Marmion

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,

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:

Their armour, as it caught the rays,

Flash’d back again the western blaze,

In lines of dazzling light.

Saint George’s banner, broad and gay,

Now faded, as the fading ray

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,

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,

Some ancient Border gathering-song.

A distant trampling sound he hears;

He looks abroad, and soon appears,

O’er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,

Beneath a pennon gay;

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,

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;

And joyfully that knight did call,

To sewer, squire, and seneschal.

‘Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,

Bring pasties of the doe,

And quickly make the entrance free

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;

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,

The lofty palisade unsparr’d,

And let the drawbridge fall.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,

Proudly his red-roan charger trode,

His helm hung at the saddlebow;

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;

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,

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,

But in close fight a champion grim,

In camps a leader sage.

Well was he arm’d from head to heel,

In mail and plate of Milan steel;

But his strong helm, of mighty cost,

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,

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;

The knightly housing’s ample fold

Was velvet blue, and trapp’d with gold.

Behind him rode two gallant squires,

Of noble name, and knightly sires;

They burn’d the gilded spurs to claim:

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,

And frame love-ditties passing rare,

And sing them to a lady fair.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs,

With halbert, bill, and battle-axe:

They bore Lord Marmion’s lance so strong,

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;

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,

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;

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,

Show’d they had march’d a weary way.

‘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,

To welcome noble Marmion,

Stood in the Castle-yard;

Minstrels and trumpeters were there,

The gunner held his linstock yare,

For welcome-shot prepared:

Enter’d the train, and such a clang,

As then through all his turrets rang,

Old Norham never heard.

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced,

The trumpets flourish’d brave,

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,

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!’

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,

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,

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,

Ne’er guarded heart so bold.’

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,

―‘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

‘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;

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,

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!’

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,

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,

‘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,

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

For lady’s suit, and minstrel’s strain,

By knight should ne’er be heard in vain,

‘Now, good Lord Marmion,’ Heron says,

‘Of your fair courtesy,

I pray you bide some little space

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:

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,

Our northern wars to learn;

I pray you, for your lady’s grace!’-

Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

The Captain mark’d his alter’d look,

And gave a squire the sign;

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

A gentle paramour?’

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:

‘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,

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

Whisper’d light tales of Heron’s dame.

Unmark’d, at least unreck’d, the taunt,

Careless the Knight replied,

‘No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt,

Delights in cage to bide:

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,

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?

Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.’―

‘Nay, if with Royal James’s bride

The lovely Lady Heron bide,

Behold me here a messenger,

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.

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,

What time we razed old Ayton tower.’-

‘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;

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.’-

‘Now, in good sooth,’ Lord Marmion cried,

‘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,

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,

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.’

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

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:

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,

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.

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,

‘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,

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,

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.’

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,

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,

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,

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,

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,

Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-

‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,

Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-

‘Here is a holy Palmer come,

From Salem first, and last from Rome;

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;

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,

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,

From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.

‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,

Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,

Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,

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.

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.’-

‘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

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

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.’-

‘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,

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.

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,

Can rest awake, and pray so long.

Himself still sleeps before his beads

Have mark’d ten aves, and two creeds.’-

-‘Let pass,’ quoth Marmion; ‘by my fay,

This man shall guide me on my way,

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;

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;

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

Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.

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;

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;

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,

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,

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.

Happy whom none of these befall,

But this poor Palmer knew them all.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;

The Palmer took on him the task,

So he would march with morning tide,

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,

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,

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!’

And now the midnight draught of sleep,

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,

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;

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.

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,

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;

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;

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;

Till they roli’d forth upon the air,

And met the river breezes there,

Which gave again the prospect fair.

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,-

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,

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

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,

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

‘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,

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;

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;

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

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.

The Abbess was of noble blood,

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

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

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.

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,

With ivory and gems emboss’d.

The poor her Convent’s bounty blest,

The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule

Reform’d on Benedictine school;

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,

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,

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,

And, if need were, to doom to death.

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.

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,

Was bent to take the vestal vow,

And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom,

Her blasted hopes and wither’d bloom.

She sate upon the galley’s prow,

And seem’d to mark the waves below;

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,

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.-

See what a woful look was given,

As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

Lovely, and gentle, and distress’d-

These charms might tame the fiercest breast:

Harpers have sung, and poets told,

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,

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.

This crime was charged ‘gainst those who lay

Prison’d in Cuthbert’s islet grey.

And now the vessel skirts the strand

Of mountainous Northumberland;

Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise,

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;

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

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,

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,

And on the swelling ocean frown;

Then from the coast they bore away,

And reach’d the Holy Island’s bay.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,

And girdled in the Saint’s domain:

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

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,

A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,

Placed on the margin of the isle.

In Saxon strength that Abbey frown’d,

With massive arches broad and round,

That rose alternate, row and row,

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.

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,

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,

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,

The pointed angles of each tower;

Yet still entire the Abbey stood,

Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.

Soon as they near’d his turrets strong,

The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song,

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,

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,

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,

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.

Suppose we now the welcome said,

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,

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,

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,

That their saint’s honour is their own.

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,

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,

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

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,

As over Whitby’s towers they sail,

And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,

They do their homage to the saint.

Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail,

To vie with these in holy tale;

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,

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;

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.

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;

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,

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.

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,

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,

When, with his Norman bowyer band,

He came to waste Northumberland.

But fain Saint Hilda’s nuns would learn

If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame

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,

Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm

And night were closing round.

But this, as tale of idle fame,

The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

While round the fire such legends go,

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:

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

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,

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,

The hearers bless’d themselves, and said,

The spirits of the sinful dead

Bemoan’d their torments there.

But though, in the monastic pile,

Did of this penitential aisle

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.

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,

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,

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.

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;

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,

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,

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,

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.

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,

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.

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,

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.

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,

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

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.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,

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

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,

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,

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;

While his mute partner, standing near,

Waited her doom without a tear.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,

Well might her paleness terror speak!

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,

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:

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.

These executioners were chose,

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

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,

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.

And now that blind old Abbot rose,

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.

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,

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,

So massive were the walls.

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,

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,

And arm’d herself to bear.

It was a fearful sight to see

Such high resolve and constancy,

In form so soft and fair.

‘I speak not to implore your grace,

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,

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;

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,

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,

Of maiden true betray’d for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me!

‘The King approved his favourite’s aim;

In vain a rival barr’d his claim,

Whose fate with Clare’s was plight,

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,

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!”

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,

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.

‘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,

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:

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,

Whose cowardice has undone us both.

‘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.

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,

For I can suffer, and be still;

And come he slow, or come he fast,

It is but Death who comes at last.

‘Yet dread me, from my living tomb,

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome!

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!

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;

Some traveller then shall find my bones

Whitening amid disjointed stones,

And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

Marvel such relics here should be.’

Fix’d was her look, and stern her air:

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

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;

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;

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

The butcher-work that there befell,

When they had glided from the cell

Of sin and misery.

An hundred winding steps convey

That conclave to the upper day;

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,)

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

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,

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,

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.

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,

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;

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,

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,

Before them, at the close of day,

Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

No summons calls them to the tower,

To spend the hospitable hour.

To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone;

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

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.

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:

Weighing the labour with the cost,

Toils everywhere the bustling host.

Soon, by the chimney’s merry blaze,

Through the rude hostel might you gaze;

Might see, where, in dark nook aloof,

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.

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,

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;

Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,

From ancient vessels ranged aside,

Full actively their host supplied.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast,

And laughter theirs at little jest;

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

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;

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.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff,

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,

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.

By fits less frequent from the crowd

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,

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,

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.’

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:-

‘Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,

To speed the lingering night away?

We slumber by the fire.’-

‘So please you,’ thus the youth rejoin’d,

‘Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.

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

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,

Lavish’d on rocks, and billows stern,

Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

Now must I venture as I may,

To sing his favourite roundelay.’

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,

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.

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

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,

Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,

Recall’d fair Scotland’s hills again!

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden’s breast,

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

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;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden’s breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

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

O’er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it,-

Never, O never.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

It ceased, the melancholy sound;

And silence sunk on all around.

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,

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,

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.

High minds, of native pride and force,

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,

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,

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,

(The livelong day he had not spoke)

‘The death of a dear friend.’

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,

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:

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

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.

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

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;

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,

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;

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!

His conscience slept-he deem’d her well,

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,

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,

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.

‘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

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!-

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

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!-

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

She should be safe, though not at large?

They durst not, for their island, shred

One golden ringlet from her head.’

