Marmion

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQEdinburghWhen 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,                                5Like 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;                    10When 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                      15Is long condemn’d to rest and feed;When from our snow-encircled home,Scarce cares the hardiest step to roamSince path is none, save that to bringThe needful water from the spring;                          20When 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                      25Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains;When such the country cheer, I come,Well pleased, to seek our city home;For converse, and for books, to changeThe Forest’s melancholy range,                              30And welcome, with renew’d delight,The busy day and social night.  Not here need my desponding rhymeLament the ravages of time,As erst by Newark’s riven towers,                          35And 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,                          40And 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                          45Portcullis 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,                      50A wicket churlishly supplied.Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,When safe amid thy mountain courtThou sitt’st, like Empress at her sport,                    55And 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                      60Ten 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,                66What 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;                        70Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,Erst hidden by the aventayle;And down her shoulders graceful roll’dHer locks profuse, of paly gold.They who whilom, in midnight fight,                        75Had 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;                        80And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,Forgot his Columbella’s claims,And passion, erst unknown, could gainThe breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;Nor durst light Paridel advance,                            85Bold as he was, a looser glance.She charm’d, at once, and tamed the heart,Incomparable Britomane!  So thou, fair City! disarray’dOf battled wall, and rampart’s aid,                        90As stately seem’st, but lovelier farThan in that panoply of war.Nor deem that from thy fenceless throneStrength and security are flown;Still as of yore, Queen of the North!                      95Still canst thou send thy children forth.Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s callThy burghers rose to man thy wall,Than now, in danger, shall be thine,Thy dauntless voluntary line;                              100For 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                        105The 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,                    110In patriarchal times whose careDescending angels deign’d to share;That claim may wrestle blessings downOn those who fight for The Good Town,Destined in every age to be                                115Refuge 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,                          125That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:Dazzling alternately and dimHer wavering lamp I’d rather trim,Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see,Creation of my fantasy,                                    130Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,And make of mists invading men. -Who loves not more the night of JuneThan dull December’s gloomy noon?The moonlight than the fog of frost?                      135But can we say, which cheats the most?  But who shall teach my harp to gainA sound of the romantic strain,Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilereCould win the royal Henry’s ear,                          140Famed Beauclerk call’d, for that he lovedThe minstrel, and his lay approved?Who shall these lingering notes redeem,Decaying on Oblivion’s stream;Such notes as from the Breton tongue                      145Marie translated, Blondel sung? -O! born, Time’s ravage to repair,And make the dying Muse thy care;Who, when his scythe her hoary foeWas poising for the final blow,                            150The 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                      155An unpedantic moral gay,Nor less the dullest theme bid flitOn wings of unexpected wit;In letters as in life approved,Example honour’d, and beloved, –                           160Dear ELLIS! to the bard impartA 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 bestowBe long thy pleasing task, – but, O!No more by thy example teach, -What few can practise, all can preach, -With even patience to endure                              170Lingering disease, and painful cure,And boast affliction’s pangs subduedBy 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,                      180With wonder heard the northern strain.Come listen! bold in thy applause,The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws;And, as the ancient art could stainAchievements on the storied pane,                          185Irregularly 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,                    191And all the pomp of chivalry.

CANTO FIFTH.

