresses fair, And raised the bonnet from her head, And down her slender form they spread, 395
In ringlets rich and rare. Constance de Beverley they know, Sister profess'd of Fontevraud, Whom the Church number'd with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. 400

XXI.

When thus her face was given to view, (Although so pallid was her hue, It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistering fair), Her look composed, and steady eye, 405 Bespoke a matchless constancy; And there she stood so calm and pale, That, bur her breathing did not fail, And motion slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted 410 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax, Wrought to the very life, was there; So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXII.

Her comrade was a sordid soul, 415
Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds; For them no vision'd terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 One fear with them, of all most base, The fear of death,--alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, And 'shamed not loud to moan and howl, His body on the floor to dash, 430 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

XXIII.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! 435 For there were seen in that dark wall, Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;-- Who enters at such grisly door, Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid, 440 Of roots, of water, and of bread: By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless; Who, holding high a blazing torch, Show'd the grim entrance of the porch: 445 Reflecting back the smoky beam, The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were display'd, And building tools in order laid.

XXIV.

These executioners were chose, 450 As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired;
Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 455
Of some foul crime the stain;
For, as the vassals of her will,
Such men the Church selected still,
As either joy'd in doing ill,
Or thought more grace to gain, 460 If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there, They knew not how, and knew not where.

XXV.

And now that blind old Abbot rose, 465
To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose,
Alive, within the tomb; But stopp'd, because that woful Maid, Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 470 Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain; Her accents might no utterance gain; Nought but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip;
Twixt each attempt all was so still, 475
You seem'd to hear a distant rill--
'Twas ocean's swells and falls;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 480
So massive were the walls.

XXVI.

At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart,
And light came to her eye, And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 485 A hectic and a flutter'd streak, Like that left on the Cheviot peak,
By Autumn's stormy sky; And when her silence broke at length, Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 490
And arm'd herself to bear. It was a fearful sight to see Such high resolve and constancy,
In form so soft and fair.

XXVII.

'I speak not to implore your grace, 495 Well know I, for one minute's space
Successless might I sue: Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; For if a death of lingering pain, To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 500
Vain are your masses too.-- I listen'd to a traitor's tale, I left the convent and the veil; For three long years I bow'd my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride; 505 And well my folly's meed he gave, Who forfeited, to be his slave, All here, and all beyond the grave.-- He saw young Clara's face more fair, He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved no more.--
'Tis an old tale, and often told;
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old, 515
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me!

XXVIII.

'The King approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim,
Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge--and on they came,
In mortal lists to fight.
Their oaths are said,
Their prayers are pray'd, 525
Their lances in the rest are laid,
They meet in mortal shock; And hark! the throng, with thundering cry, Shout "Marmion, Marmion I to the sky,
De Wilton to the block!" 530 Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide When in the lists two champions ride,
Say, was Heaven's justice here? When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death, 535
Beneath a traitor's spear? How false the charge, how true he fell, This guilty packet best can tell.'-- Then drew a packet from her breast, Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest. 540

XXIX.

'Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent fled the maid,
The hated match to shun. "Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried, "Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 545
If she were sworn a nun." One way remain'd--the King's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land! I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
For Clara and for me: 550 This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby's shrine repair, And, by his drugs, my rival fair
A saint in heaven should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555 Whose cowardice has undone us both.

XXX.

'And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to assure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560 Had fortune my last hope betray'd, This packet, to the King convey'd, Had given him to the headsman's stroke, Although my heart that instant broke.-- Now, men of death, work forth your will, 565 For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.

XXXI.

'Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! 570 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, Full soon such vengeance will he take, That you shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been your guest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends! 575 The altars quake, the crosier bends, The ire of a despotic King Rides forth upon destruction's wing; Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep; 580 Some traveller then shall find my bones Whitening amid disjointed stones, And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Marvel such relics here should be.'

XXXII.

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air: 585 Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seem'd to rise more high; Her voice, despair's wild energy 590 Had given a tone of prophecy. Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listen'd for the avenging storm; 595 The judges felt the victim's dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:-- 'Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600 Sinful brother, part in peace!'
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,
Paced forth the judges three;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 605
The butcher-work that there befell,
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.

XXXIII.

An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day; 610 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair,
And many a stifled groan: With speed their upward way they take, (Such speed as age and fear can make,) 615 And cross'd themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on, Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seem'd to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll 620 For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, His beads the wakeful hermit told, 625 The Bamborough peasant raised his head, But slept ere half a prayer he said; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630 Listed before, aside, behind, Then couch'd him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

Like April morning clouds, that pass, With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain north, 5 Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away, 10 And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deems its murmur past; Thus various, my romantic theme Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 15 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; Pleased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 20 Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell I love the license all too well, In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 25 To raise the desultory song? Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, Some transient fit of lofty rhyme To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse For many an error of the muse, 30 Oft hast thou said, 'If, still misspent, Thine hours to poetry are lent, Go, and to tame thy wandering course, Quaff from the fountain at the source; Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 35 Immortal laurels ever bloom: Instructive of the feebler bard, Still from the grave their voice is heard; From them, and from the paths they show'd, Choose honour'd guide and practised road; 40 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days.

'Or deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse 45 For Brunswick's venerable hearse? What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, When valour bleeds for liberty?-- Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivall'd light sublime,-- 50 Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Though banded Europe stood her foes-- The star of Brandenburgh arose! Thou couldst not live to see her beam 55 For ever quench'd in Jena's stream. Lamented Chief!--it was not given To thee to change the doom of Heaven, And crush that dragon in its birth, Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60 Lamented Chief!--not thine the power, To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield! Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 65 And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; 70 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, And witness woes thou could'st not heal! On thee relenting Heaven bestows For honour'd life an honour'd close; And when revolves, in time's sure change, 75 The hour of Germany's revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK'S tomb, 80

'Or of the Red-Cross hero teach Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar: Alike to him the war that calls 85 Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, 90 When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd; Or that, where Vengeance and Affright Howl'd round the father of the fight, Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand, 95 The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.

'Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung 100 By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, 105 And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.' 110

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 115 That secret power by all obey'd, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source conceal'd or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120 One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier term'd the sway Of habit, form'd in early day? Howe'er derived, its force confest 125 Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 130 He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see 135 The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; 140 Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145 And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between? No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range; Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 150 Bennevis grey, and Carry's lake.

Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; 155 And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. Though no broad river swept along, 160 To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; 165 Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliff's were rudely piled; But ever and anon between 170 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honey-suckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 175 I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round survey'd; And still I thought that shatter'd tower The mightiest work of human power; And marvell'd as the aged hind 180 With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185 And, home returning, fill'd the hall With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. Methought that still with trump and clang, The gateway's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seam'd with scars, 190 Glared through the window's rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 195 Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While stretch'd at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war display'd; 205 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brighten'd at our evening fire! 210 From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, Show'd what in youth its glance had been; 215 Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable Priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint 220 Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 225 But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caress'd.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conn'd task? Nay, Erskine, nay--On the wild hill 230 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay--Since oft thy praise 235 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; Since oft thy judgment could refine My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line; Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!

CANTO THIRD.

THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

I.

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer show'd By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road, 5 For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down; 10 On wing of jet, from his repose In the deep heath, the black-cock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began, 15 By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. The noon had long been pass'd before They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, 20 Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour. To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 25 His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes.
On through the hamlet as they paced,
Before a porch, whose front was graced 30
With bush and flagon trimly placed,
Lord Marmion drew his rein:
The village inn seem'd large, though rude;
Its cheerful fire and hearty food
Might well relieve his train. 35 Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall: 40 Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.

III

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 45 The rafters of the sooty roof
Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar,
And savoury haunch of deer. 50 The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside,
Were tools for housewives' hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, 55
The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And view'd around the blazing hearth. His followers mix in noisy mirth; 60 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.

IV.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest; 65 And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 70 To win the soldier's hardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 75 Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady's bower:-- Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 80
Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half,
Half hidden by his hood. Still fix'd on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 85
Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer's visage fell.

VI.

By fits less frequent from the crowd 90 Was heard the burst of laughter loud; For still, as squire and archer stared On that dark face and matted beard,
Their glee and game declined. All gazed at length in silence drear, 95 Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,
Thus whispered forth his mind:-- 'Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100 Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light
Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our Lord he sets his eye; For his best palfrey, would not I
Endure that sullen scowl.' 105

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who saw The ever-varying fire-light show That figure stern and face of woe,
Now call'd upon a squire:-- 110 'Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away?
We slumber by the fire.'--

VIII.

'So please you,' thus the youth rejoin'd, 'Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 115 Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, And wake the lover's lute alike; To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 120 Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, No nightingale her love-lorn tune More sweetly warbles to the moon. Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, Detains from us his melody, 125 Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. Now must I venture as I may, To sing his favourite roundelay.'

IX.

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130 The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On Lowland plains, the ripen'd ear. 135 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, As it came soften'd up the hill, And deem'd it the lament of men 140 Who languish'd for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound, On Susquehanna's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 145 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again!

X.

Song

Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, 150
Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die,
Under the willow. 155

CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving; 160 There, thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever, Never again to wake,
Never, O never!

CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! 165

XI.

Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, 170
Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.

CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap 175
O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever; 180 Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never.

CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

XII.

It ceased, the melancholy sound; And silence sunk on all around. 185 The air was sad; but sadder still
It fell on Marmion's ear, And plain'd as if disgrace and ill,
And shameful death, were near. He drew his mantle past his face, 190
Between it and the band, And rested with his head a space, Reclining on his hand. His thoughts I scan not; but I ween, That, could their import have been seen, 195 The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force, 200 Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave! Yet fatal strength they boast to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 205 Even while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil conflict in the heart. For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,- 'Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 210 Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister's soul?
Say, what may this portend?'-- Then first the Palmer silence broke, 215 (The livelong day he had not spoke)
'The death of a dear friend.'

XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye Ne'er changed in worst extremity; Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 220 Even from his King, a haughty look; Whose accents of command controll'd, In camps, the boldest of the bold-- Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him now, Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow: 225
For either in the tone, Or something in the Palmer's look, So full upon his conscience strook,
That answer he found none. Thus oft it haps, that when within 230 They shrink at sense of secret sin,
A feather daunts the brave; A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes vail their eyes
Before their meanest slave. 235

XV.

Well might he falter!--By his aid Was Constance Beverley betray'd. Not that he augur'd of the doom, Which on the living closed the tomb: But, tired to hear the desperate maid 240 Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid; And wroth, because, in wild despair, She practised on the life of Clare; Its fugitive the Church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave; 245 And deem'd restraint in convent strange Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge, Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear, Secure his pardon he might hold, 250 For some slight mulct of penance-gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way, When the stern priests surprised their prey. His train but deem'd the favourite page Was left behind, to spare his age; 255 Or other if they deem'd, none dared To mutter what he thought and heard: Woe to the vassal, who durst pry Into Lord Marmion's privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept--he deem'd her well, 260 And safe secured in yonder cell; But, waken'd by her favourite lay, And that strange Palmer's boding say, That fell so ominous and drear, Full on the object of his fear, 265 To aid remorse's venom'd throes, Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose; And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd, All lovely on his soul return'd; Lovely as when, at treacherous call, 270 She left her convent's peaceful wall, Crimson'd with shame, with terror mute, Dreading alike escape, pursuit, Till love, victorious o'er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 275

'Alas!' he thought, 'how changed that mien! How changed these timid looks have been, Since years of guilt, and of disguise, Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes! No more of virgin terror speaks 280 The blood that mantles in her cheeks; Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, Frenzy for joy, for grief despair; And I the cause--for whom were given Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!-- 285 Would,' thought he, as the picture grows, 'I on its stalk had left the rose! Oh, why should man's success remove The very charms that wake his love!-- Her convent's peaceful solitude 290 Is now a prison harsh and rude; And, pent within the narrow cell, How will her spirit chafe and swell! How brook the stern monastic laws! The penance how--and I the cause!-- 295 Vigil, and scourge--perchance even worse!'-- And twice he rose to cry, 'To horse!' And twice his Sovereign's mandate came, Like damp upon a kindling flame; And twice he thought, 'Gave I not charge 300 She should be safe, though not at large? They durst not, for their island, shred One golden ringlet from her head.'

