When red hath set the beamless sun, 55
Through heavy vapours dark and dun;
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,
Against the casement's tinkling pane; 60
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 65
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above, and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.
Long, with dejected look and whine, 70
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid:
His flock he gathers, and he guides,
To open downs, and mountain-sides, 75
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells,
Stiffens his locks to icicles;
Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 80
His cottage window seems a star,--
Loses its feeble gleam,--and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 85
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 90
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain:
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 95
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.
Who envies now the shepherd's lot,
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree, 100
His rustic kirn's loud revelry,
His native hill-notes, tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye;
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia's golden creed? 105
Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene?
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage, 110
Against the winter of our age:
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy;
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 115
Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,--
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 120
Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou, of late, wert doom'd to twine,--
Just when thy bridal hour was by,--
The cypress with the myrtle tie. 125
Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled,
And bless'd the union of his child,
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions next his end, 130
Speak more the father than the friend:
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade;
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator's heart was cold-- 135
Far may we search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!
But not around his honour'd urn,
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;
The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140
Pour at his name a bitter tide;
And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty's attributed name, 145
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.'
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme;
for sacred was the pen that wrote, 150
'Thy father's friend forget thou not:'
And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:--
'Tis little--but 'tis all I have. 155
To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;
When, doing nought,--and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,--
The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance, 165
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely labouring to pourtray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray;
I spelling o'er, with much delight, 170
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 175
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180
Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossom'd bough, than we.
And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,
When Winter stript the summer's bowers.
Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay;
And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved R--,
And one whose name I may not say,-- 195
For not Mimosa's tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,--
In merry chorus well combined,
With laughter drown'd the whistling wind.
Mirth was within; and care without 200
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene--
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 205
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.
Such nights we've had; and, though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day, or the drill, 210
Seem less important now--yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 215
CANTO FOURTH.
THE CAMP.
Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call, 5
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came, and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarranged. 10
Some clamour'd loud for armour lost;
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host;
'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'--
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire, 15
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,-- 20
'Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:
To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he loves so well?'--
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 25
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,--
'What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush 30
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'
II.
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd,
Nor wholly understood,
His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd;
He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 35
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
And did his tale display
Simply, as if he knew of nought
To cause such disarray. 40
Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,--
Pass'd them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.
III.
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 45
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
'Ill thou deservest thy hire,' he said;
'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50
And left him in a foam!
I trust, that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross, and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home: 55
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.'--
The laughing host look'd on the hire,--
'Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou comest among the rest, 60
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'
Here stay'd their talk,--for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on. 65
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journey'd all the morning day.
IV.
The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A forest-glade, which, varying still, 70
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches made.
'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said;
'Such as where errant-knights might see 75
Adventures of high chivalry;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear. 80
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.'
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind; 85
Perchance to show his lore design'd;
For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome 90
Of Caxton, or de Worde.
Therefore he spoke,--but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answer'd nought again.
V.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 95
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know,
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 100
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band,
Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees, receding, show'd
A little woodland plain. 105
Just in that advantageous glade,
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.
VI.
First came the trumpets, at whose clang 110
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward press'd,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 115
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a King-at-arms, 120
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quell'd,
When wildest its alarms.
VII.
He was a man of middle age;
In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 125
As on King's errand come;
But in the glances of his eye,
A penetrating, keen, and sly
Expression found its home;
The flash of that satiric rage, 130
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,
And broke the keys of Rome.
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;
His cap of maintenance was graced 135
With the proud heron-plume.
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground,
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
Embroider'd round and round. 140
The double tressure might you see,
First by Achaius borne,
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn.
So bright the King's armorial coat, 145
That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colours, blazon'd brave,
The Lion, which his title gave;
A train, which well beseem'd his state,
But all unarm'd, around him wait. 150
Still is thy name in high account,
And still thy verse has charms,
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms!
VIII.
Down from his horse did Marmion spring, 155
Soon as he saw the Lion-King;
For well the stately Baron knew
To him such courtesy was due,
Whom Royal James himself had crown'd,
And on his temples placed the round 160
Of Scotland's ancient diadem:
And wet his brow with hallow'd wine,
And on his finger given to shine
The emblematic gem.
Their mutual greetings duly made, 165
The Lion thus his message said:--
'Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
From England to his royal court; 170
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name,
And honours much his warlike fame,
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack
Of courtesy, to turn him back;
And, by his order, I, your guide, 175
Must lodging fit and fair provide,
Till finds King James meet time to see
The flower of English chivalry.'
IX.
Though inly chafed at this delay,
Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 180
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,
Sought to take leave in vain:
Strict was the Lion-King's command,
That none, who rode in Marmion's band, 185
Should sever from the train:
'England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes;'
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,
But fair pretext to Marmion made. 190
The right hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.
X.
At length up that wild dale they wind,
Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;
For there the Lion's care assign'd 195
A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.
That Castle rises on the steep
Of the green vale of Tyne:
And far beneath, where slow they creep,
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 200
Where alders moist, and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands; 205
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.
XI.
Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 210
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, 215
Quarter'd in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet had time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 220
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair.
Still rises unimpair'd below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row 225
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 230
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More;
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 235
XII.
Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
For none were in the Castle then, 240
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold; 245
For each man that could draw a sword
Had march'd that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,--he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long may his Lady look in vain! 250
She ne'er shall see his gallant train,
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.
XIII.
And here two days did Marmion rest, 255
With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the King's own guest;--
Such the command of Royal James,
Who marshall'd then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 260
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 265
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,--
Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace. 270
XIV.
It chanced, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walk'd,
And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talk'd;
And, unaware, the Herald-bard 275
Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war: 280
And, closer question'd, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enroll'd:-
XV.
Sir David Lindsey's Tale.
'Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling, 285
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
How blithe the blackbird's lay! 290
The wild buck bells from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.
But June is to our Sovereign dear 295
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King! 300
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,
King James's June is ever spent.
XVI.
'When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 305
The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father's soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying--
For now the year brought round again 310
The day the luckless King was slain--
In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him in their stalls of state, 315
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 320
Through the stain'd casement gleaming;
But, while I mark'd what next befell,
It seem'd as I were dreaming.
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white; 325
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.--
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace, 330
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,--
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint, 335
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,--
The loved Apostle John!
XVII.
'He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made; 340
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
And words like these he said,
In a low voice,--but never tone
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve, and bone:--
"My mother sent me from afar, 346
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,--
Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 350
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware:
God keep thee as He may!"--
The wondering monarch seem'd to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak, 355
The monitor was gone.
The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward pass'd;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
He vanish'd from our eyes, 360
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.'
XVIII.
While Lindesay told his marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,
He mark'd not Marmion's colour change, 365
While listening to the tale:
But, after a suspended pause,
The Baron spoke:--'Of Nature's laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause 370
Could e'er control their course;
And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game.
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed, 375
And made me credit aught.'--He staid,
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion press'd,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery's pain, 380
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance, or of Clare; 385
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.
XIX.
'In vain,' said he, 'to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head:
Fantastic thoughts return'd; 390
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burn'd.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 395
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I pass'd through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,--
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 400
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.
XX.
'Thus judging, for a little space
I listen'd, ere I left the place;
But scarce could trust my eyes, 405
Nor yet can think they serve me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.--
I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410
In single fight, and mix'd affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem'd starting from the gulf below,-- 415
I care not though the truth I show,--
I trembled with affright;
And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
I scarce could couch it right. 420
XXI.
'Why need my tongue the issue tell?
We ran our course,--my charger fell;--
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?
I roll'd upon the plain.
High o'er my head, with threatening hand, 425
The spectre shook his naked brand,--
Yet did the worst remain:
My dazzled eyes I upward cast,--
Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight, like what I saw! 430
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!--
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled 435
To foreign climes, has long been dead,--
I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
So grimly and so ghast. 440
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade;
But when to good Saint George I pray'd,
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid),
He plunged it in the sheath;
And, on his courser mounting light, 445
He seem'd to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.--
'Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me there, 450
Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air:
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.'
XXII.
Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount; 455
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460
With Brian Bulmer bold,
And train'd him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,
With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid 465
And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pine-tree shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 470
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,
On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold 475
These midnight terrors vain;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin.'-- 480
Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then press'd Sir David's hand,--
But nought, at length, in answer said;
And here their farther converse staid, 485
Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland's camp to take their way,-
Such was the King's command.
XXIII.
Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 490
And I could trace each step they trode:
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might if boast of storied lore;
But, passing such digression o'er, 495
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill,
And climb'd the opposing bank, until
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 500
XXIV.
Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,
A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin, 505
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,
Saint Giles's mingling din.
Now, from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain; 510
And o'er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan,
Of early friendships past and gone. 515
XXV.
But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 520
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down:--
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen
That chequer'd all the heath between 525
The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood, 530
That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed the glaring white with green:
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.
XXVI.
For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 535
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge:
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 540
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank,
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
And charger's shrilling neigh; 545
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance,
The sun's reflected ray.
XXVII.
Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of failing smoke declare 550
To embers now the brands decay'd,
Where the night-watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car, 555
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 560
XXVIII.
Nor mark'd they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square, 565
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest, and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;
The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight, 570
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 575
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.
XXIX.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,--
He view'd it with a chiefs delight,-- 580
Until within him burn'd his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey. 585
'Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay:
For, by St. George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine, 590
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
In glorious battle-fray!'
Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood:
'Fair is the sight,--and yet 'twere good, 595
That Kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land has bless'd,
'Tis better to sit still at rest,
Than rise, perchance to fall.'
XXX.
Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, 600
For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow 605
With gloomy splendour red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,
The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud, 610
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 615
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kiss'd, 620
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;
And, broad between them roll'd,
The gallant Frith the eye might note, 625
Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent, 630
And raised his bridle hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land!'
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; 635
Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.
XXXI.
Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
Did up the mountain come;
The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 645
Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,
And thus the Lindesay spoke:
'Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The King to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to Saint Katharine's of Sienne, 650
Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame;
But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 655
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfall of the deer.
XXXII.
'Nor less,' he said,--'when looking forth,
I view yon Empress of the North 660
Sit on her hilly throne;
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers--
Nor less,' he said, 'I moan, 665
To think what woe mischance may bring,
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant King;
Or with the larum call
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 670
'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard
Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.--
But not for my presaging thought,
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!
Lord Marmion, I say nay: 675
God is the guider of the field,
He breaks the champion's spear and shield,--
But thou thyself shalt say,
When joins yon host in deadly stowre,
That England's dames must weep in bower, 680
Her monks the death-mass sing;
For never saw'st thou such a power
Led on by such a King.'--
And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain, 685
And there they made a stay.--
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 695
In the succeeding lay.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.
TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.
Edinburgh.
When dark December glooms the day,
And takes our autumn joys away;
When short and scant the sunbeam throws,
Upon the weary waste of snows,
A cold and profitless regard, 5
Like patron on a needy bard;
When silvan occupation's done,
And o'er the chimney rests the gun,
And hang, in idle trophy, near,
The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 10
When wiry terrier, rough and grim,
And greyhound, with his length of limb,
And pointer, now employ'd no more,
Cumber our parlour's narrow floor;
When in his stall the impatient steed 15
Is long condemn'd to rest and feed;
When from our snow-encircled home,
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam
Since path is none, save that to bring
The needful water from the spring; 20
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er,
Beguiles the dreary hour no more,
And darkling politician, cross'd,
Inveighs against the lingering post,
And answering housewife sore complains 25
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains;
When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleased, to seek our city home;
For converse, and for books, to change
The Forest's melancholy range, 30
And welcome, with renew'd delight,
The busy day and social night.
Not here need my desponding rhyme
Lament the ravages of time,
As erst by Newark's riven towers, 35
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers.
True,--Caledonia's Queen is changed,
Since on her dusky summit ranged,
Within its steepy limits pent,
By bulwark, line, and battlement, 40
And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrison'd she stood,
Denying entrance or resort,
Save at each tall embattled port;
Above whose arch, suspended, hung 45
Portcullis spiked with iron prong.
That long is gone,--but not so long,
Since, early closed, and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate,
Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 50
A wicket churlishly supplied.
Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,
Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,
When safe amid thy mountain court
Thou sitt'st, like Empress at her sport, 55
And liberal, unconfined, and free,
Flinging thy white arms to the sea,
For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower,
That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower,
Thou gleam'st against the western ray 60
Ten thousand lines of brighter day.
Not she, the Championess of old,
In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd,
She for the charmed spear renown'd,
Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,--
Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 66
What time she was Malbecco's guest,
She gave to flow her maiden vest;
When from the corselet's grasp relieved,
Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 70
Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile,
Erst hidden by the aventayle;
And down her shoulders graceful roll'd
Her locks profuse, of paly gold.
They who whilom, in midnight fight, 75
Had marvell'd at her matchless might,
No less her maiden charms approved,
But looking liked, and liking loved.
The sight could jealous pangs beguile,
And charm Malbecco's cares a while; 80
And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,
Forgot his Columbella's claims,
And passion, erst unknown, could gain
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;
Nor durst light Paridel advance, 85
Bold as he was, a looser glance.
She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart,
Incomparable Britomane!
So thou, fair City! disarray'd
Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 90
As stately seem'st, but lovelier far
Than in that panoply of war.
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne
Strength and security are flown;
Still as of yore, Queen of the North! 95
Still canst thou send thy children forth.
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,
Than now, in danger, shall be thine,
Thy dauntless voluntary line; 100
For fosse and turret proud to stand,
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.
Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil,
Full red would stain their native soil,
Ere from thy mural crown there fell 105
The slightest knosp, or pinnacle.
And if it come,--as come it may,
Dun-Edin! that eventful day,--
Renown'd for hospitable deed,
That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 110
In patriarchal times whose care
Descending angels deign'd to share;
That claim may wrestle blessings down
On those who fight for The Good Town,
Destined in every age to be 115
Refuge of injured royalty;
Since first, when conquering York arose,
To Henry meek she gave repose,
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,
Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 120
Truce to these thoughts!--for, as they rise,
How gladly I avert mine eyes,
Bodings, or true or false, to change,
For Fiction's fair romantic range,
Or for Tradition's dubious light, 125
That hovers 'twixt the day and night:
Dazzling alternately and dim
Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim,
Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see,
Creation of my fantasy, 130
Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,
And make of mists invading men.--
Who loves not more the night of June
Than dull December's gloomy noon?
The moonlight than the fog of frost? 135
But can we say, which cheats the most?
But who shall teach my harp to gain
A sound of the romantic strain,
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
Could win the royal Henry's ear, 140
Famed Beauclerk call'd, for that he loved
The minstrel, and his lay approved?
Who shall these lingering notes redeem,
Decaying on Oblivion's stream;
Such notes as from the Breton tongue 145
Marie translated, Blondel sung?--
O! born, Time's ravage to repair,
And make the dying Muse thy care;
Who, when his scythe her hoary foe
Was poising for the final blow, 150
The weapon from his hand could wring,
And break his glass, and shear his wing,
And bid, reviving in his strain,
The gentle poet live again;
Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 155
An unpedantic moral gay,
Nor less the dullest theme bid flit
On wings of unexpected wit;
In letters as in life approved,
Example honour'd, and beloved,-- 160
Dear ELLIS! to the bard impart
A lesson of thy magic art,
To win at once the head and heart,--
At once to charm, instruct, and mend,
My guide, my pattern, and my friend! 165
Such minstrel lesson to bestow
Be long thy pleasing task,--but, O!
No more by thy example teach,--
What few can practise, all can preach,--
With even patience to endure 170
Lingering disease, and painful cure,
And boast affliction's pangs subdued
By mild and manly fortitude.
Enough, the lesson has been given:
Forbid the repetition, Heaven! 175
Come listen, then! for thou hast known,
And loved the Minstrel's varying tone,
Who, like his Border sires of old,
Waked a wild measure rude and bold,
Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, 180
With wonder heard the northern strain.
Come listen! bold in thy applause,
The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws;
And, as the ancient art could stain
Achievements on the storied pane, 185
Irregularly traced and plann'd,
But yet so glowing and so grand,--
So shall he strive, in changeful hue,
Field, feast, and combat, to renew,
And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 191
And all the pomp of chivalry.
CANTO FIFTH.
THE COURT.
I.
The train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground;
Their men the warders backward drew, 5
And carried pikes as they rode through,
Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare.
And envy with their wonder rose, 10
To see such well-appointed foes;
Such length of shafts, such mighty bows,
So huge, that many simply thought,
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;
And little deem'd their force to feel, 15
Through links of mail, and plates of steel,
When rattling upon Flodden vale,
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.
II.
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view
Glance every line and squadron through; 20
And much he marvell'd one small land
Could marshal forth such various band;
For men-at-arms were here,
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,
Like iron towers for strength and weight, 25
On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
With battle-axe and spear.
Young knights and squires, a lighter train,
Practised their chargers on the plain,
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 30
Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
And high curvett, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
On foeman's casque below. 35
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,
For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
But burnish'd were their corslets bright, 40
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,
And many wielded mace of weight, 45
And bucklers bright they bore.
III.
On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
With iron quilted well;
Each at his back (a slender store) 50
His forty days' provision bore,
As feudal statutes tell.
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
A dagger-knife, and brand. 55
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer,
As loath to leave his cottage dear,
And march to foreign strand;
Or musing, who would guide his steer,
To till the fallow land. 60
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie;
More dreadful far his ire,
Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name,
In eager mood to battle came, 65
Their valour like light straw on name,
A fierce but fading fire.
IV.
Not so the Borderer:--bred to war,
He knew the battle's din afar,
And joy'd to hear it swell. 70
His peaceful day was slothful ease;
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,
Like the loud slogan yell.
On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade,-- 75
Let nobles fight for fame;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
But war's the Borderer's game.
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 80
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O'er mountain, moss, and moor;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure. 85
These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by,
Look'd on at first with careless eye,
Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know
The form and force of English bow.
But when they saw the Lord array'd 90
In splendid arms, and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said,--
'Hist, Ringan! seest thou there!
Canst guess which road they'll homeward ride?--
O! could we but on Border side, 95
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide,
Beset a prize so fair!
That fangless Lion, too, their guide,
Might chance to lose his glistering hide;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 100
Could make a kirtle rare.'
V.
Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race,
Of different language, form, and face,
A various race of man;
Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 105
And wild and garish semblance made,
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid,
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd,
To every varying clan,
Wild through their red or sable hair 110
Look'd out their eyes with savage stare,
On Marmion as he pass'd;
Their legs above the knee were bare;
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
And harden'd to the blast; 115
Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle's plumage known.
The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied;
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head: 120
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid;
A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge and strength,
A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts,--but, O! 125
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore.
The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry, 130
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mix'd,
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 135
VI.
Thus through the Scottish camp they pass'd,
And reach'd the City gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear, 140
When lay encamp'd, in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.
As through the bustling streets they go,
All was alive with martial show:
At every turn, with dinning clang, 145
The armourer's anvil clash'd and rang;
Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel
The bar that arms the charger's heel;
Or axe, or falchion, to the side
Of jarring grindstone was applied. 150
Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace
Through street, and lane, and market-place,
Bore lance, or casque, or sword;
While burghers, with important face,
Described each new-come lord, 155
Discuss'd his lineage, told his name,
His following, and his warlike fame.
The Lion led to lodging meet,
Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street;
There must the Baron rest, 160
Till past the hour of vesper tide,
And then to Holy-Rood must ride,--
Such was the King's behest.
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns
A banquet rich, and costly wines, 165
To Marmion and his train;
And when the appointed hour succeeds,
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds,
And following Lindesay as he leads,
The palace-halls they gain. 170
