Marmion

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQAshestiel, Ettrick ForestLike April morning clouds, that pass,With varying shadow, o’er the grass,And imitate, on field and furrow,Life’s chequer’d scene of joy and sorrow;Like streamlet of the mountain north,                        5Now in a torrent racing forth,Now winding slow its silver train,And almost slumbering on the plain;Like breezes of the autumn day,Whose voice inconstant dies away,                          10And ever swells again as fast,When the ear deems its murmur past;Thus various, my romantic themeFlits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace                      15Of Light and Shade’s inconstant race;Pleased, views the rivulet afar,Weaving its maze irregular;And pleased, we listen as the breezeHeaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;                  20Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale!Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tellI love the license all too well,In sounds now lowly, and now strong,                        25To raise the desultory song?Oft, when ‘mid such capricious chime,Some transient fit of lofty rhymeTo thy kind judgment seem’d excuseFor many an error of the muse,                              30Oft hast thou said, ‘If, still misspent,Thine hours to poetry are lent,Go, and to tame thy wandering course,Quaff from the fountain at the source;Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb                    35Immortal laurels ever bloom:Instructive of the feebler bard,Still from the grave their voice is heard;From them, and from the paths they show’d,Choose honour’d guide and practised road;                  40Nor ramble on through brake and maze,With harpers rude of barbarous days.  ‘Or deem’st thou not our later timeYields topic meet for classic rhyme?Hast thou no elegiac verse                                  45For Brunswick’s venerable hearse?What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,When valour bleeds for liberty? -Oh, hero of that glorious time,When, with unrivall’d light sublime, –                       50Though martial Austria, and though allThe might of Russia, and the Gaul,Though banded Europe stood her foes-The star of Brandenburgh arose!Thou couldst not live to see her beam                      55For ever quench’d in Jena’s stream.Lamented Chief! – it was not givenTo thee to change the doom of Heaven,And crush that dragon in its birth,Predestined scourge of guilty earth.                        60Lamented Chief! – not thine the power,To save in that presumptuous hour,When Prussia hurried to the field,And snatch’d the spear, but left the shield!Valour and skill ‘twas thine to try,                        65And, tried in vain, ‘twas thine to die.Ill had it seem’d thy silver hairThe last, the bitterest pang to share,For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven,And birthrights to usurpers given;                          70Thy land’s, thy children’s wrongs to feel,And witness woes thou could’st not heal!On thee relenting Heaven bestowsFor honour’d life an honour’d close;And when revolves, in time’s sure change,                  75The hour of Germany’s revenge,When, breathing fury for her sake,Some new Arminius shall awake,Her champion, ere he strike, shall comeTo whet his sword on BRUNSWICK’S tomb,                      80  ‘Or of the Red-Cross hero teachDauntless in dungeon as on breach:Alike to him the sea, the shore,The brand, the bridle, or the oar:Alike to him the war that calls                            85Its votaries to the shatter’d walls,Which the grim Turk, besmear’d with blood,Against the Invincible made good;Or that, whose thundering voice could wakeThe silence of the polar lake,                              90When stubborn Russ, and metal’d Swede,On the warp’d wave their death-game play’d;Or that, where Vengeance and AffrightHowl’d round the father of the fight,Who snatch’d, on Alexandria’s sand,                        95The conqueror’s wreath with dying hand.  ‘Or, if to touch such chord be thine,Restore the ancient tragic line,And emulate the notes that rungFrom the wild harp, which silent hung                      100By silver Avon’s holy shore,Till twice an hundred years roll’d o’er;When she, the bold Enchantress, came,With fearless hand and heart on flame!From the pale willow snatch’d the treasure,                105And swept it with a kindred measure,Till Avon’s swans, while rung the groveWith Montfort’s hate and Basil’s love,Awakening at the inspired strain,Deem’d their own Shakspeare lived again.’                  110  Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging,With praises not to me belonging,In task more meet for mightiest powers,Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh’d                    115That secret power by all obey’d,Which warps not less the passive mind,Its source conceal’d or undefined;Whether an impulse, that has birthSoon as the infant wakes on earth,                        120One with our feelings and our powers,And rather part of us than ours;Or whether fitlier term’d the swayOf habit, form’d in early day?Howe’er derived, its force confest                        125Rules with despotic sway the breast,And drags us on by viewless chain,While taste and reason plead in vain.Look east, and ask the Belgian why,Beneath Batavia’s sultry sky,                              130He seeks not eager to inhaleThe freshness of the mountain gale,Content to rear his whiten’d wallBeside the dank and dull canal?He’ll say, from youth he loved to see                      135The white sail gliding by the tree.Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,Whose sluggish herds before him wind,Whose tatter’d plaid and rugged cheekHis northern clime and kindred speak;                      140Through England’s laughing meads he goes,And England’s wealth around him flows;Ask, if it would content him well,At ease in those gay plains to dwell,Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,                  145And spires and forests intervene,And the neat cottage peeps between?No! not for these will he exchangeHis dark Lochaber’s boundless range;Not for fair Devon’s meads forsake                        150Bennevis grey, and Carry’s lake.  Thus while I ape the measure wildOf tales that charm’d me yet a child,Rude though they be, still with the chimeReturn the thoughts of early time;                        155And feelings, roused in life’s first day,Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.Then rise those crags, that mountain towerWhich charm’d my fancy’s wakening hour.Though no broad river swept along,                        160To claim, perchance, heroic song;Though sigh’d no groves in summer gale,To prompt of love a softer tale;Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speedClaim’d homage from a shepherd’s reed;                    165Yet was poetic impulse given,By the green hill and clear blue heaven.It was a barren scene, and wild,Where naked cliff’s were rudely piled;But ever and anon between                                  170Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;And well the lonely infant knewRecesses where the wall-flower grew,And honey-suckle loved to crawlUp the low crag and ruin’d wall.                          175I deem’d such nooks the sweetest shadeThe sun in all its round survey’d;And still I thought that shatter’d towerThe mightiest work of human power;And marvell’d as the aged hind                            180With some strange tale bewitch’d my mind,Of forayers, who, with headlong force,Down from that strength had spurr’d their horse,Their southern rapine to renew,Far in the distant Cheviots blue,                          185And, home returning, fill’d the hallWith revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.Methought that still with trump and clang,The gateway’s broken arches rang;Methought grim features, seam’d with scars,                190Glared through the window’s rusty bars,And ever, by the winter hearth,Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms,Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms;                    195Of patriot battles, won of oldBy Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;Of later fields of feud and fight,When, pouring from their Highland height,The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,                      200Had swept the scarlet ranks away.While stretch’d at length upon the floor,Again I fought each combat o’er,Pebbles and shells, in order laid,The mimic ranks of war display’d;                          205And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,And still the scattered Southron fled before.  Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,Anew, each kind familiar face,That brighten’d at our evening fire!                      210From the thatch’d mansion’s grey-hair’d Sire,Wise without learning, plain and good,And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood;Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,Show’d what in youth its glance had been;                  215Whose doom discording neighbours sought,Content with equity unbought;To him the venerable Priest,Our frequent and familiar guest,Whose life and manners well could paint                    220Alike the student and the saint;Alas! whose speech too oft I brokeWith gambol rude and timeless joke:For I was wayward, bold, and wild,A self-will’d imp, a grandame’s child;                    225But half a plague, and half a jest,Was still endured, beloved, caress’d.  From me, thus nurtured, dost thou askThe classic poet’s well-conn’d task?Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill                        230Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,But freely let the woodbine twine,And leave untrimm’d the eglantine:Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise                  235Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;Since oft thy judgment could refineMy flatten’d thought, or cumbrous line;Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,And in the minstrel spare the friend.                      240Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,Flow forth, flow unrestrain’d, my Tale!

CANTO THIRD.