XVIII.

While thus in Marmion's bosom strove Repentance and reviving love, 305 Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard, And, talkative, took up the word:
'Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 310 From Scotland's simple land away,
To visit realms afar, Full often learn the art to know Of future weal, or future woe,
By word, or sign, or star; 315 Yet might a knight his fortune hear, If, knight-like, he despises fear, Not far from hence;--if fathers old Aright our hamlet legend told.'-- These broken words the menials move, (For marvels still the vulgar love,) 320 And, Marmion giving license cold, His tale the host thus gladly told:--

XIX.

The Host's Tale

'A Clerk could tell what years have flown Since Alexander fill'd our throne, 325 (Third monarch of that warlike name,) And eke the time when here he came To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: A braver never drew a sword; A wiser never, at the hour 330 Of midnight, spoke the word of power: The same, whom ancient records call The founder of the Goblin-Hall. I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay Gave you that cavern to survey. 335 Of lofty roof, and ample size, Beneath the castle deep it lies: To hew the living rock profound, The floor to pave, the arch to round, There never toil'd a mortal arm, 340 It all was wrought by word and charm; And I have heard my grandsire say, That the wild clamour and affray Of those dread artisans of hell, Who labour'd under Hugo's spell, 345 Sounded as loud as ocean's war, Among the caverns of Dunbar.

XX.

'The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, Deep labouring with uncertain thought; Even then he mustered all his host, 350 To meet upon the western coast; For Norse and Danish galleys plied Their oars within the Frith of Clyde. There floated Haco's banner trim, Above Norweyan warriors grim, 355 Savage of heart, and large of limb; Threatening both continent and isle, Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 360 And tarried not his garb to change, But, in his wizard habit strange, Came forth,--a quaint and fearful sight; His mantle lined with fox-skins white; His high and wrinkled forehead bore 365 A pointed cap, such as of yore Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore: His shoes were mark'd with cross and spell, Upon his breast a pentacle; His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 370 Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, Bore many a planetary sign, Combust, and retrograde, and trine; And in his hand he held prepared, A naked sword without a guard. 375

XXI.

'Dire dealings with the fiendish race Had mark'd strange lines upon his face; Vigil and fast had worn him grim, His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, As one unused to upper day; 380 Even his own menials with dismay Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, In his unwonted wild attire; Unwonted, for traditions run, He seldom thus beheld the sun.-- 385 "I know," he said,--his voice was hoarse, And broken seem'd its hollow force,-- "I know the cause, although untold, Why the King seeks his vassal's hold: Vainly from me my liege would know 390 His kingdom's future weal or woe; But yet, if strong his arm and heart, His courage may do more than art.

XXII.

'"Of middle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, 395 Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, The issue of events afar; But still their sullen aid withhold, Save when by mightier force controll'd. Such late I summon'd to my hall; 400 And though so potent was the call, That scarce the deepest nook of hell I deem'd a refuge from the spell, Yet, obstinate in silence still, The haughty demon mocks my skill. 405 But thou,--who little know'st thy might, As born upon that blessed night When yawning graves, and dying groan, Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown,-- With untaught valour shalt compel 410 Response denied to magic spell."-- "Gramercy," quoth our Monarch free, "Place him but front to front with me, And, by this good and honour'd brand, The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 415 Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, The demon shall a buffet bide."-- His bearing bold the wizard view'd, And thus, well pleased, his speech renew'd:-- "There spoke the blood of Malcolm!--mark: 420 Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, The rampart seek, whose circling crown Crests the ascent of yonder down: A southern entrance shalt thou find; There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 425 And trust thine elfin foe to see, In guise of thy worst enemy: Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed-- Upon him! and Saint George to speed! If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 Whate'er these airy sprites can show:-- If thy heart fail thee in the strife, I am no warrant for thy life."

XXIII.

'Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and arm'd, forth rode the King 435 To that old camp's deserted round: Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound, Left hand the town,--the Pictish race, The trench, long since, in blood did trace; The moor around is brown and bare, 440 The space within is green and fair. The spot our village children know, For there the earliest wild-flowers grow; But woe betide the wandering wight, That treads its circle in the night! 445 The breadth across, a bowshot clear, Gives ample space for full career; Opposed to the four points of heaven, By four deep gaps are entrance given. The southernmost our Monarch past, 450 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; And on the north, within the ring, Appeared the form of England's King, Who then a thousand leagues afar, In Palestine waged holy war: 455 Yet arms like England's did he wield, Alike the leopards in the shield, Alike his Syrian courser's frame, The rider's length of limb the same: Long afterwards did Scotland know, 460 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

XXIV.