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove

Repentance and reviving love,

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

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;

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,)

And, Marmion giving license cold,

His tale the host thus gladly told:-

‘A Clerk could tell what years have flown

Since Alexander fill’d our throne,

(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

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.

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,

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,

Sounded as loud as ocean’s war,

Among the caverns of Dunbar.

‘The King Lord Gifford’s castle sought,

Deep labouring with uncertain thought;

Even then he mustered all his host,

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,

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,

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

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,

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.

‘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;

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.-

“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

His kingdom’s future weal or woe;

But yet, if strong his arm and heart,

His courage may do more than art.

‘“Of middle air the demons proud,

Who ride upon the racking cloud,

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;

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.

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

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,

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:

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,

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

Whate’er these airy sprites can show:-

If thy heart fail thee in the strife,

I am no warrant for thy life.”

‘Soon as the midnight bell did ring,

Alone, and arm’d, forth rode the King

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,

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!

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,

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:

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,

Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

‘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;

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

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,

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,

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,

And shouting crews her navy bore,

Triumphant, to the victor shore.

Such signs may learned clerks explain,

They pass the wit of simple swain.

‘The joyful King turn’d home again,

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,

“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!

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,

But all have foully sped;

Save two, as legends tell, and they

Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.-

Gentles, my tale is said.’

The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong,

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,

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:

The dying flame, in fitful change,

Threw on the group its shadows strange.

Apart, and nestling in the hay

Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;

Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen

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.

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,

His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

-‘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;

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;

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,

And, darkling, Marmion’s steed array’d,

While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

‘Did’st never, good my youth, hear tell,

That on the hour when I was born,

Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,

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,

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,

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.

Fitz-Eustace follow’d him abroad,

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.

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,

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,

Unfix the strongest mind;

Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,

We welcome fond credulity,

Guide confident, though blind.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,

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,

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;

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,

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,

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.

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark

The first notes of the merry lark.

The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,

And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,

And with their light and lively call,

Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

Whistling they came, and free of heart,

But soon their mood was changed;

Complaint was heard on every part,

Of something disarranged.

Some 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,

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,-

‘Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!

Bevis lies dying in his stall:

To Marmion who the plight dare tell,

Of the good steed he loves so well?’-

Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw

The charger panting on his straw;

Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,-

‘What else but evil could betide,

With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

Better we had through mire and bush

Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.’

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess’d,

Nor wholly understood,

His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppress’d;

He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.

Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,

And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,

And did his tale display

Simply, as if he knew of nought

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,

Nor marvell’d at the wonders told,-

Pass’d them as accidents of course,

And bade his clarions sound to horse.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost

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,

And left him in a foam!

I trust, that soon a conjuring band,

With English cross, and blazing brand,

Shall drive the devils from this land,

To their infernal home:

For in this haunted den, I trow,

All night they trampled to and fro.’-

The laughing host look’d on the hire,-

‘Gramercy, gentle southern squire,

And if thou comest among the rest,

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.

The Palmer showing forth the way,

They journey’d all the morning day.

The green-sward way was smooth and good,

Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood;

A forest-glade, which, varying still,

Here gave a view of dale and hill,

There narrower closed, till over head

A vaulted screen the branches made.

‘A pleasant path,’ Fitz-Eustace said;

‘Such as where errant-knights might see

Adventures of high chivalry;

Might meet some damsel flying fast,

With hair unbound, and looks aghast;

And smooth and level course were here,

In her defence to break a spear.

Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;

And oft, in such, the story tells,

The damsel kind, from danger freed,

Did grateful pay her champion’s meed.’

He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion’s mind;

Perchance to show his lore design’d;

For Eustace much had pored

Upon a huge romantic tome,

In the hall-window of his home,

Imprinted at the antique dome

Of Caxton, or de Worde.

Therefore he spoke,-but spoke in vain,

For Marmion answer’d nought again.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,

In notes prolong’d by wood and hill,

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,

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.

Just in that advantageous glade,

The halting troop a line had made,

As forth from the opposing shade

Issued a gallant train.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang

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:

Heralds and pursuivants, by name

Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,

In painted tabards, proudly showing

Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,

Attendant on a King-at-arms,

Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,

That feudal strife had often quell’d,

When wildest its alarms.

He was a man of middle age;

In aspect manly, grave, and sage,

As on King’s errand come;

But in the glances of his eye,

A penetrating, keen, and sly

Expression found its home;

The flash of that satiric rage,

Which, bursting on the early stage,

Branded the vices of the age,

And broke the keys of Rome.

On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;

His cap of maintenance was graced

With the proud heron-plume.

From his steed’s shoulder, loin, and breast,

Silk housings swept the ground,

With Scotland’s arms, device, and crest,

Embroider’d round and round.

The double tressure might you see,

First by Achaius borne,

The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,

And gallant unicorn.

So bright the King’s armorial coat,

That scarce the dazzled eye could note,

In living colours, blazon’d brave,

The Lion, which his title gave;

A train, which well beseem’d his state,

But all unarm’d, around him wait.

Still is thy name in high account,

And still thy verse has charms,

Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,

Lord Lion King-at-arms!

Down from his horse did Marmion spring,

Soon as he saw the Lion-King;

For well the stately Baron knew

To him such courtesy was due,

Whom Royal James himself had crown’d,

And on his temples placed the round

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,

The Lion thus his message said:-

‘Though Scotland’s King hath deeply swore

Ne’er to knit faith with Henry more,

And strictly hath forbid resort

From England to his royal court;

Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion’s name,

And honours much his warlike fame,

My liege hath deem’d it shame, and lack

Of courtesy, to turn him back;

And, by his order, I, your guide,

Must lodging fit and fair provide,

Till finds King James meet time to see

The flower of English chivalry.’

Though inly chafed at this delay,

Lord Marmion bears it as he may.

The Palmer, his mysterious guide,

Beholding thus his place supplied,

Sought to take leave in vain:

Strict was the Lion-King’s command,

That none, who rode in Marmion’s band,

Should sever from the train:

‘England has here enow of spies

In Lady Heron’s witching eyes;’

To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,

But fair pretext to Marmion made.

The right hand path they now decline,

And trace against the stream the Tyne.

At length up that wild dale they wind,

Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;

For there the Lion’s care assign’d

A lodging meet for Marmion’s rank.

That Castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne:

And far beneath, where slow they creep,

From pool to eddy, dark and deep,

Where alders moist, and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.

The towers in different ages rose;

Their various architecture shows

The builders’ various hands;

A mighty mass, that could oppose,

When deadliest hatred fired its foes,

The vengeful Douglas bands.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court

But pens the lazy steer and sheep,

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,

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,

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

Of fair hewn facets richly show

Their pointed diamond form,

Though there but houseless cattle go,

To shield them from the storm.

And, shuddering, still may we explore,

Where oft whilom were captives pent,

The darkness of thy Massy More;

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

May trace, in undulating line,

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

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,

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;

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!

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.

And here two days did Marmion rest,

With every rite that honour claims,

Attended as the King’s own guest;-

Such the command of Royal James,

Who marshall’d then his land’s array,

Upon the Borough-moor that lay.

Perchance he would not foeman’s eye

Upon his gathering host should pry,

Till full prepared was every band

To march against the English land.

Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit

Oft cheer the Baron’s moodier fit;

And, in his turn, he knew to prize

Lord Marmion’s powerful mind, and wise,-

Train’d in the lore of Rome and Greece,

And policies of war and peace.

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

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,

In travelling so far;

For that a messenger from heaven

In vain to James had counsel given

Against the English war:

And, closer question’d, thus he told

A tale, which chronicles of old

In Scottish story have enroll’d:

Sir David Lindsey’s Tale.

‘Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,

In Scotland, far beyond compare

Linlithgow is excelling;

And in its park, in jovial June,

How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,

How blithe the blackbird’s lay!

The wild buck bells from ferny brake,

The coot dives merry on the lake,

The saddest heart might pleasure take

To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear

The heaviest month in all the year:

Too well his cause of grief you know,

June saw his father’s overthrow.

Woe to the traitors, who could bring

The princely boy against his King!

Still in his conscience burns the sting.

In offices as strict as Lent,

King James’s June is ever spent.

‘When last this ruthful month was come,

And in Linlithgow’s holy dome

The King, as wont, was praying;

While, for his royal father’s soul,

The chanters sung, the bells did toll,

The Bishop mass was saying-

For now the year brought round again

The day the luckless King was slain-

In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,

With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,

And eyes with sorrow streaming;

Around him in their stalls of state,

The Thistle’s Knight-Companions sate,

Their banners o’er them beaming.