THE HOSTEL, OR INN

IThe livelong day Lord Marmion rode:The mountain path the Palmer show’dBy glen and streamlet winded still,Where stunted birches hid the rill.They might not choose the lowland road,                      5For the Merse forayers were abroad,Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,Had scarcely fail’d to bar their way.Oft on the trampling band, from crownOf some tall cliff, the deer look’d down;                  10On wing of jet, from his reposeIn the deep heath, the black-cock rose;Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,Nor waited for the bending bow;And when the stony path began,                              15By which the naked peak they wan,Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.The noon had long been pass’d beforeThey gain’d the height of Lammermoor;Thence winding down the northern way,                      20Before them, at the close of day,Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.IINo summons calls them to the tower,To spend the hospitable hour.To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone;                      25His cautious dame, in bower alone,Dreaded her castle to unclose,So late, to unknown friends or foes.  On through the hamlet as they paced,  Before a porch, whose front was graced                    30  With bush and flagon trimly placed,    Lord Marmion drew his rein:  The village inn seem’d large, though rude;  Its cheerful fire and hearty food    Might well relieve his train.                          35Down from their seats the horsemen sprung,With jingling spurs the court-yard rung;They bind their horses to the stall,For forage, food, and firing call,And various clamour fills the hall:                        40Weighing the labour with the cost,Toils everywhere the bustling host.IIISoon, by the chimney’s merry blaze,Through the rude hostel might you gaze;Might see, where, in dark nook aloof,                      45The rafters of the sooty roof  Bore wealth of winter cheer;Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,And gammons of the tusky boar,  And savoury haunch of deer.                              50The chimney arch projected wide;Above, around it, and beside,  Were tools for housewives’ hand;Nor wanted, in that martial day,The implements of Scottish fray,                            55  The buckler, lance, and brand.Beneath its shade, the place of state,On oaken settle Marmion sate,And view’d around the blazing hearth.His followers mix in noisy mirth;                          60Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,From ancient vessels ranged aside,Full actively their host supplied.IVTheirs was the glee of martial breast,And laughter theirs at little jest;                        65And oft Lord Marmion deign’d to aid,And mingle in the mirth they made;For though, with men of high degree,The proudest of the proud was he,Yet, train’d in camps, he knew the art                      70To win the soldier’s hardy heart.They love a captain to obey,Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;With open hand, and brow as free,Lover of wine and minstrelsy;                              75Ever the first to scale a tower,As venturous in a lady’s bower: -Such buxom chief shall lead his hostFrom India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.VResting upon his pilgrim staff,                            80  Right opposite the Palmer stood;His thin dark visage seen but half,  Half hidden by his hood.Still fix’d on Marmion was his look,Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,                    85  Strove by a frown to quell;But not for that, though more than onceFull met their stern encountering glance,The Palmer’s visage fell.VIBy fits less frequent from the crowd                        90Was heard the burst of laughter loud;For still, as squire and archer staredOn that dark face and matted beard,  Their glee and game declined.All gazed at length in silence drear,                      95Unbroke, save when in comrade’s earSome yeoman, wondering in his fear,  Thus whispered forth his mind: -‘Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight?How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,                    100Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light  Glances beneath his cowl!Full on our Lord he sets his eye;For his best palfrey, would not I  Endure that sullen scowl.’                              105VIIBut Marmion, as to chase the aweWhich thus had quell’d their hearts, who sawThe ever-varying fire-light showThat figure stern and face of woe,  Now call’d upon a squire: –                               110‘Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,To speed the lingering night away?  We slumber by the fire.’-VIII‘So please you,’ thus the youth rejoin’d,‘Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.                      115Ill may we hope to please your ear,Accustom’d Constant’s strains to hear.The harp full deftly can he strike,And wake the lover’s lute alike;To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush                        120Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,No nightingale her love-lorn tuneMore sweetly warbles to the moon.Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,Detains from us his melody,                                125Lavish’d on rocks, and billows stern,Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.Now must I venture as I may,To sing his favourite roundelay.’IXA mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,                          130The air he chose was wild and sad;Such have I heard, in Scottish land,Rise from the busy harvest band,When falls before the mountaineer,On Lowland plains, the ripen’d ear.                        135Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,Now a wild chorus swells the song:Oft have I listen’d, and stood still,As it came soften’d up the hill,And deem’d it the lament of men                            140Who languish’d for their native glen;And thought how sad would be such sound,On Susquehanna’s swampy ground,Kentucky’s wood-encumber’d brake,Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,                          145Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,Recall’d fair Scotland’s hills again!XSongWhere shall the lover rest,  Whom the fates severFrom his true maiden’s breast,                            150  Parted for ever?Where, through groves deep and high,  Sounds the far billow,Where early violets die,  Under the willow.                                        