V.
'But see!--what makes this armour here?'--
For in her path there lay
Targe, corslet, helm;--she view'd them near.--
'The breast-plate pierced!--Ay, much I fear,
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, 135
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, 140
On yon disastrous day!'--
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,--
WILTON himself before her stood!
It might have seem'd his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost; 145
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 150
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; 155
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy, with her angelic air,
And hope, that paints the future fair,
Their varying hues display'd: 160
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, 165
By many a tender word delay'd,
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. 170
Thence dragg'd,--but how I cannot know,
For sense and recollection fled,-
I found me on a pallet low,
Within my ancient beadsman's shed.
Austin,--remember'st thou, my Clare, 175
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,-- 180
He only held my burning head,
And tended me for many a day,
While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care,
When sense return'd to wake despair; 185
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, 190
With him I left my native strand,
And, in a Palmer's weeds array'd
My hated name and form to shade,
I journey'd many a land;
No more a lord of rank and birth, 195
But mingled with the dregs of earth.
Oft Austin for my reason fear'd,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 200
My friend at length fell sick, and said,
God would remove him soon:
And, while upon his dying bed,
He begg'd of me a boon--
If e'er my deadliest enemy 205
Beneath my brand should conquer'd 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, 210
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish'd of my wound,--
None cared which tale was true: 215
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass. 220
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, 225
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; 230
But in my bosom muster'd 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; 235
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth by night.
I borrow'd steed and mail,
And weapons, from his sleeping band;
And, passing from a postern door, 240
We met, and 'counter'd, hand to hand,--
He fell on Gifford-moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew,
(O then my helmed head he knew,
The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 245
Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid,--
My hand the thought of Austin staid;
I left him there alone.--
O good old man! even from the grave, 250
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, 255
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, 260
Or featly was some juggle play'd,
A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,
When my name came among the rest.
IX.
'Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 265
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 270
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; 275
For nought, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-hair'd men;
The rest were all in Twisel glen. 280
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! 285
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. 290
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? 295
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?-- 300
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, 305
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!' 310
XI.
That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,
And pour'd its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,
Upon Tantallon tower and hall; 315
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was there need; though seam'd with scars,
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 320
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, 325
Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright,
A bishop by the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.
Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful eye 330
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. 335
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doff'd his furr'd gown, and sable hood:
O'er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;
And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand 340
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seem'd as, from the tombs around 345
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. 350
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, 355
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, 360
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, 365
Said--'Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace, and trouble;
For He, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.'--
De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must-- 370
'Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother!'
'Nay, nay,' old Angus said, 'not so;
To Surrey's camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother. 375
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, 380
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: 385
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whisper'd in an under tone,
'Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.'--
The train from out the castle drew, 390
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu:-
'Though something I might plain,' he said,
'Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your King's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I staid; 395
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 400
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-- 405
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.'--
XIV.
Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire, 410
And--'This to me!' he said,
'An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
'To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 415
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, 420
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 425
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: 430
Fierce he broke forth,--'And darest thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?--
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! 435
Up drawbridge, grooms--what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.'--
Lord Marmion turn'd,--well was his need,
And dash'd the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung, 440
The ponderous grate 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; 445
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reach'd his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours, 450
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
'Horse! horse!' the Douglas cried, 'and chase!'
But soon he rein'd his fury's pace:
'A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.-- 455
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 460
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, 465
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, 470
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
XVI.
The day in Marmion's journey wore;
Yet, e'er his passion's gust was o'er,
They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-moor.
His troop more closely there he scann'd, 475
And miss'd the Palmer from the band.--
'Palmer or not,' young Blount did say,
' He parted at the peep of day;
Good sooth, it was in strange array.'--
'In what array?' said Marmion, quick. 480
'My Lord, I ill can spell the trick;
But all night long, with clink and bang,
Close to my couch did hammers clang;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,
And from a loop-hole while I peep, 485
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep,
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair,
As fearful of the morning air;
Beneath, when that was blown aside,
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 490
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 495
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed;
A matchless horse, though something old,
Prompt to his paces, cool and bold.