'The vision made our Monarch start, But soon he mann'd his noble heart, And in the first career they ran, The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man; 465 Yet did a splinter of his lance Through Alexander's visor glance, And razed the skin--a puny wound. The King, light leaping to the ground, With naked blade his phantom foe 470 Compell'd the future war to show. Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, Where still gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war; Himself he saw, amid the field, 475 On high his brandish'd war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his car, While all around the shadowy Kings Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings. 'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 480 Remoter visions met his sight, Foreshowing future conquest far, When our sons' sons wage northern war; A royal city, tower and spire, Redden'd the midnight sky with fire, 485 And shouting crews her navy bore, Triumphant, to the victor shore. Such signs may learned clerks explain, They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

'The joyful King turn'd home again, 490 Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; But yearly, when return'd the night Of his strange combat with the sprite,
His wound must bleed and smart; Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 495 "Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start." Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, King Alexander fills his grave,
Our Lady give him rest! 500 Yet still the knightly spear and shield The Elfin Warrior doth wield,
Upon the brown hill's breast; And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 505
But all have foully sped; Save two, as legends tell, and they Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.-- Gentles, my tale is said.'

XXVI.

The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, 510 And on the tale the yeoman-throng Had made a comment sage and long,
But Marmion gave a sign: And, with their lord, the squires retire; The rest around the hostel fire, 515
Their drowsy limbs recline: For pillow, underneath each head, The quiver and the targe were laid. Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore: 520 The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 525 The foldings of his mantle green: Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Of sport by thicket, or by stream, Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 530 A cautious tread his slumber broke, And, close beside him, when he woke, In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 535 His master Marmion's voice he knew.

XXVIII.

--'Fitz-Eustace! rise,--I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, And graver thoughts have chafed my mood: The air must cool my feverish blood; 540 And fain would I ride forth, to see The scene of elfin chivalry. Arise, and saddle me my steed; And, gentle Eustace, take good heed Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 545 I would not, that the prating knaves Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, That I could credit such a tale.'-- Then softly down the steps they slid, Eustace the stable door undid, 550 And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd, While, whispering, thus the Baron said:--

XXIX.

'Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell,
That on the hour when I was born, Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle, 555 Down from his steed of marble fell,
A weary wight forlorn? The flattering chaplains all agree, The champion left his steed to me. I would, the omen's truth to show, 560 That I could meet this Elfin Foe! Blithe would I battle, for the right To ask one question at the sprite:- Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be, An empty race, by fount or sea, 565 To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the green oak wheel their ring.' Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, And from the hostel slowly rode.

XXX.

Fitz-Eustace follow'd him abroad, 570 And mark'd him pace the village road,
And listen'd to his horse's tramp,
Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp
Lord Marmion sought the round. 575 Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held, and wise,--- Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received For gospel, what the Church believed,--
Should, stirr'd by idle tale, 580 Ride forth in silence of the night, As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Array'd in plate and mail. For little did Fitz-Eustace know, That passions, in contending flow, 585
Unfix the strongest mind; Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, We welcome fond credulity,
Guide confident, though blind.

XXXI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 590 But, patient, waited till he heard, At distance, prick'd to utmost speed, The foot-tramp of a flying steed,
Come town-ward rushing on; First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 595 Then, clattering on the village road,-- In other pace than forth he yode,
Return'd Lord Marmion. Down hastily he sprung from selle, And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 600 To the squire's hand the rein he threw, And spoke no word as he withdrew: But yet the moonlight did betray, The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay; And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 605 By stains upon the charger's knee, And his left side, that on the moor He had not kept his footing sure. Long musing on these wondrous signs, At length to rest the squire reclines, 610 Broken and short; for still, between, Would dreams of terror intervene: Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 'Where is the life which late we led?' That motley clown in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jacques with envy view'd, Not even that clown could amplify, 5 On this trite text, so long as I. Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well; Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; 10 And sure, through many a varied scene,, Unkindness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep mark'd, like all below, 15 With chequer'd shades of joy and woe; Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men; 20 Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever'd the progress of these years, Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem The recollection of a dream, So still we glide down to the sea 25 Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day, Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often' thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, 30 That now, November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 35 Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again: And mountain dark, and flooded mead, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40 Earlier than wont along the sky, Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly; The shepherd who, in summer sun, Had something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, 45 The features traced of hill and glen;-- He who, outstretch'd the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, View'd the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 50 Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessen'd tide;-- At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun, 55 Through heavy vapours dark and dun; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, Against the casement's tinkling pane; 60 The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 65 The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, 70 To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers, and he guides, To open downs, and mountain-sides, 75 Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, Stiffens his locks to icicles; Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 80 His cottage window seems a star,-- Loses its feeble gleam,--and then Turns patient to the blast again, And, facing to the tempest's sweep, Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 85 If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, Benumbing death is in the gale; His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, Close to the hut, no more his own, Close to the aid he sought in vain, 90 The morn may find the stiffen'd swain: The widow sees, at dawning pale, His orphans raise their feeble wail; And, close beside him, in the snow, Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 95 Couches upon his master's breast, And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, 100 His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes, tuned on high, To Marion of the blithesome eye; His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed? 105

Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage, 110 Against the winter of our age: As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy; But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 115 Then happy those, since each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain,-- Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given; Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 120 Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou, of late, wert doom'd to twine,-- Just when thy bridal hour was by,-- The cypress with the myrtle tie. 125 Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And bless'd the union of his child, When love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe affection's filial tear. Nor did the actions next his end, 130 Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold-- 135 Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honour'd urn, Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140 Pour at his name a bitter tide; And frequent falls the grateful dew, For benefits the world ne'er knew. If mortal charity dare claim The Almighty's attributed name, 145 Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.' Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem My verse intrudes on this sad theme; for sacred was the pen that wrote, 150 'Thy father's friend forget thou not:' And grateful title may I plead, For many a kindly word and deed, To bring my tribute to his grave:-- 'Tis little--but 'tis all I have. 155

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing nought,--and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do,-- The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160 While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way, Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, 165 We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely labouring to pourtray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; I spelling o'er, with much delight, 170 The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 175 And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180 Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossom'd bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185 The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190 Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more; And thou, and I, and dear-loved R--, And one whose name I may not say,-- 195 For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-- In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drown'd the whistling wind. Mirth was within; and care without 200 Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene-- Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 205 For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. Such nights we've had; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day, or the drill, 210 Seem less important now--yet still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain! And mark, how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 215