THE COURT

IThe 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,                        5And 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,                            10To 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,                      15Through links of mail, and plates of steel,When rattling upon Flodden vale,The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.IINor less did Marmion’s skilful viewGlance every line and squadron through;                    20And much he marvell’d one small landCould marshal forth such various band;  For men-at-arms were here,Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,Like iron towers for strength and weight,                  25On 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 vainThe sword sway might descend amain  On foeman’s casque below.                                35He saw the hardy burghers thereMarch 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,                  40Their 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.IIIOn foot the yeoman too, but dress’dIn his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,  With iron quilted well;Each at his back (a slender store)                          50His 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.                                55Sober 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.                                  60Yet deem not in his thoughtful eyeDid aught of dastard terror lie;More dreadful far his ire,Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name,In eager mood to battle came,                              65Their valour like light straw on name,A fierce but fading fire.IVNot so the Borderer: – bred to war,He knew the battle’s din afar,  And joy’d to hear it swell.                              70His 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,                    80To 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.                                  85These, as Lord Marmion’s train pass’d by,Look’d on at first with careless eye,Nor marvell’d aught, well taught to knowThe form and force of English bow.But when they saw the Lord array’d                          90In 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,                            95By 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,                      100Could make a kirtle rare.’VNext, Marmion marked the Celtic race,Of different language, form, and face,  A various race of man;Just then the Chiefs their tribes array’d,                105And 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                      110Look’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;                              115Of taller race, the chiefs they ownWere by the eagle’s plumage known.The hunted red-deer’s undress’d hideTheir hairy buskins well supplied;The graceful bonnet deck’d their head:                    120Back 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!                    125Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,  To that which England bore.The Isles-men carried at their backsThe ancient Danish battle-axe.They raised a wild and wondering cry,                      130As with his guide rode Marmion by.Loud were their clamouring tongues, as whenThe clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,And, with their cries discordant mix’d,Grumbled and yell’d the pipes betwixt.                    135VIThus 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,                      140When 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,                        145The armourer’s anvil clash’d and rang;Or toil’d the swarthy smith, to wheelThe bar that arms the charger’s heel;Or axe, or falchion, to the sideOf jarring grindstone was applied.                        150Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying paceThrough street, and lane, and market-place,  Bore lance, or casque, or sword;While burghers, with important face,  Described each new-come lord,                            155Discuss’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,                              160Till past the hour of vesper tide,And then to Holy-Rood must ride, -  Such was the King’s behest.Meanwhile the Lion’s care assignsA 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.                                170VILOld Holy-Rood rung merrily,That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee:King James within her princely bowerFeasted the Chiefs of Scotland’s power,Summon’d to spend the parting hour;                        175For he had charged, that his arrayShould southward march by break of day.Well loved that splendid monarch aye  The banquet and the song,By day the tourney, and by night                          180The merry dance, traced fast and light,The maskers quaint, the pageant bright,  The revel loud and long.This feast outshone his banquets past;It was his blithest, – and his last.                        185The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,Cast on the Court a dancing ray;Here to the harp did minstrels sing;There ladies touched a softer string;With long-ear’d cap, and motley vest,                      190The licensed fool retail’d his jest;His magic tricks the juggler plied;At dice and draughts the gallants vied;While some, in close recess apart,Courted the ladies of their heart,                        195  Nor courted them in vain;For often, in the parting hour,Victorious Love asserts his power  O’er coldness and disdain;And flinty is