I too was there, and, sooth to tell,

Bedeafen’d with the jangling knell,

Was watching where the sunbeams fell,

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;

His forehead bald, his head was bare,

Down hung at length his yellow hair.-

Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,

I pledge to you my knightly word,

That, when I saw his placid grace,

His simple majesty of face,

His solemn bearing, and his pace

So stately gliding on,-

Seem’d to me ne’er did limner paint

So just an image of the Saint,

Who propp’d the Virgin in her faint,-

The loved Apostle John!

‘He stepp’d before the Monarch’s chair,

And stood with rustic plainness there,

And little reverence made;

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,

Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-

Woe waits on thine array;

If war thou wilt, of woman fair,

Her witching wiles and wanton snare,

James Stuart, doubly 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,

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,

Like sunbeam on the billow cast,

That glances but, and dies.’

While Lindesay told his marvel strange,

The twilight was so pale,

He mark’d not Marmion’s colour change,

While listening to the tale:

But, after a suspended pause,

The Baron spoke:-‘Of Nature’s laws

So strong I held the force,

That never superhuman cause

Could e’er control their course;

And, three days since, had judged your aim

Was but to make your guest your game.

But I have seen, since past the Tweed,

What much has changed my sceptic creed,

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,

To Lindesay did at length unfold

The tale his village host had told,

At Gifford, to his train.

Nought of the Palmer says he there,

And nought of Constance, or of Clare;

The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems

To mention but as feverish dreams.

‘In vain,’ said he, ‘to rest I spread

My burning limbs, and couch’d my head:

Fantastic thoughts return’d;

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,

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,

So hollow, and so faintly blown,

It might be echo of my own.

‘Thus judging, for a little space

I listen’d, ere I left the place;

But scarce could trust my eyes,

Nor yet can think they serve me true,

When sudden in the ring I view,

In form distinct of shape and hue,

A mounted champion rise.-

I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,

In single fight, and 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,-

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.

‘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,

The spectre shook his naked brand,-

Yet did the worst remain:

My dazzled eyes I upward cast,-

Not opening hell itself could blast

Their sight, like what I saw!

Full on his face the moonbeam strook!-

A face could never be mistook!

I knew the stern vindictive look,

And held my breath for awe.

I saw the face of one who, fled

To foreign climes, has long been dead,-

I well believe the last;

For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare

A human warrior, with a glare

So grimly and so ghast.

Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade;

But when to good Saint George I pray’d,

(The first time e’er I ask’d his aid),

He plunged it in the sheath;

And, on his courser mounting light,

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,

Call’d by his hatred from the grave,

To cumber upper air:

Dead, or alive, good cause had he

To be my mortal enemy.’

Marvell’d Sir David of the Mount;

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,

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

And fingers red with gore,

Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,

Or where the sable pine-tree shade

Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,

Dromouchty, or Glenmore.

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

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.’-

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,

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.

Early they took Dun-Edin’s road,

And I could trace each step they trode:

Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,

Lies on the path to me unknown.

Much might if boast of storied lore;

But, passing such digression o’er,

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.

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,

Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,

A truant-boy, I sought the nest,

Or listed, as I lay at rest,

While rose, on breezes thin,

The murmur of the city crowd,

And, from his steeple jangling loud,

Saint Giles’s mingling din.

Now, from the summit to the plain,

Waves all the hill with yellow grain;

And o’er the landscape as I look,

Nought do I see unchanged remain,

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.

To me they make a heavy moan,

Of early friendships past and gone.

But different far the change has been,

Since Marmion, from the crown

Of Blackford, saw that martial scene

Upon the bent so brown:

Thousand pavilions, white as snow,

Spread all the Borough-moor below,

Upland, and dale, and down:-

A thousand did I say? I ween,

Thousands on thousands there were seen

That chequer’d all the heath between

The streamlet and the town;

In crossing ranks extending far,

Forming a camp irregular;

Oft giving way, where still there stood

Some relics of the old oak wood,

That darkly huge did intervene,

And tamed the glaring white with green:

In these extended lines there lay

A martial kingdom’s vast array.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,

To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,

And from the southern Redswire edge,

To farthest Rosse’s rocky ledge:

From west to east, from south to north,

Scotland sent all her warriors forth.

Marmion might hear the mingled hum

Of myriads up the mountain come;

The horses’ tramp, and tingling clank,

Where chiefs review’d their vassal rank,

And charger’s shrilling neigh;

And see the shifting lines advance,

While frequent flash’d, from shield and lance,

The sun’s reflected ray.

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare

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,

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.

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,

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,

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,

And gave to view the dazzling field,

Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,

The ruddy lion ramp’d in gold.

Lord Marmion view’d the landscape bright,-

He view’d it with a chiefs delight,-

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.

‘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,

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,

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.’

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay’d,

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

With gloomy splendour red;

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,

And tinged them with a lustre proud,

Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.

Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

Where the huge Castle holds its state,

And all the steep slope down,

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,

Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town!

But northward far, with purer blaze,

On Ochil mountains fell the rays,

And as each heathy top they kiss’d,

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,

Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold.

Fitz-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;

As if to give his rapture vent,

The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle hand,

And, making 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;

Nor Marmion’s frown repress’d his glee.

Thus while they look’d, a flourish proud,

Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,

And fife, and kettle-drum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

And war-pipe with discordant cry,

And cymbal clattering to the sky,

Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come;

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

Merrily 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,

Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.

To you they speak of martial fame;

But me remind of peaceful game,

When blither was their cheer,

Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,

In signal none his steed should spare,

But strive which foremost might repair

To the downfall of the deer.

‘Nor less,’ he said,-‘when looking forth,

I view yon Empress of the North

Sit on her hilly throne;

Her palace’s imperial bowers,

Her castle, proof to hostile powers,

Her stately halls and holy towers-

Nor less,’ he said, ‘I moan,

To think what woe mischance may bring,

And how these merry bells may ring

The death-dirge of our gallant King;

Or with the larum call

The burghers forth to watch and ward,

‘Gainst southern sack and fires to guard

Dun-Edin’s leaguer’d wall.-

But not for my presaging thought,

Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!

Lord Marmion, I say nay:

God is the guider of the field,

He breaks the champion’s spear and shield,―

But thou thyself shalt say,

When joins yon host in deadly stowre,

That England’s dames must weep in bower,

Her monks the death-mass sing;

For never saw’st thou such a power

Led on by such a King.’-

And now, down winding to the plain,

The barriers of the camp they gain,

And there they made a stay.-

There stays the Minstrel, till he fling

His hand o’er every Border string,

And fit his harp the pomp to sing,

Of Scotland’s ancient Court and King,

In the succeeding lay.

The train has left the hills of Braid;

The barrier guard have open made

(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,

That closed the tented ground;

Their men the warders backward drew,

And carried pikes as they rode through,

Into its ample bound.

Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,

Upon the Southern band to stare.

And envy with their wonder rose,

To see such well-appointed foes;

Such length of 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,

Through links of mail, and plates of steel,

When rattling upon Flodden vale,

The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.

Nor less did Marmion’s skilful view

Glance every line and squadron through;

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,

On Flemish steeds of bone and height,

With battle-axe and spear.

Young knights and squires, a lighter train,

Practised their chargers on the plain,

By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,

Each warlike feat to show,

To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,

And high curvett, that not in vain

The sword sway might descend amain

On foeman’s casque below.

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,

Their brigantines, and gorgets light,

Like very silver shone.

Long pikes they had for standing fight,

Two-handed swords they wore,

And many wielded mace of weight,

And bucklers bright they bore.

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)

His forty days’ provision bore,

As feudal statutes tell.

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,

A crossbow there, a hagbut here,

A dagger-knife, and brand.

Sober he 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.

Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye

Did aught of dastard terror lie;

More dreadful far his ire,

Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name,

In eager mood to battle came,

Their valour like light straw on name,

A fierce but fading fire.

Not so the Borderer:-bred to war,

He knew the battle’s din afar,

And joy’d to hear it swell.

His peaceful day was slothful ease;

Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,

Like the loud slogan yell.

On active steed, with lance and blade,

The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,-

Let nobles fight for fame;

Let vassals follow where they lead,

Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,

But war’s the Borderer’s game.

Their gain, their glory, their delight,

To sleep the day, maraud the night,

O’er mountain, moss, and moor;

Joyful to fight they took their way,

Scarce caring who might win the day,

Their booty was secure.

These, as Lord Marmion’s train 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

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,

By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,

Beset a prize so fair!