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark. The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, And with their light and lively call, 5 Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came, and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarranged. 10 Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host; 'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear, That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'-- Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire, 15 Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder, Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,-- 20 'Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all! Bevis lies dying in his stall: To Marmion who the plight dare tell, Of the good steed he loves so well?'-- Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 25 The charger panting on his straw; Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,-- 'What else but evil could betide, With that cursed Palmer for our guide? Better we had through mire and bush 30 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd,
Nor wholly understood,
His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd;
He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 35
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
And did his tale display
Simply, as if he knew of nought
To cause such disarray. 40 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,-- Pass'd them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 45 Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, 'Ill thou deservest thy hire,' he said; 'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50
And left him in a foam! I trust, that soon a conjuring band, With English cross, and blazing brand, Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home: 55 For in this haunted den, I trow, All night they trampled to and fro.'-- The laughing host look'd on the hire,-- 'Gramercy, gentle southern squire, And if thou comest among the rest, 60 With Scottish broadsword to be blest, Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, And short the pang to undergo.' Here stay'd their talk,--for Marmion Gave now the signal to set on. 65 The Palmer showing forth the way, They journey'd all the morning day.

IV.

The green-sward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood; A forest-glade, which, varying still, 70 Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed, till over head A vaulted screen the branches made. 'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said; 'Such as where errant-knights might see 75 Adventures of high chivalry; Might meet some damsel flying fast, With hair unbound, and looks aghast; And smooth and level course were here, In her defence to break a spear. 80 Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells; And oft, in such, the story tells, The damsel kind, from danger freed, Did grateful pay her champion's meed.' He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind; 85 Perchance to show his lore design'd;
For Eustace much had pored Upon a huge romantic tome, In the hall-window of his home, Imprinted at the antique dome 90
Of Caxton, or de Worde. Therefore he spoke,--but spoke in vain, For Marmion answer'd nought again.

V.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 95
Were heard to echo far; Each ready archer grasp'd his bow, But by the flourish soon they know,
They breathed no point of war. Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 100 Lord Marmion's order speeds the band,
Some opener ground to gain; And scarce a furlong had they rode, When thinner trees, receding, show'd
A little woodland plain. 105 Just in that advantageous glade, The halting troop a line had made, As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang 110 So late the forest echoes rang; On prancing steeds they forward press'd, With scarlet mantle, azure vest; Each at his trump a banner wore, Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 115 Heralds and pursuivants, by name Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, In painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a King-at-arms, 120 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held, That feudal strife had often quell'd,
When wildest its alarms.

VII.

He was a man of middle age;
In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 125
As on King's errand come;
But in the glances of his eye,
A penetrating, keen, and sly
Expression found its home;
The flash of that satiric rage, 130
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,
And broke the keys of Rome.
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;
His cap of maintenance was graced 135
With the proud heron-plume.
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground,
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
Embroider'd round and round. 140
The double tressure might you see,
First by Achaius borne,
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn. So bright the King's armorial coat, 145 That scarce the dazzled eye could note, In living colours, blazon'd brave, The Lion, which his title gave; A train, which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait. 150
Still is thy name in high account,
And still thy verse has charms,
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms!

VIII.

Down from his horse did Marmion spring, 155 Soon as he saw the Lion-King; For well the stately Baron knew To him such courtesy was due, Whom Royal James himself had crown'd, And on his temples placed the round 160
Of Scotland's ancient diadem: And wet his brow with hallow'd wine, And on his finger given to shine
The emblematic gem. Their mutual greetings duly made, 165 The Lion thus his message said:-- 'Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, And strictly hath forbid resort From England to his royal court; 170 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name, And honours much his warlike fame, My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack Of courtesy, to turn him back; And, by his order, I, your guide, 175 Must lodging fit and fair provide, Till finds King James meet time to see The flower of English chivalry.'

IX.

Though inly chafed at this delay, Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 180 The Palmer, his mysterious guide, Beholding thus his place supplied,
Sought to take leave in vain: Strict was the Lion-King's command, That none, who rode in Marmion's band, 185
Should sever from the train: 'England has here enow of spies In Lady Heron's witching eyes;' To Marchmount thus, apart, he said, But fair pretext to Marmion made. 190 The right hand path they now decline, And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.

At length up that wild dale they wind,
Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assign'd 195
A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That Castle rises on the steep
Of the green vale of Tyne: And far beneath, where slow they creep, From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 200 Where alders moist, and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine. The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands; 205 A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 210
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep, Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, 215 Quarter'd in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 220 Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair. Still rises unimpair'd below, The court-yard's graceful portico; Above its cornice, row and row 225
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 230
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More;
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 235

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, As through its portal Marmion rode; But yet 'twas melancholy state Received him at the outer gate; For none were in the Castle then, 240 But women, boys, or aged men. With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame, To welcome noble Marmion, came; Her son, a stripling twelve years old, Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold; 245 For each man that could draw a sword Had march'd that morning with their lord, Earl Adam Hepburn,--he who died On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. Long may his Lady look in vain! 250 She ne'er shall see his gallant train, Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean. 'Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest, 255
With every rite that honour claims, Attended as the King's own guest;--
Such the command of Royal James, Who marshall'd then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 260 Perchance he would not foeman's eye Upon his gathering host should pry, Till full prepared was every band To march against the English land. Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 265 Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,-- Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece, And policies of war and peace. 270

XIV.

It chanced, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walk'd, And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talk'd; And, unaware, the Herald-bard 275 Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far; For that a messenger from heaven In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war: 280 And, closer question'd, thus he told A tale, which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enroll'd:-

XV.