I heard the Sheriff Sholto say,
The Earl did much the Master pray 500
To use him on the battle-day;
But he preferr'd'--'Nay, Henry, cease!
Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.--
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain--I pray,
What did Blount see at break of day?' 505
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, 510
And much resembled that same knight,
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:
Lord Angus wish'd him speed.'--
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke;-- 515
'Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!'
He mutter'd; 'Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.--
O dotage blind and gross! 520
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; 525
'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged brow.--
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; 330
Must separate Constance from the Nun--
O, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!
A Palmer too!--no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye: 535
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 reach'd, at eve, the Tweed,
Where Lennel's convent closed their march; 540
(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, 545
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. 550
Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
Encamp'd on Flodden edge:
The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow, 555
Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion look'd:--at length his eye
Unusual movement might descry
Amid the shifting lines:
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 560
For, flashing on the hedge of spears,
The eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening, now extending;
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,
Now drawing back, and now descending, 565
The skilful Marmion well could know,
They watch'd 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 570
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd
The Till by Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile; 575
Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing, 580
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men, 585
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, 590
Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang;
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 595
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, 600
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, 605
Between him and Tweed's southern strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead?
What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand?--
O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! 610
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight,
And cry--'Saint Andrew and our right!'
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 615
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!--
The precious hour has pass'd in vain,
And England's host has gain'd the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
Around the base of Flodden hill. 620
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, 625
Foot, horse, and cannon:--hap what hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap,
Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!--
Yet more! yet more!--how far array'd
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630
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.'-- 635
'Stint in thy prate,' quoth Blount, 'thou'dst best,
And listen to our lord's behest.'--
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,--
'This instant be our band array'd;
The river must be quickly cross'd, 640
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.' 645
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, 650
And mutter'd as the flood they view,
'The pheasant in the falcon's claw,
He scarce will yield to please a daw:
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,
So Clare shall bide with me.' 655
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; 660
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, 665
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, 670
A caution not in vain;
Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion staid,
And breathed his steed, his men array'd, 675
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. 680
XXIII.
Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;
Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and west,
And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation pass'd 685
From the loud cannon mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle,
That breathes the voice of modern battle,
But slow and far between.--
The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion staid: 690
'Here, by this Cross,' he gently said,
'You well may view the scene.
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:
O! think of Marmion in thy prayer!--
Thou wilt not?--well, no less my care 695
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.--
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
With ten pick'd archers of my train;
With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick speed amain.-- 700
But if we conquer, cruel maid,
My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
When here we meet again.'
He waited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid's despair, 705
Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire; but spurr'd amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His way to Surrey took.
XXIV.
'--The good Lord Marmion, by my life! 710
Welcome to danger's hour!--
Short greeting serves in time of strife :-
Thus have I ranged my power:
Myself will rule this central host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right, 715
My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rear-ward of the fight,
And succour those that need it most. 720
Now, gallant Marmion, well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their charge will blithely share;
There fight thine own retainers too, 725
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.'--
'Thanks, noble Surrey!' Marmion said,
Nor farther greeting there he paid;
But, parting like a thunderbolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt, 730
Where such a shout there rose
Of 'Marmion! Marmion!' that the cry,
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.
XXV.
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 735
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view: 740
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
'Unworthy office here to stay!
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.--
But see! look up--on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' 745
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 750
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown, 755
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.--
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.-- 760
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth, 765
And fiends in upper air;
Oh, life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.
Long look'd the anxious squires; their eye 770
Could in the darkness nought descry.
XXVI.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears; 775
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 780
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 785
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 790
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 795
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, and with Home.
XXVII.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer 800
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied.
'Twas vain:--But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 805
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell. 810
The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced,--forced back,--now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose; 815
As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It waver'd 'mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear:
'By Heaven, and all its saints! I swear 820
I will not see it lost!