That fangless Lion, too, their guide,

Might chance to lose his glistering hide;

Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied,

Could make a kirtle rare.’

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,

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

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;

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:

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!

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,

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.

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,

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,

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.

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,

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,

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,

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.

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;

For he had charged, that his array

Should southward march by break of day.

Well loved that splendid monarch aye

The banquet and the song,

By day the tourney, and by night

The merry dance, traced fast and light,

The maskers quaint, the pageant bright,

The revel loud and long.

This feast outshone his banquets past;

It was his blithest,-and his last.

The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,

Cast on the Court a dancing ray;

Here to the harp did minstrels sing;

There ladies touched a softer string;

With long-ear’d cap, and motley vest,

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,

Nor courted them in vain;

For often, in the parting hour,

Victorious Love asserts his power

O’er coldness and disdain;

And flinty is her heart, can view

To battle march a lover true-

Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,

Nor own her share of pain.

Through this mix’d crowd of glee and game,

The King to greet Lord Marmion came,

While, reverent, all made room.

An easy task it was, I trow,

King James’s manly form to know,

Although, his courtesy to show,

He doff’d, to Marmion bending low,

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,

The dazzled eye beguiled;

His gorgeous collar hung adown,

Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,

The thistle brave, of old renown:

His trusty blade, Toledo right,

Descended from a baldric bright;

White were his buskins, on the heel

His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;

His bonnet, all of crimson fair,

Was button’d with a ruby rare:

And Marmion deem’d he ne’er had seen

A prince of such a noble mien.

The Monarch’s form was middle size;

For feat of strength, or exercise,

Shaped in proportion fair;

And hazel was his eagle eye,

And auburn of the darkest dye,

His short curl’d beard and hair.

Light was his footstep in the dance,

And firm his stirrup in the lists;

And, oh! he had that merry glance,

That seldom lady’s heart resists.

Lightly from fair to fair he flew,

And loved to plead, lament, and sue;-

Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,

For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

I said he joy’d in banquet bower;

But, ‘mid his mirth, ‘twas often strange,

How suddenly his cheer would change,

His look o’ercast and lower,

If, in a sudden turn, he felt

The pressure of his iron belt,

That bound his breast in penance pain,

In memory of his father slain.

Even so ‘twas strange how, evermore,

Soon as the passing pang was o’er,

Forward he rush’d, with double glee,

Into the stream of revelry:

Thus, dim-seen object of affright

Startles the courser in his flight,

And half he halts, half springs aside;

But feels the quickening spur applied,

And, straining on the tighten’d rein,

Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.

O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,

Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:

To Scotland’s Court she came,

To be a hostage for her lord,

Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,

And with the King to make accord,

Had sent his lovely dame.

Nor to that lady free alone

Did the gay King allegiance own;

For the fair Queen of France

Sent him a turquois ring and glove,

And charged him, as her knight and love,

For her to break a lance;

And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,

And march three miles on Southron land,

And bid the banners of his band

In English breezes dance.

And thus, for France’s Queen he drest

His manly limbs in mailed vest;

And thus admitted English fair

His inmost counsels still to share;

And thus, for both, he madly 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,

From Margaret’s eyes that fell,-

His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,

All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,

And weeps the weary day,

The war against her native soil,

Her monarch’s risk in battle broil:-

And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,

Dame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er

The strings her fingers flew;

And as she touch’d and tuned them all,

Ever her bosom’s rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;

For, all for heat, was laid aside

Her wimple, and her hood untied.

And first she pitch’d her voice to sing,

Then glanced her dark eye on the King,

And then around the silent ring;

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,

A soft, yet lively, air she rung,

While thus the wily lady sung:-

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,

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;

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,

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?’-

‘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,

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.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-

‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-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;

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;

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?

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;

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,

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;

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,

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;

Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,

Our herald has to Henry borne.’

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,

And with stern eye the pageant view’d:

I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,

Who coronet of Angus bore,

And, when his blood and heart were high,

Did the third James in camp defy,

And all his minions led to die

On Lauder’s dreary flat:

Princes and favourites long grew tame,

And trembled at the homely name

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;

The same who left the dusky vale

Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,

Its dungeons, and its towers,

Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,

And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,

To fix his princely bowers.

Though now, in age, he had laid down

His armour for the peaceful gown,

And for a staff his brand,

Yet often would flash forth the fire,

That could, in youth, a monarch’s ire

And minion’s pride withstand;

And even that day, at council board,

Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,

Against the war had Angus stood,

And chafed his royal Lord.

His giant-form, like ruin’d tower,

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.

Near Douglas when the Monarch stood,

His bitter speech he thus pursued :

‘Lord Marmion, since these letters say

That in the North you needs must stay,

While slightest hopes of peace remain,

Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,

To say-Return to Lindisfarne,

Until my herald come again.-

Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;

Your host shall be the Douglas bold,-

A chief unlike his sires of old.

He wears their motto on his blade,

Their blazon o’er his towers display’d;

Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,

More than to face his country’s foes.

And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,

But e’en this morn to me was given

A prize, the first fruits of the war,

Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,

A bevy of the maids of Heaven.

Under your guard, these holy maids

Shall safe return to cloister shades,

And, while they at Tantallon stay,

Requiem for Cochran’s soul may say.’

And, with the slaughter’d favourite’s name,

Across the Monarch’s brow there came

A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

In answer nought could Angus speak;

His proud heart swell’d wellnigh to break:

He turn’d aside, and down his cheek

A burning tear there stole.

His hand the Monarch sudden took,

That sight his kind heart could not brook:

‘Now, by the Bruce’s soul,

Angus, my hasty speech forgive!

For sure as doth his spirit live,

As he said of the Douglas old,

I well may say of you,-

That never King did subject hold,

In speech more free, in war more bold,

More tender and more true:

Forgive me, Douglas, once again.’-

And, while the King his hand did strain,

The old man’s tears fell down like rain.

To seize the moment Marmion tried,

And 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,

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!’

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;

And if within Tantallon strong,

The good Lord Marmion tarries long,

Perchance our meeting next may fall

At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.’-

The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,

And 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;

Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.

On Derby Hills the paths are steep;

In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;

And many a banner will be torn,

And many a knight to earth be borne,

And many a sheaf of arrows spent,

Ere Scotland’s King shall cross the Trent:

Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you may!’-

The Monarch lightly turn’d away,

And to his nobles loud did call,-

‘Lords, to the dance,-a hall! a hall!’

Himself his cloak and sword flung by,

And led Dame Heron gallantly;

And Minstrels, at the royal order,

Rung out-‘Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.’

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,

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,

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.

And judge what Clara must have felt!

The sword, that hung in Marmion’s belt,

Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.

Unwittingly, King James had given,

As guard to Whitby’s shades,

The man most dreaded under heaven

By these defenceless maids:

Yet what petition could avail,

Or who would listen to the tale

Of woman, prisoner, and nun,

Mid bustle of a war begun?

They deem’d it hopeless to avoid

The convoy of their dangerous guide.

Their lodging, so the King assign’d,

To Marmion’s, as their guardian, join’d;

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,

And health of sinner’s soul;

And, with deep charge of secrecy,

She named a place to meet,

Within an open balcony,

That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,

Above the stately street;

To which, as common to each home,

At night they might in secret come.

At night, in secret, there they came,

The Palmer and the holy dame.

The moon among the clouds rose high,

And all the city hum was by.

Upon the street, where late before

Did din of war and warriors roar,

You might have heard a pebble fall,

A beetle hum, a cricket sing,

An owlet flap his boding wing

On Giles’s steeple tall.

The antique buildings, climbing high,

Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,

Were here wrapt deep in shade;

There on their brows the moon-beam broke,

Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,

And on the casements play’d.

And other light was none to see,

Save torches gliding far,

Before some chieftain of degree,

Who left the royal revelry

To bowne him for the war.-

A solemn scene the Abbess chose;

A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

‘O, holy Palmer!’ she began,-

‘For sure he must be sainted man,

Whose blessed feet have trod the ground

Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found,-

For His dear Church’s sake, my tale

Attend, nor deem of light avail,

Though I must speak of worldly love,-

How vain to those who wed above!-

De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo’d

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,

Wilton was traitor in his heart,

And had made league with Martin Swart,

When he came here on Simnel’s part;

And only cowardice did restrain

His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain,-

And down he threw his glove:-the thing

Was tried, as wont, before the King;

Where frankly did De Wilton own,

That Swart in Guelders he had known;

And that between them then there went

Some scroll of courteous compliment.

For this he to his castle sent;

But when his messenger return’d,

Judge how De Wilton’s fury burn’d!