Sir David Lindsey's Tale.

'Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling, 285 In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling; And in its park, in jovial June, How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
How blithe the blackbird's lay! 290 The wild buck bells from ferny brake, The coot dives merry on the lake, The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay. But June is to our Sovereign dear 295 The heaviest month in all the year: Too well his cause of grief you know, June saw his father's overthrow. Woe to the traitors, who could bring The princely boy against his King! 300 Still in his conscience burns the sting. In offices as strict as Lent, King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.

'When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome 305
The King, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying-- For now the year brought round again 310 The day the luckless King was slain-- In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt, With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming; Around him in their stalls of state, 315 The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming. I too was there, and, sooth to tell, Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 320
Through the stain'd casement gleaming; But, while I mark'd what next befell,
It seem'd as I were dreaming. Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white; 325 His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair.-- Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, I pledge to you my knightly word, That, when I saw his placid grace, 330 His simple majesty of face, His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,-- Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint So just an image of the Saint, 335 Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,--
The loved Apostle John!

XVII.

'He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made; 340 Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent, But on the desk his arm he leant,
And words like these he said, In a low voice,--but never tone So thrill'd through vein, and nerve, and bone:-- "My mother sent me from afar, 346 Sir King, to warn thee not to war,--
Woe waits on thine array; If war thou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 350 James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware:
God keep thee as He may!"--
The wondering monarch seem'd to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak, 355
The monitor was gone. The Marshal and myself had cast To stop him as he outward pass'd; But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
He vanish'd from our eyes, 360 Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.'

XVIII.

While Lindesay told his marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,
He mark'd not Marmion's colour change, 365
While listening to the tale:
But, after a suspended pause,
The Baron spoke:--'Of Nature's laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause 370
Could e'er control their course; And, three days since, had judged your aim Was but to make your guest your game. But I have seen, since past the Tweed, What much has changed my sceptic creed, 375 And made me credit aught.'--He staid, And seem'd to wish his words unsaid: But, by that strong emotion press'd, Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery's pain, 380 To Lindesay did at length unfold The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford, to his train. Nought of the Palmer says he there, And nought of Constance, or of Clare; 385 The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.

'In vain,' said he, 'to rest I spread My burning limbs, and couch'd my head:
Fantastic thoughts return'd; 390 And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burn'd. So sore was the delirious goad, I took my steed, and forth I rode, And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 395 Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I pass'd through, And halted, and my bugle blew. Methought an answer met my ear,-- Yet was the blast so low and drear, 400 So hollow, and so faintly blown, It might be echo of my own.

XX.

'Thus judging, for a little space I listen'd, ere I left the place;
But scarce could trust my eyes, 405 Nor yet can think they serve me true, When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.-- I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410 In single fight, and mix'd affray, And ever, I myself may say,
Have borne me as a knight; But when this unexpected foe Seem'd starting from the gulf below,-- 415 I care not though the truth I show,--
I trembled with affright; And as I placed in rest my spear, My hand so shook for very fear, I scarce could couch it right. 420

XXI.

'Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course,--my charger fell;-- What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?
I roll'd upon the plain. High o'er my head, with threatening hand, 425 The spectre shook his naked brand,--
Yet did the worst remain: My dazzled eyes I upward cast,-- Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight, like what I saw! 430 Full on his face the moonbeam strook!-- A face could never be mistook! I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe. I saw the face of one who, fled 435 To foreign climes, has long been dead,--
I well believe the last; For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare A human warrior, with a glare
So grimly and so ghast. 440 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I pray'd, (The first time e'er I ask'd his aid),
He plunged it in the sheath; And, on his courser mounting light, 445 He seem'd to vanish from my sight: The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.--
'Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me there, 450
Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air: Dead, or alive, good cause had he To be my mortal enemy.'

XXII.

Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount; 455 Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460
With Brian Bulmer bold, And train'd him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. 'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid 465
And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-tree shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 470 And yet, whate'er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,
On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold 475
These midnight terrors vain; For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.'-- 480 Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then press'd Sir David's hand,-- But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid, 485
Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland's camp to take their way,-
Such was the King's command.

XXIII.

Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 490 And I could trace each step they trode: Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, Lies on the path to me unknown. Much might if boast of storied lore; But, passing such digression o'er, 495 Suffice it that their route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid. They pass'd the glen and scanty rill, And climb'd the opposing bank, until They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 500

XXIV.

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and whin, A truant-boy, I sought the nest, Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin, 505 The murmur of the city crowd, And, from his steeple jangling loud,
Saint Giles's mingling din. Now, from the summit to the plain, Waves all the hill with yellow grain; 510
And o'er the landscape as I look, Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. To me they make a heavy moan, Of early friendships past and gone. 515

XXV.

But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown: Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 520 Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down:-- A thousand did I say? I ween, Thousands on thousands there were seen That chequer'd all the heath between 525
The streamlet and the town; In crossing ranks extending far, Forming a camp irregular; Oft giving way, where still there stood Some relics of the old oak wood, 530 That darkly huge did intervene, And tamed the glaring white with green: In these extended lines there lay A martial kingdom's vast array.

XXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 535 To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, And from the southern Redswire edge, To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge: From west to east, from south to north, Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 540 Marmion might hear the mingled hum Of myriads up the mountain come; The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
And charger's shrilling neigh; 545 And see the shifting lines advance, While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance,
The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air, The wreaths of failing smoke declare 550 To embers now the brands decay'd, Where the night-watch their fires had made. They saw, slow rolling on the plain, Full many a baggage-cart and wain, And dire artillery's clumsy car, 555 By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war; And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, And culverins which France had given. Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 560

XXVIII.

