XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell,
Whose galley, as they sailed again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en.
Now at Dunedin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide;
   And soon, by his command,
Were gently summoned to prepare
To journey under Marmion's care,
As escort honoured, 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 feared 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 deemed it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the king assigned,
To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined;
And thus it fell that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye,
   Who warned him by a scroll
She had a secret to reveal
That much concerned 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.

XX.

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 moonbeam broke
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,
   And on the casements played.
   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.

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 -
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 wooed
Clara de Clare, of Gloucester'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 Gueldres 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 returned,
Judge how De Wilton's fury burned
For in his packet there were laid
Letters that claimed disloyal aid,
And proved King Henry's cause betrayed.
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?

XXII.

'His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doomed to suffer law,
   Repentant, owned in vain,
That while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair,
Had drenched 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 sheltered 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 spoiled 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.

XXIII.

"Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed
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 betrayed,
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 retained
   Each proof that might the plot reveal,
   Instructions with his hand and seal;
And thus Saint Hilda deigned,
      Through sinners' perfidy impure,
      Her house's glory to secure
   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!
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, oh! with cautious speed
To Wolsey's hand the papers bring,
That he may show them to the king
   And for thy well-earned 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 shrieked 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 blazoned banners toss!"

XXV.

Dunedin's Cross, a pillared 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.
Oh! 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 seemed to rise and die,
Gibber and sign, advance and fly,
While nought confirmed 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:-

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
   I summon one and all:
I cite you by each deadly sin
That e'er hath soiled 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 passed 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,
Foredoomed 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 marked not, at the scene aghast,
What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

XXVII.

Shift we the scene.  The camp doth move;
   Dunedin'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-haired 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 looked high, as if he planned
   Some desperate deed afar.
His courser would he feed and stroke,
And, tucking up his sable frock,
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.

XXVIII.

Some half-hour's march behind, there came,
   By Eustace governed fair,
A troop escorting Hilda's dame,
   With all her nuns and Clare.
No audience had Lord Marmion sought;
   Ever he feared 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 fanned by looks and sighs,
   And lighted oft at lady's eyes;
   He longed 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 loathed 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.

XXIX.

And now when close at hand they saw
North Berwick's town and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile
Before a venerable pile,
   Whose turrets viewed, 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 prayed Saint Hilda's Abbess rest
With her, a loved and honoured guest,
Till Douglas should a barque prepare
To waft her back to Whitby fair.
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,
And thanked the Scottish Prioress;
And tedious were to tell, I ween,
The courteous speech that passed between.
   O'erjoyed, 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 obeyed;
And Marmion and the Douglas said
   That you must wend with me.
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,
Which to the Scottish earl he showed,
Commanding that beneath his care
Without delay you shall repair
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare."

XXX.

The startled Abbess loud exclaimed;
But she at whom the blow was aimed
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead -
She deemed 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 Gloucester'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 blushed with earnest grace;
His faith was painted on his face,
   And Clare's worst fear relieved.
The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed,
   Entreated, threatened, grieved;
To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed,
Against Lord Marmion inveighed,
And called the Prioress to aid,
To curse with candle, bell, and book.
Her head the grave Cistercian shook:
"The Douglas and the King," she said,
"In their commands will be obeyed;
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon Hall."

XXXI.

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 hurled 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."

XXXII.

"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.

XXXIII.

But scant three miles the band had rode,
   When o'er a height they passed,
And, sudden, close before them showed
   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.

XXXIV.

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 marvelled Marmion;
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland:
   But whispered 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 Milfield Plain,
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gathered in the Southern land,
And marched 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.



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.
TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ.
Mertoun House, Christmas.



Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer;
E'en, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone;
Or listened all, in grim delight,
While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly-loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boist'rous joys of Odin's hall.
   And well our Christian sires of old
Loved, when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung;
That only night in all the year
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
   The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell:
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh! what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale:
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
   Still linger, in our Northern clime,
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our valleys here,
We hold the kindred title dear,
Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim
To Southern ear sounds empty name;
For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.
And thus my Christmas still I hold
Where my great grandsire came of old,
With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air -
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,
And honest mirth with thoughts divine:
Small thought was his in after time
E'er to be hitched into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast,
That he was loyal to his cost;
The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land--but kept his beard.
   In these dear halls, where welcome kind
Is with fair liberty combined;
Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand
Of the fair dame that rules the land.
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loth to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face,
And clips her with a close embrace:
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,
And as reluctant turn us home.
   How just that, at this time of glee,
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee!
For many a merry hour we've known,
And heard the chimes of midnight's tone.
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace!
Of Roman and of Grecian lore
Sure mortal brain can hold no more.
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say,
"Were pretty fellows in their day;"
But time and tide o'er all prevail -
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale,
Of wonder and of war--"Profane!
What! leave the loftier Latian strain,
Her stately prose, her verse's charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms:
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost,
To jostle conjuror and ghost,
Goblin and witch!"  Nay, Heber dear,
Before you touch my charter, hear;
Though Leyden aids, alas! no more,
My cause with many-languaged lore,
This may I say:- in realms of death
Ulysses meets Alcides' WRAITH;
AEneas, upon Thracia's shore,
The ghost of murdered Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus Bos.
As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks
Or held in Rome republican,
The place of common-councilman.
   All nations have their omens drear,
Their legends wild of woe and fear.
To Cambria look--the peasant see
Bethink him of Glendowerdy,
And shun "the spirit's blasted tree."
The Highlander, whose red claymore
The battle turned on Maida's shore,
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,
If asked to tell a fairy tale:
He fears the vengeful elfin king,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring:
Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
   Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchemont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair;
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amassed through rapine and through wrong,
By the last Lord of Franchemont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his blood-hounds lie:
And 'twere not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,
As bugle e'er in brake did sound,
Or ever hallooed to a hound.
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged necromantic priest:
It is an hundred years at least,
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft the conjuror's words will make
The stubborn demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 'tis opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franchemont locked the treasure cell.
A hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
   Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say;
Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from heaven,
That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's king,
Nor less the infernal summoning;
May pass the monk of Durham's tale,
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail;
May pardon plead for Fordun grave,
Who told of Gifford's goblin-cave.
But why such instances to you,
Who in an instant can renew
Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franchemont chest,
While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use;
Give them the priest's whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfered gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;
Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can like the owner's self enjoy them?
But, hark!  I hear the distant drum!
The day of Flodden Field is come.
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,
And store of literary wealth!