For in his packet there were laid

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,

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?

‘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,

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,

To give our house her livings fair,

And die a vestal vot’ress there.

The impulse from the earth was given,

But bent her to the paths of heaven.

A purer heart, a lovelier maid,

Ne’er 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,

And murmurs at the cross.

And then her heritage;-it goes

Along the banks of Tame;

Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,

In meadows rich the heifer lows,

The falconer and huntsman knows

Its woodlands for the game.

Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,

And I, her humble vot’ress here,

Should do a deadly sin,

Her temple 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;

And grievous cause have I to fear,

Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

‘Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’d

To evil power, I claim thine aid,

By every step that thou hast trod

To holy shrine and grotto dim,

By every martyr’s tortured limb,

By angel, saint, and seraphim,

And by the Church of God!

For mark:-When Wilton was betray’d,

And with his squire forged letters laid,

She was, alas! that sinful maid,

By whom the deed was done,-

Oh! shame and horror to be said!

She was a perjured nun!

No clerk in all the land, like her,

Traced quaint and varying character.

Perchance you may a marvel deem,

That Marmion’s paramour

(For such vile thing she was) should scheme

Her lover’s nuptial hour;

But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,

As privy to his honour’s stain,

Illimitable power:

For this she secretly retain’d

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,

And Clare’s immortal weal.

‘Twere long, and needless, here to tell,

How to my hand these papers fell;

With me they must not stay.

Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!

Who knows what outrage he might do,

While journeying by the way?-

O, blessed Saint, if e’er again

I venturous leave thy calm domain,

To travel or by land or main,

Deep penance may I pay!-

Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:

I give this packet to thy care,

For thee to stop they will not dare;

And O! with cautious speed,

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,

While priests can sing and read.

What ail’st thou?-Speak!’-For as he took

The charge, a strong emotion shook

His frame; and, ere reply,

They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,

Like distant clarion feebly blown,

That on the breeze did die;

And loud the Abbess shriek’d in fear,

‘Saint Withold, save us!-What is here!

Look at yon City Cross!

See on its battled tower appear

Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,

And blazon’d banners toss!’-

Dun-Edin’s Cross, a pillar’d stone,

Rose on a turret octagon;

(But now is razed that monument,

Whence royal edict rang,

And voice of Scotland’s law was sent

In glorious trumpet-clang.

O! be his tomb as lead to lead,

Upon its dull destroyer’s head!-

A minstrel’s malison is said.)-

Then on its battlements they saw

A vision, passing Nature’s law,

Strange, wild, and dimly seen;

Figures that 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

Heralds and Pursuivants prepare,

With trumpet sound, and blazon fair,

A summons to proclaim;

But indistinct the pageant proud,

As fancy forms of midnight cloud,

When flings the moon upon her shroud

A wavering tinge of flame;

It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,

From midmost of the spectre crowd,

This awful summons came:-

‘Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,

Whose names I now shall call,

Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!

Subjects of him who sent me here,

At his tribunal to appear,

I summon one and all:

I cite you by each deadly sin,

That e’er hath soil’d your hearts within;

I cite you by each brutal lust,

That e’er defiled your earthly dust,-

By wrath, by pride, by fear,

By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone,

By the dark grave, and dying groan!

When forty days are pass’d and gone,

I cite you at your Monarch’s throne,

To answer and appear.’-

Then thundered forth a roll of names:-

The first was thine, unhappy James!

Then all thy nobles came;

Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,

Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,

Why should I tell their separate style?

Each chief of birth and fame,

Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,

Fore-doom’d to Flodden’s carnage pile,

Was cited there by name;

And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,

Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye;

De Wilton, erst of Aberley,

The self-same thundering voice did say.-

But then another spoke:

‘Thy fatal summons I deny,

And thine infernal Lord defy,

Appealing me to Him on high,

Who burst the sinner’s yoke.’

At that dread accent, with a scream,

Parted the pageant like a dream,

The summoner was gone.

Prone on her face the Abbess fell,

And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;

Her nuns came, startled by the yell,

And found her there alone.

She mark’d not, at the scene aghast,

What time, or how, the Palmer pass’d.

Shift we the scene.-The camp doth move,

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,

To chapels and to shrines repair-

Where is the Palmer now? and where

The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?-

Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair

They journey in thy charge:

Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,

The Palmer still was with the band;

Angus, like Lindesay, did command,

That none should roam at large.

But in that Palmer’s altered mien

A wondrous change might now be seen;

Freely he spoke of war,

Of marvels wrought by single hand,

When lifted for a native land;

And still look’d high, as if he plann’d

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.

Old Hubert said, that never one

He saw, except Lord Marmion,

A steed so fairly ride.

Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,

By Eustace govern’d fair,

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;

And safer ‘twas, he thought,

To wait till, from the nuns removed,

The influence of kinsmen loved,

And suit by Henry’s self approved,

Her slow consent had wrought.

His was no flickering flame, that dies

Unless when 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:

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,

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.

And now, when close at hand they saw

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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

To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.’

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.

‘Cheer thee, my child!’ the Abbess said,

‘They dare not tear thee from my hand,

To ride alone with armed band.’-

‘Nay, holy mother, nay,’

Fitz-Eustace said, ‘the lovely Clare

Will be in Lady Angus’ care,

In Scotland while we stay;

And, when we move, an easy ride

Will bring us to the English side,

Female attendance to provide

Befitting 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,

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;

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;

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:

‘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.’

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,

Assumed her wonted state again,

For much of state she had,-

Composed her veil, and raised her head,

And-‘Bid,’ in solemn voice she said,

‘Thy master, bold and bad,

The records of his house turn o’er,

And, when he shall there written see,

That one of his own ancestry

Drove the monks forth of Coventry,

Bid him his fate explore!

Prancing in pride of earthly trust,

His charger hurl’d him to the dust,

And, by a base plebeian thrust,

He died his band before.

God judge ‘twixt Marmion and me;

He is a Chief of high degree,

And I a poor recluse;

Yet oft, in holy writ, we see

Even such weak minister as me

May the oppressor bruise:

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay

The mighty in his sin,

And Jael thus, and Deborah’-

Here hasty Blount broke in:

‘Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;

Saint Anton’ fire thee! wilt thou stand

All day, with bonnet in thy hand,

To hear the Lady preach?

By this good light! if thus we stay,

Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,

Will sharper sermon teach.

Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;

The Dame must patience take perforce.’-

‘Submit we then to force,’ said Clare,

‘But let this barbarous lord despair

His purposed aim to win;

Let him take living, land, and life;

But to be Marmion’s wedded wife

In me were deadly sin:

And if it be the King’s decree,

That I must find no sanctuary,

In that inviolable dome,

Where even a homicide might come,

And safely rest his head,

Though at its open portals stood,

Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,

The kinsmen of the dead;

Yet one asylum is my own

Against the dreaded hour;

A low, a silent, and a lone,

Where kings have little power.

One victim is before me there.-

Mother, your blessing, and in prayer

Remember your unhappy Clare!’

Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows

Kind blessings many a one:

Weeping and wailing loud arose,

Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes

Of every simple nun.

His eyes the gentle Eustace dried,

And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.

Then took the squire her rein,

And gently led away her steed,

And, by each courteous word and deed,

To cheer her strove in vain.

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,

And held impregnable in war.

On a projecting rock they rose,

And round three sides the ocean flows,

The fourth did battled walls enclose,

And double mound and fosse.

By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,

Through studded gates, an entrance long,

To the main court they cross.

It was a wide and stately square:

Around were lodgings, fit and fair,

And towers of various form,

Which on the court projected far,

And broke its lines quadrangular.

Here was square keep, there turret high,

Or pinnacle that sought the sky,

Whence oft the Warder could descry

The gathering ocean-storm.

Here did they rest.-The princely care

Of Douglas, why should I declare,

Or say they met reception fair?

Or why the tidings say,

Which, varying, to Tantallon came,

By hurrying posts, or fleeter fame,

With every varying day?

And, first, they heard King James had won

Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,

That Norham Castle strong was ta’en.

At that sore marvell’d Marmion;-

And Douglas hoped his Monarch’s hand

Would soon subdue Northumberland:

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.-

Such acts to chronicles I yield;

Go seek them there, and see:

Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,

And not a history.-

At length they heard the Scottish host

On that high ridge had made their post,

Which frowns o’er Millfield Plain;

And that brave Surrey many a band

Had gather’d in the Southern land,

And march’d into Northumberland,

And camp at Wooler ta’en.