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square, 565 Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
O'er the pavilions flew. Highest, and midmost, was descried The royal banner floating wide;
The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight, 570 Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone, Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 575 And gave to view the dazzling field, Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,-- He view'd it with a chiefs delight,-- 580
Until within him burn'd his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey. 585 'Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay: For, by St. George, were that host mine, Not power infernal, nor divine, 590 Should once to peace my soul incline, Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
In glorious battle-fray!' Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood: 'Fair is the sight,--and yet 'twere good, 595
That Kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has bless'd, 'Tis better to sit still at rest,
Than rise, perchance to fall.'

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, 600 For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow 605
With gloomy splendour red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,
The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud, 610
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 615 Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kiss'd, 620 It gleam'd a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;
And, broad between them roll'd, The gallant Frith the eye might note, 625 Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, 630
And raised his bridle hand, And, making demi-volte in air, Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land!' The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 635 Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud, Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640 And war-pipe with discordant cry, And cymbal clattering to the sky, Making wild music bold and high,
Did up the mountain come; The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 645 Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,
And thus the Lindesay spoke: 'Thus clamour still the war-notes when The King to mass his way has ta'en, Or to Saint Katharine's of Sienne, 650
Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. To you they speak of martial fame; But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer, Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 655 In signal none his steed should spare, But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII.

'Nor less,' he said,--'when looking forth, I view yon Empress of the North 660
Sit on her hilly throne; Her palace's imperial bowers, Her castle, proof to hostile powers, Her stately halls and holy towers--
Nor less,' he said, 'I moan, 665 To think what woe mischance may bring, And how these merry bells may ring The death-dirge of our gallant King;
Or with the larum call The burghers forth to watch and ward, 670 'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard
Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.-- But not for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!
Lord Marmion, I say nay: 675 God is the guider of the field, He breaks the champion's spear and shield,--
But thou thyself shalt say, When joins yon host in deadly stowre, That England's dames must weep in bower, 680
Her monks the death-mass sing; For never saw'st thou such a power
Led on by such a King.'-- And now, down winding to the plain, The barriers of the camp they gain, 685
And there they made a stay.-- There stays the Minstrel, till he fling His hand o'er every Border string, And fit his harp the pomp to sing, Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 695
In the succeeding lay.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

Edinburgh.

When dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sunbeam throws, Upon the weary waste of snows, A cold and profitless regard, 5 Like patron on a needy bard; When silvan occupation's done, And o'er the chimney rests the gun, And hang, in idle trophy, near, The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 10 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employ'd no more, Cumber our parlour's narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed 15 Is long condemn'd to rest and feed; When from our snow-encircled home, Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam Since path is none, save that to bring The needful water from the spring; 20 When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politician, cross'd, Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains 25 Of carriers' snow-impeded wains; When such the country cheer, I come, Well pleased, to seek our city home; For converse, and for books, to change The Forest's melancholy range, 30 And welcome, with renew'd delight, The busy day and social night.

Not here need my desponding rhyme Lament the ravages of time, As erst by Newark's riven towers, 35 And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers. True,--Caledonia's Queen is changed, Since on her dusky summit ranged, Within its steepy limits pent, By bulwark, line, and battlement, 40 And flanking towers, and laky flood, Guarded and garrison'd she stood, Denying entrance or resort, Save at each tall embattled port; Above whose arch, suspended, hung 45 Portcullis spiked with iron prong. That long is gone,--but not so long, Since, early closed, and opening late, Jealous revolved the studded gate, Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 50 A wicket churlishly supplied. Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow, Dun-Edin! O, how altered now, When safe amid thy mountain court Thou sitt'st, like Empress at her sport, 55 And liberal, unconfined, and free, Flinging thy white arms to the sea, For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower, That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, Thou gleam'st against the western ray 60 Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

Not she, the Championess of old, In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd, She for the charmed spear renown'd, Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,-- Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 66 What time she was Malbecco's guest, She gave to flow her maiden vest; When from the corselet's grasp relieved, Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 70 Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, Erst hidden by the aventayle; And down her shoulders graceful roll'd Her locks profuse, of paly gold. They who whilom, in midnight fight, 75 Had marvell'd at her matchless might, No less her maiden charms approved, But looking liked, and liking loved. The sight could jealous pangs beguile, And charm Malbecco's cares a while; 80 And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, Forgot his Columbella's claims, And passion, erst unknown, could gain The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; Nor durst light Paridel advance, 85 Bold as he was, a looser glance. She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart, Incomparable Britomane!

So thou, fair City! disarray'd Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 90 As stately seem'st, but lovelier far Than in that panoply of war. Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne Strength and security are flown; Still as of yore, Queen of the North! 95 Still canst thou send thy children forth. Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, Than now, in danger, shall be thine, Thy dauntless voluntary line; 100 For fosse and turret proud to stand, Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil, Full red would stain their native soil, Ere from thy mural crown there fell 105 The slightest knosp, or pinnacle. And if it come,--as come it may, Dun-Edin! that eventful day,-- Renown'd for hospitable deed, That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 110 In patriarchal times whose care Descending angels deign'd to share; That claim may wrestle blessings down On those who fight for The Good Town, Destined in every age to be 115 Refuge of injured royalty; Since first, when conquering York arose, To Henry meek she gave repose, Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 120

Truce to these thoughts!--for, as they rise, How gladly I avert mine eyes, Bodings, or true or false, to change, For Fiction's fair romantic range, Or for Tradition's dubious light, 125 That hovers 'twixt the day and night: Dazzling alternately and dim Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see, Creation of my fantasy, 130 Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, And make of mists invading men.-- Who loves not more the night of June Than dull December's gloomy noon? The moonlight than the fog of frost? 135 But can we say, which cheats the most?