her heart, can view                          200To battle march a lover true-Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,  Nor own her share of pain.VIIIThrough this mix’d crowd of glee and game,The King to greet Lord Marmion came,                      205  While, reverent, all made room.An easy task it was, I trow,King James’s manly form to know,Although, his courtesy to show,He doff’d, to Marmion bending low,                        210  His broider’d cap and plume.For royal was his garb and mien,  His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,  Trimm’d with the fur of marten wild;His vest of changeful satin sheen,                        215  The dazzled eye beguiled;His gorgeous collar hung adown,Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,The thistle brave, of old renown:His trusty blade, Toledo right,                            220Descended from a baldric bright;White were his buskins, on the heelHis spurs inlaid of gold and steel;His bonnet, all of crimson fair,Was button’d with a ruby rare:                            225And Marmion deem’d he ne’er had seenA prince of such a noble mien.IXThe Monarch’s form was middle size;For feat of strength, or exercise,  Shaped in proportion fair;                              230And hazel was his eagle eye,And auburn of the darkest dye,  His short curl’d beard and hair.Light was his footstep in the dance,  And firm his stirrup in the lists;                      235And, oh! he had that merry glance,  That seldom lady’s heart resists.Lightly from fair to fair he flew,And loved to plead, lament, and sue; -Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,                    240For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.  I said he joy’d in banquet bower;But, ‘mid his mirth, ‘twas often strange,How suddenly his cheer would change,  His look o’ercast and lower,                            245If, in a sudden turn, he feltThe pressure of his iron belt,That bound his breast in penance pain,In memory of his father slain.Even so ‘twas strange how, evermore,                      250Soon as the passing pang was o’er,Forward he rush’d, with double glee,Into the stream of revelry:Thus, dim-seen object of affrightStartles the courser in his flight,                        255And half he halts, half springs aside;But feels the quickening spur applied,And, straining on the tighten’d rein,Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.XO’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,                    260Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:  To Scotland’s Court she came,To be a hostage for her lord,Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,And with the King to make accord,                          265  Had sent his lovely dame.Nor to that lady free aloneDid the gay King allegiance own;  For the fair Queen of FranceSent him a turquois ring and glove,                        270And charged him, as her knight and love,  For her to break a lance;And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,And march three miles on Southron land,And bid the banners of his band                            275  In English breezes dance.And thus, for France’s Queen he drestHis manly limbs in mailed vest;    And thus admitted English fair    His inmost counsels still to share;                    280    And thus, for both, he madly plann’d    The ruin of himself and land!      And yet, the sooth to tell,    Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen,    Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen,          285      From Margaret’s eyes that fell, -His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.XIThe Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,  And weeps the weary day,                                290The war against her native soil,Her monarch’s risk in battle broil: -And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,Dame Heron rises with a smile  Upon the harp to play.                                  295Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er  The strings her fingers flew;And as she touch’d and tuned them all,Ever her bosom’s rise and fall  Was plainer given to view;                              300For, all for heat, was laid asideHer wimple, and her hood untied.And first she pitch’d her voice to sing,Then glanced her dark eye on the King,And then around the silent ring;                          305And laugh’d, and blush’d, and oft did sayHer pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,She could not, would not, durst not play!At length, upon the harp, with glee,Mingled with arch simplicity,                              310A soft, yet lively, air she rung,While thus the wily lady sung: -XIILOCHINVAR.Lady Heron’s SongO, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,        315He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;          320But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,                    325Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)‘O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’–        330‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; -Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,          335That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.          340He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, -‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,        345And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper’d, ‘‘Twere better by far,To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 350So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;    355Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?        