Marmion, like charger in the stall,

That hears, without, the trumpet-call,

Began to chafe, and swear:-

‘A sorry thing to hide my head

In castle, like a fearful maid,

When such a field is near!

Needs must I see this battle-day:

Death to my fame if such a fray

Were fought, and Marmion away!

The Douglas, too, I wot not why,

Hath ‘bated of his courtesy:

No longer in his halls I’ll stay.’

Then bade his band they should array

For march against the dawning day.

While great events were on the gale,

And each hour brought a varying tale,

And the demeanour, changed and cold,

Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold,

And, like the impatient steed of war,

He snuff’d the battle from afar;

And hopes were none, that back again

Herald should come from Terouenne,

Where England’s King in leaguer lay,

Before decisive battle-day;

Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare

Did in the Dame’s devotions share:

For the good Countess ceaseless pray’d

To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid.

And, with short interval, did pass

From prayer to book, from book to mass,

And all in high Baronial pride,-

A life both dull and dignified;-

Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press’d

Upon her intervals of rest,

Dejected Clara well could bear

The formal state, the lengthen’d prayer,

Though dearest to her wounded heart

The hours that she might spend apart.

I said, Tantallon’s dizzy steep

Hung o’er the margin of the deep.

Many a rude tower and rampart there

Repell’d the insult of the air,

Which, when the tempest vex’d the sky,

Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.

Above the rest, a turret square

Did o’er its Gothic entrance bear,

Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;

The Bloody Heart was in the Field,

And in the chief three mullets stood,

The cognizance of Douglas blood.

The turret held a narrow stair,

Which, mounted, gave you access where

A parapet’s embattled row

Did seaward round the castle go.

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,

Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,

Sometimes in platform broad extending,

Its varying circle did combine

Bulwark, and bartisan, and line,

And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign:

Above the booming ocean leant

The far-projecting battlement;

The billows burst, in ceaseless flow,

Upon the precipice below.

Where’er Tantallon faced the land,

Gate-works, and walls, were strongly mann’d;

No need upon the sea-girt side;

The steepy rock, and frantic tide,

Approach of human step denied;

And thus these lines, and ramparts rude,

Were left in deepest solitude.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare

Would to these battlements repair,

And muse upon her sorrows there,

And list the sea-bird’s cry;

Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide

Along the dark-grey bulwarks’ side,

And ever on the heaving tide

Look down with weary eye.

Oft did the cliff, and swelling main,

Recall the thoughts of Whitby’s fane,―

A home she ne’er might see again;

For she had laid adown,

So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,

And frontlet of the cloister pale,

And Benedictine gown:

It were unseemly sight, he said,

A novice out of convent shade.-

Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,

Again adorn’d her brow of snow;

Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,

A deep and fretted broidery bound,

In golden foldings sought the ground;

Of holy ornament, alone

Remain’d a cross with ruby stone;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,

With velvet bound, and broider’d o’er,

Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,

At dawning pale, or twilight dim,

It fearful would have been

To meet a form so richly dress’d,

With book in hand, and cross on breast,

And such a woeful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,

To practise on the gull and crow,

Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,

And did by Mary swear,-

Some love-lorn Fay she might have been,

Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen;

For ne’er, in work-day world, was seen

A form so witching fair.

Once walking thus, at evening tide,

It chanced a gliding sail she spied,

And, sighing, thought-‘The Abbess, there,

Perchance, does to her home repair;

Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free,

Walks hand in hand with Charity;

Where oft Devotion’s tranced glow

Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,

That the enraptured sisters see

High vision, and deep mystery;

The very form of Hilda fair,

Hovering upon the sunny air,

And smiling on her votaries’ prayer.

O! wherefore, to my duller eye,

Did still the Saint her form deny!

Was it, that, sear’d by sinful scorn,

My heart could neither melt nor burn?

Or lie my warm affections low,

With him, that taught them first to glow?

Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew,

To pay thy kindness grateful due,

And well could brook the mild command,

That ruled thy simple maiden band.

How different now! condemn’d to bide

My doom from this dark tyrant’s pride.-

But Marmion has to learn, ere long,

That constant mind, and hate of wrong,

Descended to a feeble girl,

From Red De Clare, stout Gloster’s Earl:

Of such a stem, a sapling weak,

He ne’er shall bend, although he break.

‘But see!-what makes this armour here?’-

For in her path there lay

Targe, corslet, helm;-she view’d them near.-

‘The breast-plate pierced!-Ay, much I fear,

Weak fence wert thou ‘gainst foeman’s spear,

That hath made fatal entrance here,

As these dark blood-gouts say.-

Thus Wilton!-Oh! not corslet’s ward,

Not truth, as diamond pure and hard,

Could be thy manly bosom’s guard,

On yon disastrous day!’-

She raised her eyes in mournful mood,-

WILTON himself before her stood!

It might have seem’d his passing ghost,

For every youthful grace was lost;

And joy unwonted, and surprise,

Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.-

Expect not, noble dames and lords,

That I can tell such scene in words:

What skilful limner e’er would choose

To paint the rainbow’s varying hues,

Unless to mortal it were given

To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?

Far less can my weak line declare

Each changing passion’s shade;

Brightening to rapture from despair,

Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,

And joy, with her angelic air,

And hope, that paints the future fair,

Their varying hues display’d:

Each o’er its rival’s ground extending,

Alternate conquering, shifting, blending,

Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,

And mighty Love retains the field,

Shortly I tell what then he said,

By many a tender word delay’d,

And modest blush, and bursting sigh,

And question kind, and fond reply:-

‘Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragg’d,-but how I cannot know,

For sense and recollection fled,

I found me on a pallet low,

Within my ancient beadsman’s shed.

Austin,-remember’st thou, my Clare,

How thou didst blush, when the old man,

When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless pair?-

Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled

From the degraded traitor’s bed,-

He only held my burning head,

And tended me for many a day,

While wounds and fever held their sway.

But far more needful was his care,

When sense return’d to wake despair;

For I did tear the closing wound,

And dash me frantic on the ground,

If e’er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought,

Much by his kind attendance wrought,

With him I left my native strand,

And, in a Palmer’s weeds array’d

My hated name and form to shade,

I journey’d many a land;

No more a lord of rank and birth,

But mingled with the dregs of earth.

Oft Austin for my reason fear’d,

When I would sit, and deeply brood

On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,

Or wild mad schemes uprear’d.

My friend at length fell sick, and said,

God would remove him soon:

And, while upon his dying bed,

He begg’d of me a boon-

If e’er my deadliest enemy

Beneath my brand should conquer’d lie,

Even then my mercy should awake,

And spare his life for Austin’s sake.

‘Still restless as a second Cain,

To Scotland next my route was ta’en,

Full well the paths I knew.

Fame of my fate made various sound,

That death in pilgrimage I found,

That I had perish’d of my wound,-

None cared which tale was true:

And living eye could never guess

De Wilton in his Palmer’s dress;

For now that sable slough is shed,

And trimm’d my shaggy beard and head,

I scarcely know me in the glass.

A chance most wondrous did provide,

That I should be that Baron’s guide-

I will not name his name!-

Vengeance to God alone belongs;

But, when I think on all my wrongs,

My blood is liquid flame!

And ne’er the time shall I forget,

When in a Scottish hostel set,

Dark looks we did exchange:

What were his thoughts I cannot tell;

But in my bosom muster’d Hell

Its plans of dark revenge.

‘A word of vulgar augury,

That broke from me, I scarce knew why,

Brought on a village tale;

Which wrought upon his moody sprite,

And sent him armed forth by night.

I borrow’d steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band;

And, passing from a postern door,

We met, and ‘counter’d, hand to hand,-

He fell on Gifford-moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew,

(O then my helmed head he knew,

The Palmer’s cowl was gone,)

Then had three inches of my blade

The heavy debt of vengeance paid,-

My hand the thought of Austin staid;

I left him there alone.-

O good old man! even from the grave,

Thy spirit could thy master save:

If I had slain my foeman, ne’er

Had Whitby’s Abbess, in her fear,

Given to my hand this packet dear,

Of power to clear my injured fame,

And vindicate De Wilton’s name.-

Perchance you heard the Abbess tell

Of the strange pageantry of Hell,

That broke our secret speech-

It rose from the infernal shade,

Or featly was some juggle play’d,

A tale of peace to teach.

Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,

When my name came among the rest.

‘Now here, within Tantallon Hold,

To Douglas late my tale I told,

To whom my house was known of old.

Won by my proofs, his falchion bright

This eve anew shall dub me knight.

These were the arms that once did turn

The tide of fight on Otterburne,

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,

When the Dead Douglas won the field.