155CHORUS.Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.There, through the summer day,  Cool streams are laving;There, while the tempests sway,  Scarce are boughs waving;                                160There, thy rest shalt thou take,  Parted for ever,Never again to wake,  Never, O never!CHORUS.Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!                            165XIWhere shall the traitor rest,  He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden’s breast,  Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,                                        170  Borne down by the flying,Where mingles war’s rattle  With groans of the dying.CHORUS.Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.Her wing shall the eagle flap                              175  O’er the false-hearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lap,  Ere life be parted.Shame and dishonour sit  By his grave ever;                                      180Blessing shall hallow it, -Never, O never.CHORUS.Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!XIIIt ceased, the melancholy sound;And silence sunk on all around.                            185The air was sad; but sadder still  It fell on Marmion’s ear,And plain’d as if disgrace and ill,  And shameful death, were near.He drew his mantle past his face,                          190  Between it and the band,And rested with his head a space,Reclining on his hand.His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,That, could their import have been seen,                  195The meanest groom in all the hall,That e’er tied courser to a stall,Would scarce have wished to be their prey,For Lutterward and Fontenaye.XIIIHigh minds, of native pride and force,                    200Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,Thou art the torturer of the brave!Yet fatal strength they boast to steelTheir minds to bear the wounds they feel,                  205Even while they writhe beneath the smartOf civil conflict in the heart.For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,‘Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,                      210Seem’d in mine ear a death-peal rung,Such as in nunneries they tollFor some departing sister’s soul?  Say, what may this portend?’-Then first the Palmer silence broke,                      215(The livelong day he had not spoke)  ‘The death of a dear friend.’XIVMarmion, whose steady heart and eyeNe’er changed in worst extremity;Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,                  220Even from his King, a haughty look;Whose accents of command controll’d,In camps, the boldest of the bold-Thought, look, and utterance fail’d him now,Fall’n was his glance, and flush’d his brow:              225  For either in the tone,Or something in the Palmer’s look,So full upon his conscience strook,  That answer he found none.Thus oft it haps, that when within                        230They shrink at sense of secret sin,  A feather daunts the brave;A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,And proudest princes vail their eyes  Before their meanest slave.                              235XVWell might he falter! – By his aidWas Constance Beverley betray’d.Not that he augur’d of the doom,Which on the living closed the tomb:But, tired to hear the desperate maid                      240Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid;And wroth, because, in wild despair,She practised on the life of Clare;Its fugitive the Church he gave,Though not a victim, but a slave;                          245And deem’d restraint in convent strangeWould hide her wrongs, and her revenge,Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,Held Romish thunders idle fear,Secure his pardon he might hold,                          250For some slight mulct of penance-gold.Thus judging, he gave secret way,When the stern priests surprised their prey.His train but deem’d the favourite pageWas left behind, to spare his age;                        255Or other if they deem’d, none daredTo mutter what he thought and heard:Woe to the vassal, who durst pryInto Lord Marmion’s privacy!XVIHis conscience slept-he deem’d her well,                  260And safe secured in yonder cell;But, waken’d by her favourite lay,And that strange Palmer’s boding say,That fell so ominous and drear,Full on the object of his fear,                            265To aid remorse’s venom’d throes,Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;And Constance, late betray’d and scorn’d,All lovely on his soul return’d;Lovely as when, at treacherous call,                      270She left her convent’s peaceful wall,Crimson’d with shame, with terror mute,Dreading alike escape, pursuit,Till love, victorious o’er alarms,Hid fears and blushes in his arms.                        275XVII‘Alas!’ he thought, ‘how changed that mien!How changed these timid looks have been,Since years of guilt, and of disguise,Have steel’d her brow, and arm’d her eyes!No more of virgin terror speaks                            280The blood that mantles in her cheeks;Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;And I the cause-for whom were givenHer peace on earth, her hopes in heaven! –                 285Would,’ thought he, as the picture grows,‘I on its stalk had left the rose!Oh, why should man’s success removeThe very charms that wake his love! -Her convent’s peaceful solitude                            290Is now a prison harsh and rude;And, pent within the narrow cell,How will her spirit chafe and swell!How brook the stern monastic laws!The penance how-and I the cause! –                         295Vigil, and scourge-perchance even worse!’