CANTO SIXTH.--THE BATTLE.



I.

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 snuffed 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 prayed
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 pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

II.

I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vexed 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 cognisance 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,
Gateworks and walls were strongly manned;
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.

III.

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 bulwark's 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 adorned 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
Remained a cross with ruby stone;
   And often did she look
On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound, and broidered 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 dressed,
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 lovelorn fay she might have been,
Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen;
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen
   A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide,
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.
Oh! wherefore, to my duller eye,
Did still the saint her form deny!
Was it that, seared 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! condemned 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 Gloucester's Earl:
Of such a stem, a sapling weak,
He ne'er shall bend, although he break."

V.

"But see;--what makes this armour here?"
   For in her path there lay
Targe, corslet, helm;--she viewed 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 seemed 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:
Bright'ning 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 displayed:
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 delayed,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply:-

VI.

DE WILTON'S HISTORY.

"Forget we that disastrous day,
When senseless in the lists I lay.
   Thence dragged--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 returned 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 arrayed.
My hated name and form to shade
   I journeyed many a land;
No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
   Oft Austin for my reason feared,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
   Or wild mad schemes upreared.
My friend at length fell sick, and said,
   God would remove him soon:
And, while upon his dying bed,
   He begged of me a boon -
If e'er my deadliest enemy
Beneath my brand should conquered lie,
Even then my mercy should awake,
And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII.

"Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta'en,
   Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perished 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 trimmed 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 mustered Hell
   Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII.

"A word of vulgar augury,
That broke from me, I scarce knew why,
   Brought on a village tale;
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth by night.
   I borrowed steed and mail,
And weapons, from his sleeping band;
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and countered hand to hand -
   He fell on Gifford Moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew -
Oh, then my helmdd 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 stayed;
   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 played,
   A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,
When my name came among the rest.

IX.

"Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
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 naught, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-haired 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.

X.

"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!"

XI.

That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay,
And poured its silver light, and pure,
Through loophole, and through embrazure,
   Upon Tantallon's tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride,
   The sober glances fall.
Much was there need; though, seamed 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 moonshine bright,
   A bishop by the altar stood,
   A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.
Yet showed 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,
Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood:
O'er his huge form and visage pale
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;
And leaned 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 seemed 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.

XII.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt
At buckling of the falchion belt!
   And judge how Clara changed her hue,
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 sobbed, for sob he must -
"Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust
   That Douglas is my brother!"
"Nay, nay," old Douglas 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!"

XIII.

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 whispered in an under-tone,
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped 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 stayed;
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."

XIV.

Burned 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 head,
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 dar'st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
   The Douglas in his hall?
And hop'st thou thence unscathed to go:
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms--what, warder, ho
   Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned--well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars descending razed his plume.

XV.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached 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 reined 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 St. 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.

XVI.

The day in Marmion's journey wore;
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er,
They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor.
His troop more closely there he scanned,
And missed 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 loophole while I peep,
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep,
Wrapped 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 in 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 preferred"--"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?"

XVII.

"In brief, my lord, we both descried
(For then I stood by Henry's side)
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,
   Upon the earl's own favourite steed:
All sheathed he was in armour bright,
And much resembled that same knight,
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:
   Lord Angus wished him speed."
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:
"Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!"
He muttered; "'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 gloomed 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 -
Oh, 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."

XVIII.

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed
His troop, and reached, 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 climbed the tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
   Encamped on Flodden edge:
The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow,
   Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion looked:  at length his eye
Unusual movement might descry
   Amid the shifting lines:
The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the edge 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 watched the motions of some foe,
Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX.

Even so it was.  From Flodden ridge
   The Scots beheld the English host
   Leave Barmore Wood, their evening post,
   And heedful watched them as they crossed
The Till by Twisel Bridge.
   High sight it is, and haughty, while
   They dive into the deep defile;
   Beneath the caverned 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 stardards, 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 rocks 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.

XX.

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?
Oh, Douglas for thy leading wand!
   Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
Oh, for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled 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 passed in vain,
And England's host has gained the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
Around the base of Flodden Hill.

XXI.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
"Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come
   Between Tweed's river and the hill,
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 arrayed
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 arrayed;
The river must be quickly crossed,
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."

XXII.

Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu;
Far less would listen to his prayer,
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And muttered, 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 unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
   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.