These Angus gave-his armourer’s care,

Ere morn, shall every breach repair;

For nought, he said, was in his halls,

But ancient armour on the walls,

And aged chargers in the stalls,

And women, priests, and grey-hair’d men;

The rest were all in Twisel glen.

And now I watch my armour here,

By law of arms, till midnight’s near;

Then, once again a belted knight,

Seek Surrey’s camp with dawn of light.

‘There soon again we meet, my Clare!

This Baron means to guide thee there:

Douglas reveres his King’s command,

Else would he take thee from his band.

And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too,

Will give De Wilton justice due.

Now meeter far for martial broil,

Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil,

Once more’-‘O Wilton! must we then

Risk new-found happiness again,

Trust fate of arms once more?

And is there not an humble glen,

Where we, content and poor,

Might build a cottage in the shade,

A shepherd thou, and I to aid

Thy task on dale and moor?-

That reddening brow!-too well I know,

Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,

While falsehood stains thy name:

Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!

Clare can a warrior’s feelings know,

And weep a warrior’s shame;

Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel,

Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,

And belt thee with thy brand of steel,

And send thee forth to fame!’

That night, upon the rocks and bay,

The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,

And pour’d its silver light, and pure,

Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,

Upon Tantallon tower and hall;

But chief where arched windows wide

Illuminate the chapel’s pride,

The sober glances fall.

Much was there need; though seam’d with scars,

Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars,

Though two grey priests were there,

And each a blazing torch held high,

You could not by their blaze descry

The chapel’s carving fair.

Amid that dim and smoky light,

Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright,

A bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas blood,

With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye

But little pride of prelacy;

More pleased that, in a barbarous age,

He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,

Than that beneath his rule he held

The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.

Beside him ancient Angus stood,

Doff’d his furr’d gown, and sable hood:

O’er his huge form and visage pale,

He wore a cap and shirt of mail;

And lean’d his large and wrinkled hand

Upon the huge and sweeping brand

Which wont of yore, in battle fray,

His foeman’s limbs to shred away,

As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.

He seem’d as, from the tombs around

Rising at judgment-day,

Some giant Douglas may be found

In all his old array;

So pale his face, so huge his limb,

So old his arms, his look so grim.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,

And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;

And think what next he must have felt,

At buckling of the falchion belt!

And judge how Clara changed her hue,

While fastening to her lover’s side

A friend, which, though in danger tried,

He once had found untrue!

Then Douglas struck him with his blade:

‘Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,

I dub thee knight.

Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir!

For King, for Church, for Lady fair,

See that thou fight.’-

And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,

Said-‘Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,

Disgrace, and trouble;

For He, who honour best bestows,

May give thee double.’-

De Wilton sobb’d, for sob he must-

‘Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust

That Douglas is my brother!’

‘Nay, nay,’ old Angus said, ‘not so;

To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,

Thy wrongs no longer smother.

I have two sons in yonder field;

And, if thou meet’st them under shield,

Upon them bravely-do thy worst;

And foul fall him that blenches first!’

Not far advanced was morning day,

When Marmion did his troop array

To Surrey’s camp to ride;

He had safe-conduct for his band,

Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide:

The ancient Earl, with stately grace,

Would Clara on her palfrey place,

And whisper’d in an under tone,

‘Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.’-

The train from out the castle drew,

But Marmion stopp’d to bid adieu:

‘Though something I might plain,’ he said,

‘Of cold respect to stranger guest,

Sent hither by your King’s behest,

While in Tantallon’s towers I staid;

Part we in friendship from your land,

And, noble Earl, receive my hand.’-

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-

‘My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still

Be open, at my Sovereign’s will,

To each one whom he lists, howe’er

Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.

My castles are my King’s alone,

From turret to foundation-stone-

The hand of Douglas is his own;

And never shall in friendly grasp

The hand of such as Marmion clasp.’-

Burn’d Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,

And shook his very frame for ire,

And-‘This to me!’ he said,

‘An ‘twere not for thy hoary beard,

Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared

‘To cleave the Douglas’ head!

And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,

He, who does England’s message here,

Although the meanest in her state,

May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:

And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,

Even in thy pitch of pride,

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,

(Nay, never look upon your lord,

And lay your hands upon your sword,)

I tell thee, thou’rt defied!

And if thou said’st, I am not peer

To any lord in Scotland here,

Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!’-

On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage

O’ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth,-‘And darest thou then

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?-

No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms-what, Warder, ho!

Let the portcullis fall.’-

Lord Marmion turn’d,-well was his need,

And dash’d the rowels in his steed,

Like arrow through the archway sprung,

The ponderous grate behind him rung:

To pass there was such scanty room,

The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,

Just as it trembled on the rise;

Nor lighter does the swallow skim

Along the smooth lake’s level brim:

And when Lord Marmion reach’d his band,

He halts, and turns with clenched hand,

And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

‘Horse! horse!’ the Douglas cried, ‘and chase!’

But soon he rein’d his fury’s pace:

‘A royal messenger he came,

Though most unworthy of the name.-

A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!

Did ever knight so foul a deed!

At first in heart it liked me ill,

When the King praised his clerkly skill.

Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,

Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line:

So swore I, and I swear it still,

Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.-

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!

Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood,

I thought to slay him where he stood.

‘Tis pity of him too,’ he cried;

‘Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,

I warrant him a warrior tried.’

With this his mandate he recalls,

And slowly seeks his castle halls.

The day in Marmion’s journey wore;

Yet, e’er his passion’s gust was o’er,

They cross’d the heights of Stanrig-moor.

His troop more closely there he scann’d,

And miss’d the Palmer from the band.-

‘Palmer or not,’ young Blount did say,

‘ He parted at the peep of day;

Good sooth, it was in strange array.’-

‘In what array?’ said Marmion, quick.

‘My Lord, I ill can spell the trick;

But all night long, with clink and bang,

Close to my couch did hammers clang;

At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,

And from a loop-hole while I peep,

Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep,

Wrapp’d in a gown of sables fair,

As fearful of the morning air;

Beneath, when that was blown aside,

A rusty shirt of mail I spied,

By Archibald won in bloody work,

Against the Saracen and Turk:

Last night it hung not in the hall;

I thought some marvel would befall.

And next I saw them saddled lead

Old Cheviot forth, the Earl’s best steed;

A matchless horse, though something old,

Prompt to his paces, cool and bold.

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say,

The Earl did much the Master pray

To use him on the battle-day;

But he preferr’d’-’Nay, Henry, cease!

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.-

Eustace, thou bear’st a brain-I pray,

What did Blount see at break of day?’

‘In brief, my lord, we both descried

(For then I stood by Henry’s side)

The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,

Upon the Earl’s own favourite steed:

All sheathed he was in armour bright,

And much resembled that same knight,

Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:

Lord Angus wish’d him speed.’-

The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,

A sudden light on Marmion broke;-

‘Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!’

He mutter’d; ‘Twas nor fay nor ghost

I met upon the moonlight wold,

But living man of earthly mould.-

O dotage blind and gross!

Had I but fought as wont, one thrust

Had laid De Wilton in the dust,

My path no more to cross.-

How stand we now?-he told his tale

To Douglas; and with some avail;

‘Twas therefore gloom’d his rugged brow.-

Will Surrey dare to entertain,

‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?

Small risk of that, I trow.

Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun;

Must separate Constance from the Nun-

O, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!

A Palmer too!-no wonder why

I felt rebuked beneath his eye:

I might have known there was but one,

Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.’

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed

His troop, and reach’d, at eve, the Tweed,

Where Lennel’s convent closed their march;

(There now is left but one frail arch,

Yet mourn thou not its cells;

Our time a fair exchange has made;

Hard by, in hospitable shade,

A reverend pilgrim dwells,

Well worth the whole Bernardine brood,

That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.)

Yet did Saint Bernard’s Abbot there

Give Marmion entertainment fair,

And lodging for his train and Clare.

Next morn the Baron climb’d the tower,

To view afar the Scottish power,

Encamp’d on Flodden edge:

The white pavilions made a show,

Like remnants of the winter snow,

Along the dusky ridge.

Long Marmion look’d:-at length his eye

Unusual movement might descry

Amid the shifting lines:

The Scottish host drawn out appears,

For, flashing on the hedge of spears,

The eastern sunbeam shines.

Their front now deepening, now extending;

Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,

Now drawing back, and now descending,

The skilful Marmion well could know,

They watch’d the motions of some foe,

Who traversed on the plain below.