360XIIIThe Monarch o’er the siren hung,And beat the measure as she sung;And, pressing closer, and more near,He whisper’d praises in her ear.In loud applause the courtiers vied;                      365And ladies wink’d, and spoke aside.  The witching dame to Marmion threw    A glance, where seem’d to reign  The pride that claims applauses due,  And of her royal conquest too,                          370    A real or feign’d disdain:Familiar was the look, and told,Marmion and she were friends of old.The King observed their meeting eyes,With something like displeased surprise;                  375For monarchs ill can rivals brook,Even in a word, or smile, or look.Straight took he forth the parchment broad,Which Marmion’s high commission show’d:‘Our Borders sack’d by many a raid,                        380Our peaceful liege-men robb’d,’ he said;‘On day of truce our Warden slain,Stout Barton kill’d, his vessels ta’en-Unworthy were we here to reign,Should these for vengeance cry in vain;                    385Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,Our herald has to Henry borne.’XIVHe paused, and led where Douglas stood,And with stern eye the pageant view’d:I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,                        390Who coronet of Angus bore,And, when his blood and heart were high,Did the third James in camp defy,And all his minions led to die  On Lauder’s dreary flat:                                395Princes and favourites long grew tame,And trembled at the homely name  Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;The same who left the dusky valeOf Hermitage in Liddisdale,                                400  Its dungeons, and its towers,Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,  To fix his princely bowers.Though now, in age, he had laid down                      405His armour for the peaceful gown,  And for a staff his brand,Yet often would flash forth the fire,That could, in youth, a monarch’s ire  And minion’s pride withstand;                            410And even that day, at council board,  Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,  Against the war had Angus stood,And chafed his royal Lord.XV  His giant-form, like ruin’d tower,                      415Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,  Seem’d o’er the gaudy scene to lower:His locks and beard in silver grew;His eyebrows kept their sable hue.                        420Near Douglas when the Monarch stood,His bitter speech he thus pursued :‘Lord Marmion, since these letters sayThat in the North you needs must stay,  While slightest hopes of peace remain,                  425Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,To say-Return to Lindisfarne,  Until my herald come again. -Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;Your host shall be the Douglas bold, –                     430A chief unlike his sires of old.He wears their motto on his blade,Their blazon o’er his towers display’d;Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,More than to face his country’s foes.                      435And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,  But e’en this morn to me was givenA prize, the first fruits of the war,Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,  A bevy of the maids of Heaven.                          440Under your guard, these holy maidsShall safe return to cloister shades,And, while they at Tantallon stay,Requiem for Cochran’s soul may say.’And, with the slaughter’d favourite’s name,                445Across the Monarch’s brow there cameA cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.XVIIn answer nought could Angus speak;His proud heart swell’d wellnigh to break:He turn’d aside, and down his cheek                        450  A burning tear there stole.His hand the Monarch sudden took,That sight his kind heart could not brook:  ‘Now, by the Bruce’s soul,Angus, my hasty speech forgive!                            455For sure as doth his spirit live,As he said of the Douglas old,  I well may say of you, -That never King did subject hold,In speech more free, in war more bold,                    460  More tender and more true:Forgive me, Douglas, once again.’-And, while the King his hand did strain,The old man’s tears fell down like rain.To seize the moment Marmion tried,                        465And whisper’d to the King aside:‘Oh! let such tears unwonted pleadFor respite short from dubious deed!A child will weep a bramble’s smart,A maid to see her sparrow part,                            470A stripling for a woman’s heart:But woe awaits a country, whenShe sees the tears of bearded men.Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,When Douglas wets his manly eye!’                          475XVIIDispleased was James, that stranger view’dAnd tamper’d with his changing mood.‘Laugh those that can, weep those that may,’Thus did the fiery Monarch say,‘Southward I march by break of day;                        480And if within Tantallon strong,The good Lord Marmion tarries long,Perchance our meeting next may fallAt Tamworth, in his castle-hall.’