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer,--
I gallop to the host.'
And to the fray he rode amain, 825
Follow'd by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,--
The rescued banner rose,--
But darkly closed the war around, 830
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sank among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too:--yet staid,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly, 835
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.
XXVIII.
Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone: 845
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.--
The scatter'd van of England wheels;--
She only said, as loud in air 850
The tumult roar'd, 'Is Wilton there?'--
They fly, or, madden'd by despair,
Fight but to die,--'Is Wilton there?'--
With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 855
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strain'd the broken brand;
His arms were smear'd with blood and sand:
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 860
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion! . . .
Young Blount his armour did unlace,
And gazing on his ghastly face, 865
Said--'By Saint George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good-night to Marmion.'--
'Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: 870
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; 'peace!'
XXIX.
When, doff'd his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:--
'Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! 875
Redeem my pennon,--charge again!
Cry-"Marmion to the rescue!"--Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!--
Yet my last thought is England's--fly, 880
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:
Tell him his squadrons up to bring.--
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield: 885
Edmund is down;--my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,--
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host, 890
Or victory and England's lost.--
Must I bid twice?--hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone--to die.'
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away, 895
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmur'd,--'Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring, 900
To slake my dying thirst!'
XXX.
O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made; 905
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!--
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran: 910
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew; 915
For, oozing from the mountain's side,
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn!--behold her mark
A little fountain cell, 920
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say,
Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray .
for . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil .Grey .
925
Who . built . this . cross . and . well .
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A Monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought 930
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
XXXI.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave--
'Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 935
'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?'
Then, as remembrance rose,--
'Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!
I must redress her woes.
Short space, few words, are mine to spare 940
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!'--
'Alas!' she said, 'the while,--
O, think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal;
She--died at Holy Isle.'-- 945
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents, from his wounded side.
'Then it was truth,'--he said--'I knew 950
That the dark presage must be true.--
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan, 955
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be!--this dizzy trance--
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand! 960
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.'
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.
XXXII.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound: 965
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear; 970
For that she ever sung,
'In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!'
So the notes rung;--
'Avoid thee, Fiend!--with cruel hand, 975
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!--
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O, think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been, 980
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.'--
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,
And--STANLEY! was the cry;-- 985
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted 'Victory!-- 990
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!'
Were the last words of Marmion.
XXXIII.
By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King, 995
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntly, and where Home?--
O, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 1000
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died!
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 1005
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,
While yet on Flodden side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 1010
Our Caledonian pride!
In vain the wish--for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.--
'O Lady,' cried the Monk, 'away!' 1015
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning, there 1020
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
XXXIV.
But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death,
The English shafts in volleys hail'd,
In headlong charge their horse assail'd; 1025
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep,
That fought around their King.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 1030
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;
The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 1035
The instant that he fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight;
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well; 1040
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shatter'd bands;
And from the charge they drew, 1045
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low,
They melted from the field, as snow, 1050
When streams are swoln and south winds blow
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disorder'd, through her currents dash, 1055
To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 1060
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,
Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield!
XXXV.
Day dawns upon the mountain's side:--
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:
The sad survivors all are gone.-- 1072
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high,
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in vain, 1075
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land
May yet return again.
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought;
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080
And fell on Flodden plain:
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clench'd within his manly hand,
Beseem'd the monarch slain.
But, O! how changed since yon blithe night! 1085
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.
XXXVI.
Short is my tale:--Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile; 1090
And there, beneath the southern aisle,
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear,
(Now vainly for its site you look;
'Twas levell'd, when fanatic Brook 1095
The fair cathedral storm'd and took;
But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had!)
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound, 1100
His hands to Heaven upraised;
And all around, on scutcheon rich,
And tablet carved, and fretted niche,
His arms and feats were blazed.