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge

The Scots beheld the English host

Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,

And heedful watch’d them as they cross’d

The Till by Twisel Bridge.

High sight it is, and haughty, while

They dive into the deep defile;

Beneath the cavern’d cliff they fall,

Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,

Troop after troop are disappearing;

Troop after troop their banners rearing,

Upon the eastern bank you see.

Still pouring down the rocky den,

Where flows the sullen Till,

And rising from the dim-wood glen,

Standards on standards, men on men,

In slow succession still,

And, sweeping o’er the Gothic arch,

And pressing on, in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill.

That morn, to many a trumpet clang,

Twisel! thy rock’s deep echo rang;

And many a chief of birth and rank,

Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.

Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see

In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,

Had then from many an axe its doom,

To give the marching columns room.

And why stands Scotland idly now,

Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,

Since England gains the pass the while,

And struggles through the deep defile?

What checks the fiery soul of James?

Why sits that champion of the dames

Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land,

Between him and Tweed’s southern strand,

His host Lord Surrey lead?

What ‘vails the vain knight-errant’s brand?―

O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!

O for one hour of Wallace wight,

Or well-skill’d Bruce, to rule the fight,

And cry-‘Saint Andrew and our right!’

Another sight had seen that morn,

From Fate’s dark book a leaf been torn,

And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!-

The precious hour has pass’d in vain,

And England’s host has gain’d the plain;

Wheeling their march, and circling still,

Around the base of Flodden hill.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion’s eye,

Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,

‘Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!

And see ascending squadrons come

Between Tweed’s river and the hill,

Foot, horse, and cannon:-hap what hap,

My basnet to a prentice cap,

Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till!-

Yet more! yet more!-how far array’d

They file from out the hawthorn shade,

And sweep so gallant by!

With all their banners bravely spread,

And all their armour flashing high,

Saint George might waken from the dead,

To see fair England’s standards fly.’-

‘Stint in thy prate,’ quoth Blount, ‘thou’dst best,

And listen to our lord’s behest.’-

With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,-

‘This instant be our band array’d;

The river must be quickly cross’d,

That we may join Lord Surrey’s host.

If fight King James,-as well I trust,

That fight he will, and fight he must,-

The Lady Clare behind our lines

Shall tarry, while the battle joins.’

Himself he swift on horseback threw,

Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu;

Far less would listen to his prayer,

To leave behind the helpless Clare.

Down to the Tweed his band he drew,

And mutter’d as the flood they view,

‘The pheasant in the falcon’s claw,

He scarce will yield to please a daw:

Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,

So Clare shall bide with me.’

Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,

Where to the Tweed Leat’s eddies creep,

He ventured desperately:

And not a moment will he bide,

Till squire, or groom, before him ride;

Headmost of all he stems the tide,

And stems it gallantly.

Eustace held Clare upon her horse,

Old Hubert led her rein,

Stoutly they braved the current’s course,

And, though far downward driven per force,

The southern bank they gain;

Behind them, straggling, came to shore,

As best they might, the train:

Each o’er his head his yew-bow bore,

A caution not in vain;

Deep need that day that every string,

By wet unharm’d, should sharply ring.

A moment then Lord Marmion staid,

And breathed his steed, his men array’d,

Then forward moved his band,

Until, Lord Surrey’s rear-guard won,

He halted by a Cross of Stone,

That, on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array

Of either host, for deadly fray;

Their marshall’d lines stretch’d east and west,

And fronted north and south,

And distant salutation pass’d

From the loud cannon mouth;

Not in the close successive rattle,

That breathes the voice of modern battle,

But slow and far between.-

The hillock gain’d, Lord Marmion staid:

‘Here, by this Cross,’ he gently said,

‘You well may view the scene.

Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:

O! think of Marmion in thy prayer!-

Thou wilt not?-well, no less my care

Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.-

You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,

With ten pick’d archers of my train;

With England if the day go hard,

To Berwick speed amain.-

But if we conquer, cruel maid,

My spoils shall at your feet be laid,

When here we meet again.’

He waited not for answer there,

And would not mark the maid’s despair,

Nor heed the discontented look

From either squire; but spurr’d amain,

And, dashing through the battle-plain,

His way to Surrey took.

‘-The good Lord Marmion, by my life!

Welcome to danger’s hour!-

Short greeting serves in time of strife :

Thus have I ranged my power:

Myself will rule this central host,

Stout Stanley fronts their right,

My sons command the vaward post,

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,

Shall be in rear-ward of the fight,

And succour those that need it most.

Now, gallant Marmion, well I know,

Would gladly to the vanguard go;

Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,

With thee their charge will blithely share;

There fight thine own retainers too,

Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.’-

‘Thanks, noble Surrey!’ Marmion said,

Nor farther greeting there he paid;

But, parting like a thunderbolt,

First in the vanguard made a halt,

Where such a shout there rose

Of ‘Marmion! Marmion!’ that the cry,

Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,

Startled the Scottish foes.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still

With Lady Clare upon the hill;

On which, (for far the day was spent,)

The western sunbeams now were bent.

The cry they heard, its meaning knew,

Could plain their distant comrades view:

Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,

‘Unworthy office here to stay!

No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-

But see! look up-on Flodden bent

The Scottish foe has fired his tent.’

And sudden, as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the hill,

All downward to the banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke.

Volumed and fast, and rolling far,

The cloud enveloped Scotland’s war,

As down the hill they broke;

Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,

Announced their march; their tread alone,

At times one warning trumpet blown,

At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne

King James did rushing come.-

Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,

Until at weapon-point they close.-

They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,

With sword-sway, and with lance’s thrust;

And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,

As if men fought upon the earth,

And fiends in upper air;

Oh, life and death were in the shout,

Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair.

Long look’d the anxious squires; their eye

Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast

Aside the shroud of battle cast;

And, first, the ridge of mingled spears

Above the brightening cloud appears;

And in the smoke the pennons flew,

As in the storm the white sea-mew.

Then mark’d they, dashing broad and far,

The broken billows of the war,

And plumed crests of chieftains brave,

Floating like foam upon the wave;

But nought distinct they see:

Wide raged the battle on the plain;

Spears shook, and falchions flash’d amain;

Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;

Crests rose, and stoop’d, and rose again,

Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high

They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:

And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,

And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,

Still bear them bravely in the fight;

Although against them come,

Of gallant Gordons many a one,

And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,

And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntly, and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,

Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;

Though there the western mountaineer

Rush’d with bare bosom on the spear,

And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied.

‘Twas vain:-But Fortune, on the right,

With fickle smile, cheer’d Scotland’s fight.

Then fell that spotless banner white,

The Howard’s lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion’s falcon flew

With wavering flight, while fiercer grew

Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky!

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:

Loud were the clanging blows;

Advanced,-forced back,-now low, now high,

The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark’s mast in the gale,

When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,

It waver’d ‘mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear:

‘By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear

I will not see it lost!

Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare

May bid your beads, and patter prayer,-

I gallop to the host.’

And to the fray he rode amain,

Follow’d by all the archer train.

The fiery youth, with desperate charge,

Made, for a space, an opening large,-

The rescued banner rose,-

But darkly closed the war around,

Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,

It sank among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too:-yet staid,

As loath to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast as shaft can fly,

Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,

The loose rein dangling from his head,

Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion’s steed rush’d by;

And Eustace, maddening at the sight,

A look and sign to Clara cast,

To mark he would return in haste,

Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left in that dreadful hour alone:

Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;

Perchance a courage, not her own,

Braces her mind to desperate tone.-

The scatter’d van of England wheels;-

She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roar’d, ‘Is Wilton there?’-

They fly, or, madden’d by despair,

Fight but to die,-’Is Wilton there?’-

With that, straight up the hill there rode

Two horsemen drench’d with gore,

And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strain’d the broken brand;

His arms were smear’d with blood and sand:

Dragg’d from among the horses’ feet,

With dinted shield, and helmet beat,

The falcon-crest and plumage gone,

Can that be haughty Marmion! . . .

Young Blount his armour did unlace,

And gazing on his ghastly face,

Said-’By Saint George, he’s gone!

That spear-wound has our master sped,

And see the deep cut on his head!

Good-night to Marmion.’-

‘Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:

He opes his eyes,’ said Eustace; ‘peace!’

When, doff’d his casque, he felt free air,

Around ‘gan Marmion wildly stare:-

‘Where’s Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!

Redeem my pennon,-charge again!

Cry”Marmion to the rescue!”-Vain!

Last of my race, on battle-plain

That shout shall ne’er be heard again!-

Yet my last thought is England’s-fly,

To Dacre bear my signet-ring: