Chapter IV: Part 4

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

XVI.

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

XVII.

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

XVIII.

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

XIX.

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

XX.

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

XXI.

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

XXII.

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

XXIII.

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

XXIV.

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

XXV.

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

XXVI.

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

XXVII.

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

XXVIII.

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

XXIX.

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

XXX.

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

XXXI.

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

XXXII.

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

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

Edinburgh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CANTO FIFTH.

THE COURT.

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VIL

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily, That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee: King James within her princely bower Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's power, Summon'd to spend the parting hour; 175 For he had charged, that his array Should southward march by break of day. Well loved that splendid monarch aye The banquet and the song, By day the tourney, and by night 180 The merry dance, traced fast and light, The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, The revel loud and long. This feast outshone his banquets past; It was his blithest,--and his last. 185 The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, Cast on the Court a dancing ray; Here to the harp did minstrels sing; There ladies touched a softer string; With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest, 190 The licensed fool retail'd his jest; His magic tricks the juggler plied; At dice and draughts the gallants vied; While some, in close recess apart, Courted the ladies of their heart, 195 Nor courted them in vain; For often, in the parting hour, Victorious Love asserts his power O'er coldness and disdain; And flinty is her heart, can view 200 To battle march a lover true-- Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, Nor own her share of pain.

VIII.

Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game, The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 205 While, reverent, all made room. An easy task it was, I trow, King James's manly form to know, Although, his courtesy to show, He doff'd, to Marmion bending low, 210 His broider'd cap and plume. For royal was his garb and mien, His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild; His vest of changeful satin sheen, 215 The dazzled eye beguiled; His gorgeous collar hung adown, Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown, The thistle brave, of old renown: His trusty blade, Toledo right, 220 Descended from a baldric bright; White were his buskins, on the heel His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; His bonnet, all of crimson fair, Was button'd with a ruby rare: 225 And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen A prince of such a noble mien.

IX.

The Monarch's form was middle size; For feat of strength, or exercise, Shaped in proportion fair; 230 And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye, His short curl'd beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists; 235 And, oh! he had that merry glance, That seldom lady's heart resists. Lightly from fair to fair he flew, And loved to plead, lament, and sue;-- Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain, 240 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. I said he joy'd in banquet bower; But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, How suddenly his cheer would change, His look o'ercast and lower, 245 If, in a sudden turn, he felt The pressure of his iron belt, That bound his breast in penance pain, In memory of his father slain. Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, 250 Soon as the passing pang was o'er, Forward he rush'd, with double glee, Into the stream of revelry: Thus, dim-seen object of affright Startles the courser in his flight, 255 And half he halts, half springs aside; But feels the quickening spur applied, And, straining on the tighten'd rein, Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.

X.

O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 260 Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway: To Scotland's Court she came, To be a hostage for her lord, Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, And with the King to make accord, 265 Had sent his lovely dame. Nor to that lady free alone Did the gay King allegiance own; For the fair Queen of France Sent him a turquois ring and glove, 270 And charged him, as her knight and love, For her to break a lance; And strike three strokes with Scottish brand, And march three miles on Southron land, And bid the banners of his band 275 In English breezes dance. And thus, for France's Queen he drest His manly limbs in mailed vest; And thus admitted English fair His inmost counsels still to share; 280 And thus, for both, he madly plann'd The ruin of himself and land! And yet, the sooth to tell, Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, 285 From Margaret's eyes that fell,-- His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI.

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day, 290 The war against her native soil, Her monarch's risk in battle broil:-- And in gay Holy-Rood, the while, Dame Heron rises with a smile Upon the harp to play. 295 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er The strings her fingers flew; And as she touch'd and tuned them all, Ever her bosom's rise and fall Was plainer given to view; 300 For, all for heat, was laid aside Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitch'd her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the King, And then around the silent ring; 305 And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay, She could not, would not, durst not play! At length, upon the harp, with glee, Mingled with arch simplicity, 310 A soft, yet lively, air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung:--

XII.

LOCHINVAR.

Lady Heron's Song

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, 315 He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 320 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, 325 Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) 'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'-- 330

'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 335 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 340 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 345 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ''Twere better by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 350 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; 355 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 360

XIII.

The Monarch o'er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer, and more near, He whisper'd praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied; 365 And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seem'd to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, 370 A real or feign'd disdain: Familiar was the look, and told, Marmion and she were friends of old. The King observed their meeting eyes, With something like displeased surprise; 375 For monarchs ill can rivals brook, Even in a word, or smile, or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad, Which Marmion's high commission show'd: 'Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 380 Our peaceful liege-men robb'd,' he said; 'On day of truce our Warden slain, Stout Barton kill'd, his vessels ta'en-- Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 385 Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne.'

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the pageant view'd: I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 390 Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder's dreary flat: 395 Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 400 Its dungeons, and its towers, Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. Though now, in age, he had laid down 405 His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand, Yet often would flash forth the fire, That could, in youth, a monarch's ire And minion's pride withstand; 410 And even that day, at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal Lord.