But who shall teach my harp to gain A sound of the romantic strain, Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere Could win the royal Henry's ear, 140 Famed Beauclerk call'd, for that he loved The minstrel, and his lay approved? Who shall these lingering notes redeem, Decaying on Oblivion's stream; Such notes as from the Breton tongue 145 Marie translated, Blondel sung?-- O! born, Time's ravage to repair, And make the dying Muse thy care; Who, when his scythe her hoary foe Was poising for the final blow, 150 The weapon from his hand could wring, And break his glass, and shear his wing, And bid, reviving in his strain, The gentle poet live again; Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 155 An unpedantic moral gay, Nor less the dullest theme bid flit On wings of unexpected wit; In letters as in life approved, Example honour'd, and beloved,-- 160 Dear ELLIS! to the bard impart A lesson of thy magic art, To win at once the head and heart,-- At once to charm, instruct, and mend, My guide, my pattern, and my friend! 165

Such minstrel lesson to bestow Be long thy pleasing task,--but, O! No more by thy example teach,-- What few can practise, all can preach,-- With even patience to endure 170 Lingering disease, and painful cure, And boast affliction's pangs subdued By mild and manly fortitude. Enough, the lesson has been given: Forbid the repetition, Heaven! 175

Come listen, then! for thou hast known, And loved the Minstrel's varying tone, Who, like his Border sires of old, Waked a wild measure rude and bold, Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, 180 With wonder heard the northern strain. Come listen! bold in thy applause, The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws; And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, 185 Irregularly traced and plann'd, But yet so glowing and so grand,-- So shall he strive, in changeful hue, Field, feast, and combat, to renew, And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 191 And all the pomp of chivalry.

CANTO FIFTH.

THE COURT.

I.

The train has left the hills of Braid; The barrier guard have open made (So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground; Their men the warders backward drew, 5 And carried pikes as they rode through,
Into its ample bound. Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, Upon the Southern band to stare. And envy with their wonder rose, 10 To see such well-appointed foes; Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, So huge, that many simply thought, But for a vaunt such weapons wrought; And little deem'd their force to feel, 15 Through links of mail, and plates of steel, When rattling upon Flodden vale, The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.

II.

Nor less did Marmion's skilful view Glance every line and squadron through; 20 And much he marvell'd one small land Could marshal forth such various band;
For men-at-arms were here, Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, Like iron towers for strength and weight, 25 On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
With battle-axe and spear. Young knights and squires, a lighter train, Practised their chargers on the plain, By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 30
Each warlike feat to show, To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, And high curvett, that not in vain The sword sway might descend amain
On foeman's casque below. 35 He saw the hardy burghers there March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none, Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; But burnish'd were their corslets bright, 40 Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone. Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore, And many wielded mace of weight, 45
And bucklers bright they bore.

III.

On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
With iron quilted well; Each at his back (a slender store) 50 His forty days' provision bore,
As feudal statutes tell. His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
A dagger-knife, and brand. 55 Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer, As loath to leave his cottage dear,
And march to foreign strand; Or musing, who would guide his steer,
To till the fallow land. 60 Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye Did aught of dastard terror lie; More dreadful far his ire, Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name, In eager mood to battle came, 65 Their valour like light straw on name, A fierce but fading fire.

IV.

Not so the Borderer:--bred to war, He knew the battle's din afar,
And joy'd to hear it swell. 70 His peaceful day was slothful ease; Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,
Like the loud slogan yell. On active steed, with lance and blade, The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade,-- 75
Let nobles fight for fame; Let vassals follow where they lead, Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
But war's the Borderer's game. Their gain, their glory, their delight, 80 To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O'er mountain, moss, and moor; Joyful to fight they took their way, Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure. 85 These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by, Look'd on at first with careless eye, Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know The form and force of English bow. But when they saw the Lord array'd 90 In splendid arms, and rich brocade, Each Borderer to his kinsman said,--
'Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! Canst guess which road they'll homeward ride?-- O! could we but on Border side, 95 By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide,
Beset a prize so fair! That fangless Lion, too, their guide, Might chance to lose his glistering hide; Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 100 Could make a kirtle rare.'

V.

Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, Of different language, form, and face,
A various race of man; Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 105 And wild and garish semblance made, The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid, And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd,
To every varying clan, Wild through their red or sable hair 110 Look'd out their eyes with savage stare,
On Marmion as he pass'd; Their legs above the knee were bare; Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
And harden'd to the blast; 115 Of taller race, the chiefs they own Were by the eagle's plumage known. The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide Their hairy buskins well supplied; The graceful bonnet deck'd their head: 120 Back from their shoulders hung the plaid; A broadsword of unwieldy length, A dagger proved for edge and strength,
A studded targe they wore, And quivers, bows, and shafts,--but, O! 125 Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore. The Isles-men carried at their backs The ancient Danish battle-axe. They raised a wild and wondering cry, 130 As with his guide rode Marmion by. Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, And, with their cries discordant mix'd, Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 135

VI.

Thus through the Scottish camp they pass'd, And reach'd the City gate at last, Where all around, a wakeful guard, Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward. Well had they cause of jealous fear, 140 When lay encamp'd, in field so near, The Borderer and the Mountaineer. As through the bustling streets they go, All was alive with martial show: At every turn, with dinning clang, 145 The armourer's anvil clash'd and rang; Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel The bar that arms the charger's heel; Or axe, or falchion, to the side Of jarring grindstone was applied. 150 Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace Through street, and lane, and market-place,
Bore lance, or casque, or sword; While burghers, with important face,
Described each new-come lord, 155 Discuss'd his lineage, told his name, His following, and his warlike fame. The Lion led to lodging meet, Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street;
There must the Baron rest, 160 Till past the hour of vesper tide, And then to Holy-Rood must ride,--
Such was the King's behest. Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns A banquet rich, and costly wines, 165
To Marmion and his train; And when the appointed hour succeeds, The Baron dons his peaceful weeds, And following Lindesay as he leads, The palace-halls they gain. 170

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 Tero