And yet, though all was carved so fair, 1105
And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer,
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain
Follow'd his lord to Flodden plain,--
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 1110
In Scotland mourns as 'wede away':
Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied,
And dragg'd him to its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain, 1115
And thus their corpses were mista'en;
And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb,
The lowly woodsman took the room.
XXXVII.
Less easy task it were, to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 1120
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,
But every mark is gone;
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sybil Grey,
And broke her font of stone: 1123
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still,
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry; 1130
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
And plait their garlands fair;
Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 1135
That holds the bones of Marmion brave.--
When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune, and be still.
If ever, in temptation strong,
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong; 1140
If every devious step, thus trod,
Still led thee farther from the road;
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say, 'He died a gallant knight, 1145
With sword in hand, for England's right.'
XXXVIII.
I do not rhyme to that dull elf,
Who cannot image to himself,
That all through Flodden's dismal night,
Wilton was foremost in the fight; 1150
That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain,
'Twas Wilton mounted him again;
'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd,
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall, 1155
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
He won his rank and lands again;
And charged his old paternal shield
With bearings won on Flodden Field. 1160
Nor sing I to that simple maid,
To whom it must in terms be said,
That King and kinsmen did agree,
To bless fair Clara's constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate, 1165
Paint to her mind the bridal's state;
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke:
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Catherine's hand the stocking threw; 1170
And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,
'Love they like Wilton and like Clare!'
L'Envoy.
TO THE READER.
Why then a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede?
To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 5
To read the Minstrel's idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit,
And patriotic heart--as PITT!
A garland for the hero's crest,
And twined by her he loves the best; 10
To every lovely lady bright,
What can I wish but faithful knight?
To every faithful lover too,
What can I wish but lady true?
And knowledge to the studious sage; 15
And pillow to the head of age.
To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday!
To all, to each, a fair good-night, 20
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!
NOTES
by
Thomas Bayne
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.
With regard to the Introductions generally, Lockhart writes, in Life
of Scott, ii. 150:--'Though the author himself does not allude to,
and had perhaps forgotten the circumstance, when writing the
Introductory Essay of 1830--they were announced, by an advertisement
early in 1807, as "Six Epistles from Ettrick Forest," to be
published in a separate volume, similar to that of the Ballads and
Lyrical Pieces; and perhaps it might have been better that this
first plan had been adhered to. But however that may be, are there
any pages, among all he ever wrote, that one would be more sorry he
should not have written? They are among the most delicious
portraitures that genius ever painted of itself--buoyant, virtuous,
happy genius--exulting in its own energies, yet possessed and
mastered by a clear, calm, modest mind, and happy only in diffusing
happiness around it.
'With what gratification those Epistles were read by the friends to
whom they were addressed it is superfluous to show. He had, in fact,
painted them almost as fully as himself; and who might not have been
proud to find a place in such a gallery? The tastes and habits of
six of those men, in whose intercourse Scott found the greatest
pleasure when his fame was approaching its meridian splendour, are
thus preserved for posterity; and when I reflect with what avidity
we catch at the least hint which seems to afford us a glimpse of the
intimate circle of any great poet of former ages, I cannot but
believe that posterity would have held this record precious, even
had the individuals been in themselves far less remarkable than a
Rose, an Ellis, a Heber, a Skene, a Marriott, and an Erskine.'
William Stewart Rose (1775-1843), to whom Scott addresses the
Introduction to Canto First, was a well-known man of letters in his
time. He addressed to Hallam, in 1819, a work in two vols., entitled
'Letters from the North of Italy,' and escaped a prohibitory order
from the Emperor of Austria by ingeniously changing his title to 'A
Treatise upon Sour Krout,' &c. His other original works are,
'Apology addressed to the Travellers' Club; or, Anecdotes of
Monkeys'; 'Thoughts and Recollections by one of the Last Century';
and 'Epistle to the Hon. J. Hookham Frere in Malta.' His
translations are these:--'Amadis of Gaul: a Poem in three Books,
freely translated from the French version of Nicholas de Herberay'
(1803); 'Partenopex de Blois, a Romance in four Cantos, from the
French of M. Le Grand' (1807); 'Court and Parliament of Beasts,
translated from the Animali Parlanti of Giambatista Casti' (1819);
and 'Orlando Furioso, translated into English Verse' (1825-1831).
The closing lines of this Introduction refer to Rose's 'Amadis' and
'Partenopex.'
Ashestiel, whence the Introduction to the First Canto is dated, is
on the Tweed, about six miles above Abbotsford. 'The valley there is
narrow,' says Lockhart, 'and the aspect in every direction is that
of perfect pastoral repose.' This was Scott's home from 1804 to
l812, when he removed to Abbotsford.
--------------------
lines 1-52. This notable winter piece is the best modern
contribution to that series of poetical descriptions by Scottish
writers which includes Dunbar's 'Meditatioun in Winter,' Gavin
Douglas's Scottish winter scene in the Prologue to his Virgil's
Aeneid VII, Hamilton of Bangour's Ode III, and, of course, Thomson's
'Winter' in 'The Seasons.' The details of the piece are given with
admirable skill, and the local place-names are used with
characteristic effect. The note of regret over winter's ravages,
common to all early Scottish poets, is skilfully struck and
preserved, and thus the contrast designed between the wintry
landscape and 'my Country's wintry state' is rendered sharper and
more decisive.
line 3. steepy linn. Steepy is Elizabethan = steep, precipitous.
Linn (Gael. linne = pool; A.S. hlinna = brook) is variously used for
'pool under a waterfall,' 'cascade,' 'precipice,' and 'ravine.' The
reference here is to the ravine close by Ashestiel, mentioned in
Lockhart's description of the surroundings:--'On one side, close
under the windows, is a deep ravine clothed with venerable trees,
down which a mountain rivulet is heard, more than seen, in its
progress to the Tweed.'
line 16. our forest hills. Selkirkshire is poetically called
'Ettrick Forest'; hence the description of the soldiers from that
district killed at Flodden as 'the flowers of the forest.'
line 22. Cp. Hamilton of Bangour's allusion (Ode III. 43) to the
appearance of winter on these heights;--
'Cast up thy eyes, how bleak and bare
He wanders on the tops of Yare!'
line 37. imps (Gr. emphutos, Swed. ympa). See 'Faery Queene,' Book
I. (Clarendon Press), note to Introd. The word means (1) a graft;
(2) a scion of a noble house; (3) a little demon; (4) a mischievous
child. The context implies that the last is the sense in which the
word is used here. Cp. Beattie's 'Minstrel,' i. 17:--
'Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray
Of squabbling imps,'
line 50. round. Strictly speaking, a round is a circular dance in
which the performers hold each other by the hands. The term,
however, is fairly applicable to the frolicsome gambols of a group
of lambs in a spring meadow. Certain rounds became famous enough to
be individualised, as e.g. Sellenger's or St. Leger's round,
mentioned in the May-day song, 'Come Lasses and Lads.' Cp. Macbeth,
iv. 1; Midsummer Night's Dream, ii. 2; and see note on Comus, line
144, in 'English Poems of Milton,' vol. i. (Clarendon Press).
line 53. Lockhart, in a foot-note to his edition of 'Marmion,'
quotes from the 'Monthly Review' of May, 1808: 'The "chance and
change" of nature--the vicissitudes which are observable in the
moral as well as the physical part of the creation--have given
occasion to more exquisite poetry than any other general subject....
The Ai, ai, tai Malaki of Moschus is worked up again to some
advantage in the following passage-- "To mute," &c.'
lines 61, 62. The inversion of reference in these lines is an
illustration of the rhetorical figure 'chiasmus.' Cp. the
arrangement of the demonstrative pronouns in these sentences from
'Kenilworth':--'Your eyes contradict your tongue. That speaks of a
protector, willing and able to watch over you; but these tell me you
are ruined.'