XV.

His giant-form, like ruin'd tower, 415 Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower: His locks and beard in silver grew; His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 420 Near Douglas when the Monarch stood, His bitter speech he thus pursued :- 'Lord Marmion, since these letters say That in the North you needs must stay, While slightest hopes of peace remain, 425 Uncourteous speech it were, and stern, To say--Return to Lindisfarne, Until my herald come again.-- Then rest you in Tantallon Hold; Your host shall be the Douglas bold,-- 430 A chief unlike his sires of old. He wears their motto on his blade, Their blazon o'er his towers display'd; Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, More than to face his country's foes. 435 And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, But e'en this morn to me was given A prize, the first fruits of the war, Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 440 Under your guard, these holy maids Shall safe return to cloister shades, And, while they at Tantallon stay, Requiem for Cochran's soul may say.' And, with the slaughter'd favourite's name, 445 Across the Monarch's brow there came A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI.

In answer nought could Angus speak; His proud heart swell'd wellnigh to break: He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 450 A burning tear there stole. His hand the Monarch sudden took, That sight his kind heart could not brook: 'Now, by the Bruce's soul, Angus, my hasty speech forgive! 455 For sure as doth his spirit live, As he said of the Douglas old, I well may say of you,-- That never King did subject hold, In speech more free, in war more bold, 460 More tender and more true: Forgive me, Douglas, once again.'-- And, while the King his hand did strain, The old man's tears fell down like rain. To seize the moment Marmion tried, 465 And whisper'd to the King aside: 'Oh! let such tears unwonted plead For respite short from dubious deed! A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, 470 A stripling for a woman's heart: But woe awaits a country, when She sees the tears of bearded men. Then, oh! what omen, dark and high, When Douglas wets his manly eye!' 475

XVII.

Displeased was James, that stranger view'd And tamper'd with his changing mood. 'Laugh those that can, weep those that may,' Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 'Southward I march by break of day; 480 And if within Tantallon strong, The good Lord Marmion tarries long, Perchance our meeting next may fall At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.'-- The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 485 And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: 'Much honour'd were my humble home, If in its halls King James should come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshire men are stem of mood; 490 Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. On Derby Hills the paths are steep; In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep; And many a banner will be torn, And many a knight to earth be borne, 495 And many a sheaf of arrows spent, Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent: Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you may!'-- The Monarch lightly turn'd away, And to his nobles loud did call,-- 500 'Lords, to the dance,--a hall! a hall!' Himself his cloak and sword flung by, And led Dame Heron gallantly; And Minstrels, at the royal order, Rung out--'Blue Bonnets o'er the Border.' 505

XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, Whose galley, as they sail'd again To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 510 Till James should of their fate decide; And soon, by his command, Were gently summon'd to prepare To journey under Marmion's care, As escort honour'd, safe, and fair, 515 Again to English land. The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, Nor knew which Saint she should implore; For, when she thought of Constance, sore She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 520 And judge what Clara must have felt! The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, Had drunk De Wilton's blood. Unwittingly, King James had given, As guard to Whitby's shades, 525 The man most dreaded under heaven By these defenceless maids: Yet what petition could avail, Or who would listen to the tale Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 530 Mid bustle of a war begun? They deem'd it hopeless to avoid The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the King assign'd, To Marmion's, as their guardian, join'd; 535 And thus it fell, that, passing nigh, The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, Who warn'd him by a scroll, She had a secret to reveal, That much concern'd the Church's weal, 540 And health of sinner's soul; And, with deep charge of secrecy, She named a place to meet, Within an open balcony, That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 545 Above the stately street; To which, as common to each home, At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night, in secret, there they came, The Palmer and the holy dame. 550 The moon among the clouds rose high, And all the city hum was by. Upon the street, where late before Did din of war and warriors roar, You might have heard a pebble fall, 555 A beetle hum, a cricket sing, An owlet flap his boding wing On Giles's steeple tall. The antique buildings, climbing high, Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 560 Were here wrapt deep in shade; There on their brows the moon-beam broke, Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, And on the casements play'd. And other light was none to see, 565 Save torches gliding far, Before some chieftain of degree, Who left the royal revelry To bowne him for the war.-- A solemn scene the Abbess chose; 570 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

XXI.

'O, holy Palmer!' she began,-- 'For sure he must be sainted man, Whose blessed feet have trod the ground Where the Redeemer's tomb is found,-- 575 For His dear Church's sake, my tale Attend, nor deem of light avail, Though I must speak of worldly love,-- How vain to those who wed above!-- De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd 580 Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood; (Idle it were of Whitby's dame, To say of that same blood I came;) And once, when jealous rage was high, Lord Marmion said despiteously, 585 Wilton was traitor in his heart, And had made league with Martin Swart, When he came here on Simnel's part; And only cowardice did restrain His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain,-- 590 And down he threw his glove:--the thing Was tried, as wont, before the King; Where frankly did De Wilton own, That Swart in Guelders he had known; And that between them then there went 595 Some scroll of courteous compliment. For this he to his castle sent; But when his messenger return'd, Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd! For in his packet there were laid 600 Letters that claim'd disloyal aid, And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. His fame, thus blighted, in the field He strove to clear, by spear and shield;-- To clear his fame in vain he strove, 605 For wondrous are His ways above! Perchance some form was unobserved; Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved; Else how could guiltless champion quail, Or how the blessed ordeal fail? 610

XXII.

'His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doom'd to suffer law, Repentant, own'd in vain, That, while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, 615 Had drench'd him with a beverage rare; His words no faith could gain. With Clare alone he credence won, Who, rather than wed Marmion, Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 620 To give our house her livings fair, And die a vestal vot'ress there. The impulse from the earth was given, But bent her to the paths of heaven. A purer heart, a lovelier maid, 625 Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade, No, not since Saxon Edelfled; Only one trace of earthly strain, That for her lover's loss She cherishes a sorrow vain, 630 And murmurs at the cross.- And then her heritage;--it goes Along the banks of Tame; Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, In meadows rich the heifer lows, 635 The falconer and huntsman knows Its woodlands for the game. Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, And I, her humble vot'ress here, Should do a deadly sin, 640 Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes, If this false Marmion such a prize By my consent should win; Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn, That Clare shall from our house be torn; 645 And grievous cause have I to fear, Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

XXIII.

'Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd To evil power, I claim thine aid, By every step that thou hast trod 650 To holy shrine and grotto dim, By every martyr's tortured limb, By angel, saint, and seraphim, And by the Church of God! For mark:--When Wilton was betray'd, 655 And with his squire forged letters laid, She was, alas! that sinful maid, By whom the deed was done,-- Oh! shame and horror to be said! She was a perjured nun! 660 No clerk in all the land, like her, Traced quaint and varying character. Perchance you may a marvel deem, That Marmion's paramour (For such vile thing she was) should scheme 665 Her lover's nuptial hour; But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, As privy to his honour's stain, Illimitable power: For this she secretly retain'd 670 Each proof that might the plot reveal, Instructions with his hand and seal; And thus Saint Hilda deign'd, Through sinners' perfidy impure, Her house's glory to secure, 675 And Clare's immortal weal.

XXIV.

'Twere long, and needless, here to tell, How to my hand these papers fell; With me they must not stay. Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! 680 Who knows what outrage he might do, While journeying by the way?-- O, blessed Saint, if e'er again I venturous leave thy calm domain, To travel or by land or main, 685 Deep penance may I pay!-- Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: I give this packet to thy care, For thee to stop they will not dare; And O! with cautious speed, 690 To Wolsey's hand the papers 'bring, That he may show them to the King: And, for thy well-earn'd meed, Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine A weekly mass shall still be thine, 695 While priests can sing and read.- What ail'st thou?--Speak!'--For as he took The charge, a strong emotion shook His frame; and, ere reply, They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone, 700 Like distant clarion feebly blown, That on the breeze did die; And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, 'Saint Withold, save us!--What is here! Look at yon City Cross! 705 See on its battled tower appear Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, And blazon'd banners toss!'--

XXV.

Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone, Rose on a turret octagon; 710 (But now is razed that monument, Whence royal edict rang, And voice of Scotland's law was sent In glorious trumpet-clang. O! be his tomb as lead to lead, 715 Upon its dull destroyer's head!-- A minstrel's malison is said.)-- Then on its battlements they saw A vision, passing Nature's law, Strange, wild, and dimly seen; 720 Figures that seem'd to rise and die, Gibber and sign, advance and fly, While nought confirm'd could ear or eye Discern of sound or mien. Yet darkly did it seem, as there 725 Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, With trumpet sound, and blazon fair, A summons to proclaim; But indistinct the pageant proud, As fancy forms of midnight cloud, 730 When flings the moon upon her shroud A wavering tinge of flame; It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, From midmost of the spectre crowd, This awful summons came:-- 735

XXVI.

'Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, Whose names I now shall call, Scottish, or foreigner, give ear! Subjects of him who sent me here, At his tribunal to appear, 740 I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin, That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust, That e'er defiled your earthly dust,-- 745 By wrath, by pride, by fear, By each o'er-mastering passion's tone, By the dark grave, and dying groan! When forty days are pass'd and gone, I cite you at your Monarch's throne, 750 To answer and appear.'-- Then thundered forth a roll of names:-- The first was thine, unhappy James! Then all thy nobles came; Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 755 Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,- Why should I tell their separate style? Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile, 760 Was cited there by name; And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye; De Wilton, erst of Aberley, The self-same thundering voice did say.-- 765 But then another spoke: 'Thy fatal summons I deny, And thine infernal Lord defy, Appealing me to Him on high, Who burst the sinner's yoke.' 770 At that dread accent, with a scream, Parted the pageant like a dream, The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the Abbess fell, And fast, and fast, her beads did tell; 775 Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She mark'd not, at the scene aghast, What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd.

XXVII.