-The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,                        485And answer’d, grave, the royal vaunt:‘Much honour’d were my humble home,If in its halls King James should come;But Nottingham has archers good,And Yorkshire men are stem of mood;                        490Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.On Derby Hills the paths are steep;In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;And many a banner will be torn,And many a knight to earth be borne,                      495And many a sheaf of arrows spent,Ere Scotland’s King shall cross the Trent:Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you may!’-The Monarch lightly turn’d away,And to his nobles loud did call, –                         500‘Lords, to the dance, – a hall! a hall!’Himself his cloak and sword flung by,And led Dame Heron gallantly;And Minstrels, at the royal order,Rung out-‘Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.’                  505XVIIILeave we these revels now, to tellWhat to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,Whose galley, as they sail’d againTo Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,                            510Till James should of their fate decide;  And soon, by his command,Were gently summon’d to prepareTo journey under Marmion’s care,As escort honour’d, safe, and fair,                        515  Again to English land.The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,Nor knew which Saint she should implore;For, when she thought of Constance, sore  She fear’d Lord Marmion’s mood.                          520And judge what Clara must have felt!The sword, that hung in Marmion’s belt,  Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.Unwittingly, King James had given,  As guard to Whitby’s shades,                            525The man most dreaded under heaven  By these defenceless maids:Yet what petition could avail,Or who would listen to the taleOf woman, prisoner, and nun,                              530Mid bustle of a war begun?They deem’d it hopeless to avoidThe convoy of their dangerous guide.XIXTheir lodging, so the King assign’d,To Marmion’s, as their guardian, join’d;                  535And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye,  Who warn’d him by a scroll,She had a secret to reveal,That much concern’d the Church’s weal,                    540  And health of sinner’s soul;And, with deep charge of secrecy,  She named a place to meet,Within an open balcony,That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,                      545  Above the stately street;To which, as common to each home,At night they might in secret come.XXAt night, in secret, there they came,The Palmer and the holy dame.                              550The moon among the clouds rose high,And all the city hum was by.Upon the street, where late beforeDid din of war and warriors roar,  You might have heard a pebble fall,                      555A beetle hum, a cricket sing,An owlet flap his boding wing  On Giles’s steeple tall.The antique buildings, climbing high,Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,                    560  Were here wrapt deep in shade;There on their brows the moon-beam broke,Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,  And on the casements play’d.  And other light was none to see,                        565    Save torches gliding far,  Before some chieftain of degree,  Who left the royal revelry    To bowne him for the war. -A solemn scene the Abbess chose;                          570A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.XXI‘O, holy Palmer!’ she began, -‘For sure he must be sainted man,Whose blessed feet have trod the groundWhere the Redeemer’s tomb is found, –                       575For His dear Church’s sake, my taleAttend, nor deem of light avail,Though I must speak of worldly love, -How vain to those who wed above! -De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo’d                          580Clara de Clare, of Gloster’s blood;(Idle it were of Whitby’s dame,To say of that same blood I came;)And once, when jealous rage was high,Lord Marmion said despiteously,                            585Wilton was traitor in his heart,And had made league with Martin Swart,When he came here on Simnel’s part;And only cowardice did restrainHis rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain, –                     590And down he threw his glove: – the thingWas tried, as wont, before the King;Where frankly did De Wilton own,That Swart in Guelders he had known;And that between them then there went                      595Some scroll of courteous compliment.For this he to his castle sent;But when his messenger return’d,Judge how De Wilton’s fury burn’d!For in his packet there were laid                          600Letters that claim’d disloyal aid,And proved King Henry’s cause betray’d.His fame, thus blighted, in the fieldHe strove to clear, by spear and shield; -To clear his fame in vain he strove,                      605For wondrous are His ways above!Perchance some form was unobserved;Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved;Else how could guiltless champion quail,Or how the blessed ordeal fail?                            610XXII‘His squire, who now De Wilton sawAs recreant doom’d to suffer law,  Repentant, own’d in vain,That, while he had the scrolls in care,A stranger maiden, passing fair,                          615Had drench’d him with a beverage rare;  His words no faith could gain.With Clare alone he credence won,Who, rather than wed Marmion,Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair,                        620To give our house her livings fair,And die a vestal vot’ress there.The impulse from the earth was given,But bent her to the paths of heaven.A purer heart, a lovelier maid,                            625Ne’er shelter’d her in Whitby’s shade,No, not since Saxon Edelfled;  Only one trace of earthly strain,    That for her lover’s loss  She cherishes a sorrow vain,                            630    And murmurs at the cross.  And then her heritage; – it goes    Along the banks of Tame;  Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,  In meadows rich the heifer lows,                        635  The falconer and huntsman knows    Its woodlands for the game.Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,And I, her humble vot’ress here,  Should do a deadly sin,                                  640Her temple spoil’d before mine eyes,If this false Marmion such a prize  By my consent should win;Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn,That Clare shall from our house be torn;                  645And grievous cause have I to fear,Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.XXIII‘Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’dTo evil power, I claim thine aid,  By every step that thou hast trod                        650To holy shrine and grotto dim,By every martyr’s tortured limb,By angel, saint, and seraphim,And by the Church of God!For mark: – When Wilton was betray’d,                      655And with his squire forged letters laid,She was, alas! that sinful maid,  By whom the deed was done, -Oh! shame and horror to be said!  She was a perjured nun!                                  660No clerk in all the land, like her,Traced quaint and varying character.Perchance you may a marvel deem,  That Marmion’s paramour(For such vile thing she was) should scheme                665  Her lover’s nuptial hour;But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,As privy to his honour’s stain,  Illimitable power:For this she secretly retain’d                            670  Each proof that might the plot reveal,  Instructions with his hand and seal;And thus Saint Hilda deign’d,  Through sinners’ perfidy impure,  Her house’s glory to secure,                            675And Clare’s immortal weal.XXIV‘Twere long, and needless, here to tell,How to my hand these papers fell;  With me they must not stay.Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!                          680Who knows what outrage he might do,  While journeying by the way? -O, blessed Saint, if e’er againI venturous leave thy calm domain,To travel or by land or main,                              685  Deep penance may I pay! -Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:I give this packet to thy care,For thee to stop they will not dare;And O! with cautious speed,                                690To Wolsey’s hand the papers ‘bring,That he may show them to the King:  And, for thy well-earn’d meed,Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrineA weekly mass shall still be thine,                        695  While priests can sing and read.What ail’st thou? – Speak!’-For as he tookThe charge, a strong emotion shook  His frame; and, ere reply,They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,                      700Like distant clarion feebly blown,  That on the breeze did die;And loud the Abbess shriek’d in fear,‘Saint Withold, save us! – What is here!  Look at yon City Cross!                                  705See on its battled tower appearPhantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,And blazon’d banners toss!’-XXVDun-Edin’s Cross, a pillar’d stone,Rose on a turret octagon;                                  710  (But now is razed that monument,    Whence royal edict rang,  And voice of Scotland’s law was sent    In glorious trumpet-clang.O! be his tomb as lead to lead,                            715Upon its dull destroyer’s head! -A minstrel’s malison is said.) -Then on its battlements they sawA vision, passing Nature’s law,  Strange, wild, and dimly seen;                          720Figures that seem’d to rise and die,Gibber and sign, advance and fly,While nought confirm’d could ear or eye  Discern of sound or mien.Yet darkly did it seem, as there                          725Heralds and Pursuivants prepare,With trumpet sound, and blazon fair,  A summons to proclaim;But indistinct the pageant proud,As fancy forms of midnight cloud,                          730When flings the moon upon her shroud  A wavering tinge of flame;It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,From midmost of the spectre crowd,  This awful summons came: –                               735XXVI‘Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,  Whose names I now shall call,Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!Subjects of him who sent me here,At his tribunal to appear,                                740  I summon one and all:I cite you by each deadly sin,That e’er hath soil’d your hearts within;I cite you by each brutal lust,That e’er defiled your earthly dust, –                     745  By wrath, by pride, by fear,By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone,By the dark grave, and dying groan!When forty days are pass’d and gone,I cite you at your Monarch’s throne,                      750  To answer and appear.’-Then thundered forth a roll of names: -The first was thine, unhappy James!  Then all thy nobles came;Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,                    755Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,Why should I tell their separate style?  Each chief of birth and fame,Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,Fore-doom’d to Flodden’s carnage pile,                    760  Was cited there by name;And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye;De Wilton, erst of Aberley,The self-same thundering voice did say. –                   765  But then another spoke:‘Thy fatal summons I deny,And thine infernal Lord defy,Appealing me to Him on high,  Who burst the sinner’s yoke.’                            770At that dread accent, with a scream,Parted the pageant like a dream,  The summoner was gone.Prone on her face the Abbess fell,And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;                    775Her nuns came, startled by the yell,  And found her there alone.She mark’d not, at the scene aghast,What time, or how, the Palmer pass’d.XXVIIShift we the scene. – The camp doth move,                  780  Dun-Edin’s streets are empty now,Save when, for weal of those they love,  To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,The tottering child, the anxious fair,The grey-hair’d sire, with pious care,                    785To chapels and to shrines repair-Where is the Palmer now? and whereThe Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? -Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair  They journey in thy charge:                              790Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,The Palmer still was with the band;Angus, like Lindesay, did command,  That none should roam at large.But in that Palmer’s altered mien                          795A wondrous change might now be seen;  Freely he spoke of war,Of marvels wrought by single hand,When lifted for a native land;And still look’d high, as if he plann’d                    800  Some desperate deed afar.His courser would he feed and stroke,And, tucking up his sable frocke,Would first his mettle bold provoke,  Then soothe or quell his pride.                          805Old Hubert said, that never oneHe saw, except Lord Marmion,  A steed so fairly ride.XXVIIISome half-hour’s march behind, there came,  By Eustace govern’d fair,                                810A troop escorting Hilda’s Dame,  With all her nuns, and Clare.No audience had Lord Marmion sought;  Ever he fear’d to aggravate  Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;                        815And safer ‘twas, he thought,  To wait till, from the nuns removed,  The influence of kinsmen loved,And suit by Henry’s self approved,Her slow consent had wrought.                              820  His was no flickering flame, that dies  Unless when fann’d by looks and sighs,  And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;  He long’d to stretch his wide command  O’er luckless Clara’s ample land:                        825  Besides, when Wilton with him vied,  Although the pang of humbled pride  The place of jealousy supplied,Yet conquest, by that meanness wonHe almost loath’d to think upon,                          830Led him, at times, to hate the cause,Which made him burst through honour’s laws.If e’er he loved, ‘twas her alone,Who died within that vault of stone.XXIXAnd now, when close at hand they saw                      835North Berwick’s town, and lofty Law,Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while,Before a venerable pile,  Whose turrets view’d, afar,The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle,                          840  The ocean’s peace or war.At tolling of a bell, forth cameThe convent’s venerable Dame,And pray’d Saint Hilda’s Abbess restWith her, a loved and honour’d guest,                      845Till Douglas should a bark prepareTo wait her back to Whitby fair.Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,And thank’d the Scottish Prioress;And tedious were to tell, I ween,                          850The courteous speech that pass’d between.  O’erjoy’d the nuns their palfreys leave;But when fair Clara did intend,Like them, from horseback to descend,  Fitz-Eustace said, – ’I grieve,                          855Fair lady, grieve e’en from my heart,Such gentle company to part; -  Think not discourtesy,But lords’ commands must be obey’d;And Marmion and the Douglas said,                          860  That you must wend with me.Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,Which to the Scottish Earl he show’d,Commanding, that, beneath his care,Without delay, you shall repair                            865To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.’XXXThe startled Abbess loud exclaim’d;But she, at whom the blow was aim’d,Grew pale as death, and cold as lead, -She deem’d she heard her death-doom read.                  870‘Cheer thee, my child!’ the Abbess said,‘They dare not tear thee from my hand,To ride alone with armed band.’-  ‘Nay, holy mother, nay,’Fitz-Eustace said, ‘the lovely Clare                      875Will be in Lady Angus’ care,  In Scotland while we stay;And, when we move, an easy rideWill bring us to the English side,Female attendance to provide                              880  Befitting Gloster’s heir;Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord,By slightest look, or act, or word,  To harass Lady Clare.Her faithful guardian he will be,                          885Nor sue for slightest courtesy  That e’en to stranger falls,Till he shall place her, safe and free,  Within her kinsman’s halls.’He spoke, and blush’d with earnest grace;                  890His faith was painted on his face,  And Clare’s worst fear relieved.The Lady Abbess loud exclaim’dOn Henry, and the Douglas blamed,  Entreated, threaten’d, grieved;                          895To martyr, saint, and prophet pray’d,Against Lord Marmion inveigh’d,And call’d the Prioress to aid,To curse with candle, bell, and book.Her head the grave Cistertian shook:                      900‘The Douglas, and the King,’ she said,‘In their commands will be obey’d;Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fallThe maiden in Tantallon hall.’XXXIThe Abbess, seeing strife was vain,                        905Assumed her wonted state again,  For much of state she had, -Composed her veil, and raised her head,And-‘Bid,’ in solemn voice she said,  ‘Thy master, bold and bad,                              910The records of his house turn o’er,  And, when he shall there written see,  That one of his own ancestry  Drove the monks forth of Coventry,Bid him his fate explore!                                  915  Prancing in pride of earthly trust,  His charger hurl’d him to the dust,  And, by a base plebeian thrust,He died his band before.  God judge ‘twixt Marmion and me;                        920  He is a Chief of high degree,And I a poor recluse;  Yet oft, in holy writ, we see  Even such weak minister as meMay the oppressor bruise:                                  925  For thus, inspired, did Judith slay    The mighty in his sin,  And Jael thus, and Deborah’-    Here hasty Blount broke in:‘Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;                    930Saint Anton’ fire thee! wilt thou standAll day, with bonnet in thy hand,  To hear the Lady preach?By this good light! if thus we stay,Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,                          935  Will sharper sermon teach.Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;The Dame must patience take perforce.’-XXXII‘Submit we then to force,’ said Clare,‘But let this barbarous lord despair                      940  His purposed aim to win;Let him take living, land, and life;But to be Marmion’s wedded wife  In me were deadly sin:And if it be the King’s decree,                            945That I must find no sanctuary,In that inviolable dome,Where even a homicide might come,  And safely rest his head,Though at its open portals stood,                          950Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,  The kinsmen of the dead;Yet one asylum is my own  Against the dreaded hour;A low, a silent, and a lone,                              955  Where kings have little power.One victim is before me there. -Mother, your blessing, and in prayerRemember your unhappy Clare!’Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows                        960  Kind blessings many a one:Weeping and wailing loud arose,Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes  Of every simple nun.His eyes the gentle Eustace dried,                        965And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.  Then took the squire her rein,And gently led away her steed,And, by each courteous word and deed,  To cheer her strove in vain.                            970XXXIIIBut scant three miles the band had rode,  When o’er a height they pass’d,And, sudden, close before them show’d  His towers, Tantallon vast;Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,                  975And held impregnable in war.On a projecting rock they rose,And round three sides the ocean flows,The fourth did battled walls enclose,  And double mound and fosse.                              980By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,Through studded gates, an entrance long,  To the main court they cross.It was a wide and stately square:Around were lodgings, fit and fair,                        985  And towers of various form,Which on the court projected far,And broke its lines quadrangular.Here was square keep, there turret high,Or pinnacle that sought the sky,                          990Whence oft the Warder could descry  The gathering ocean-storm.XXXIVHere did they rest. – The princely careOf Douglas, why should I declare,Or say they met reception fair?                            995  Or why the tidings say,Which, varying, to Tantallon came,By hurrying posts, or fleeter fame,  With every varying day?And, first, they heard King James had won                1000  Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,  That Norham Castle strong was ta’en.At that sore marvell’d Marmion; -And Douglas hoped his Monarch’s handWould soon subdue Northumberland:                        1005  But whisper’d news there came,That, while his host inactive lay,And melted by degrees away,King James was dallying off the day  With Heron’s wily dame. –                               1010Such acts to chronicles I yield;  Go seek them there, and see:Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,  And not a history. -At length they heard the Scottish host                    1015On that high ridge had made their post, Which frowns o’er Millfield Plain;And that brave Surrey many a bandHad gather’d in the Southern land,And march’d into Northumberland,                          1020  And camp at Wooler ta’en.Marmion, like charger in the stall,That hears, without, the trumpet-call,  Began to chafe, and swear: -‘A sorry thing to hide my head                            1025In castle, like a fearful maid,  When such a field is near!Needs must I see this battle-day:Death to my fame if such a frayWere fought, and Marmion away!                            1030The Douglas, too, I wot not why,Hath ‘bated of his courtesy:No longer in his halls I’ll stay.’Then bade his band they should arrayFor march against the dawning day.                        1035