-And twice he rose to cry, ‘To horse!’And twice his Sovereign’s mandate came,Like damp upon a kindling flame;And twice he thought, ‘Gave I not charge                  300She should be safe, though not at large?They durst not, for their island, shredOne golden ringlet from her head.’XVIIIWhile thus in Marmion’s bosom stroveRepentance and reviving love,                              305Like whirlwinds, whose contending swayI’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,Their Host the Palmer’s speech had heard,And, talkative, took up the word:  ‘Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray                    310From Scotland’s simple land away,  To visit realms afar,Full often learn the art to knowOf future weal, or future woe,  By word, or sign, or star;                              315Yet might a knight his fortune hear,If, knight-like, he despises fear,Not far from hence; – if fathers oldAright our hamlet legend told.’-These broken words the menials move,(For marvels still the vulgar love,)                      320And, Marmion giving license cold,His tale the host thus gladly told: -XIXThe Host’s Tale‘A Clerk could tell what years have flownSince Alexander fill’d our throne,                        325(Third monarch of that warlike name,)And eke the time when here he cameTo seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:A braver never drew a sword;A wiser never, at the hour                                330Of midnight, spoke the word of power:The same, whom ancient records callThe founder of the Goblin-Hall.I would, Sir Knight, your longer stayGave you that cavern to survey.                            335Of lofty roof, and ample size,Beneath the castle deep it lies:To hew the living rock profound,The floor to pave, the arch to round,There never toil’d a mortal arm,                          340It all was wrought by word and charm;And I have heard my grandsire say,That the wild clamour and affrayOf those dread artisans of hell,Who labour’d under Hugo’s spell,                          345Sounded as loud as ocean’s war,Among the caverns of Dunbar.XX‘The King Lord Gifford’s castle sought,Deep labouring with uncertain thought;Even then he mustered all his host,                        350To meet upon the western coast;For Norse and Danish galleys pliedTheir oars within the Frith of Clyde.There floated Haco’s banner trim,Above Norweyan warriors grim,                              355Savage of heart, and large of limb;Threatening both continent and isle,Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,                            360And tarried not his garb to change,But, in his wizard habit strange,Came forth, – a quaint and fearful sight;His mantle lined with fox-skins white;His high and wrinkled forehead bore                        365A pointed cap, such as of yoreClerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:His shoes were mark’d with cross and spell,Upon his breast a pentacle;His zone, of virgin parchment thin,                        370Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,Bore many a planetary sign,Combust, and retrograde, and trine;And in his hand he held prepared,A naked sword without a guard.                            375XXI‘Dire dealings with the fiendish raceHad mark’d strange lines upon his face;Vigil and fast had worn him grim,His eyesight dazzled seem’d and dim,As one unused to upper day;                                380Even his own menials with dismayBeheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,In his unwonted wild attire;Unwonted, for traditions run,He seldom thus beheld the sun. –                           385“I know,” he said, – his voice was hoarse,And broken seem’d its hollow force, -“I know the cause, although untold,Why the King seeks his vassal’s hold:Vainly from me my liege would know                        390His kingdom’s future weal or woe;But yet, if strong his arm and heart,His courage may do more than art.XXII‘“Of middle air the demons proud,Who ride upon the racking cloud,                          395Can read, in fix’d or wandering star,The issue of events afar;But still their sullen aid withhold,Save when by mightier force controll’d.Such late I summon’d to my hall;                          400And though so potent was the call,That scarce the deepest nook of hellI deem’d a refuge from the spell,Yet, obstinate in silence still,The haughty demon mocks my skill.                          405But thou, – who little know’st thy might,As born upon that blessed nightWhen yawning graves, and dying groan,Proclaim’d hell’s empire overthrown, -With untaught valour shalt compel                          410Response denied to magic spell.”-“Gramercy,” quoth our Monarch free,“Place him but front to front with me,And, by this good and honour’d brand,The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,                          415Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,The demon shall a buffet bide.”-His bearing bold the wizard view’d,And thus, well pleased, his speech renew’d: -“There spoke the blood of Malcolm! – mark:                  420Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,The rampart seek, whose circling crownCrests the ascent of yonder down:A southern entrance shalt thou find;There halt, and there thy bugle wind,                      425And trust thine elfin foe to see,In guise of thy worst enemy:Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed-Upon him! and Saint George to speed!If he go down, thou soon shalt know                        430Whate’er these airy sprites can show: -