Marmion Page 10

“Place him but front to front with me,

  And, by this good and honour’d brand,

  The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,

  Soothly 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:

  Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,

  The rampart seek, whose circling crown

  Crests the ascent of yonder down:

  A southern entrance shalt thou find;

  There halt, and there thy bugle wind,

  And 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

  Whate’er these airy sprites can show:-

  If thy heart fail thee in the strife,

  I am no warrant for thy life.”

  XXIII.

  ‘Soon as the midnight bell did ring,

  Alone, and arm’d, forth rode the King

  To that old camp’s deserted round:

  Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound,

  Left hand the town,-the Pictish race,

  The trench, long since, in blood did trace;

  The moor around is brown and bare,

  The space within is green and fair.

  The spot our village children know

  For there the earliest wild-flowers grow;

  But woe betide the wandering wight,

  That treads its circle in the night!

  The breadth across, a bowshot clear,

  Gives ample space for full career;

  Opposed to the four points of heaven,

  By four deep gaps are entrance given.

  The southernmost our Monarch past,

  Halted, and blew a gallant blast;

  And on the north, within the ring,

  Appeared the form of England’s King,

  Who then a thousand leagues afar,

  In Palestine waged holy war:

  Yet arms like England’s did he wield,

  Alike the leopards in the shield,

  Alike his Syrian courser’s frame,

  The rider’s length of limb the same:

  Long afterwards did Scotland know,

  Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

  XXIV.

  ‘The vision made our Monarch start,

  But soon he mann’d his noble heart,

  And in the first career they ran,

  The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man;

  Yet did a splinter of his lance

  Through Alexander’s visor glance,

  And razed the skin-a puny wound.

  The King, light leaping to the ground,

  With naked blade his phantom foe

  Compell’d the future war to show.

  Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,

  Where still gigantic bones remain,

  Memorial of the Danish war;

  Himself he saw, amid the field,

  On high his brandish’d war-axe wield,

  And strike proud Haco from his car,

  While all around the shadowy Kings

  Denmark’s grim ravens cower’d their wings.

  ‘Tis said, that, in that awful night,

  Remoter visions met his sight,

  Foreshowing future conquest far,

  When our sons’ sons wage northern war;

  A royal city, tower and spire,

  Redden’d the midnight sky with fire,

  And shouting crews her navy bore,

  Triumphant, to the victor shore.

  Such signs may learned clerks explain,

  They pass the wit of simple swain.

  XXV.

  ‘The joyful King turn’d home again,

  Headed his host, and quell’d the Dane;

  But yearly, when return’d the night

  Of his strange combat with the sprite,

  His wound must bleed and smart;

  Lord Gifford then would gibing say,

  “Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay

  The penance of your start.”

  Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave,

  King Alexander fills his grave,

  Our Lady give him rest!

  Yet still the knightly spear and shield

  The Elfin Warrior doth wield,

  Upon the brown hill’s breast;

  And many a knight hath proved his chance,

  In the charm’d ring to break a lance,

  But all have foully sped;

  Save two, as legends tell, and they

  Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.-

  Gentles, my tale is said.’

  XXVI.

  The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong,

  And on the tale the yeoman-throng

  Had made a comment sage and long,

  But Marmion gave a sign:

  And, with their lord, the squires retire;

  The rest around the hostel fire,

  Their drowsy limbs recline:

  For pillow, underneath each head,

  The quiver and the targe were laid.

  Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,

  Oppress’d with toil and ale, they snore:

  The dying flame, in fitful change,

  Threw on the group its shadows strange.

  XXVII.

  Apart, and nestling in the hay

  Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;

  Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen

  The foldings of his mantle green:

  Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,

  Of sport by thicket, or by stream,

  Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,

  Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love.

  A cautious tread his slumber broke,

  And, close beside him, when he woke,

  In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,

  Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;

  But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,

  His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

  XXVIII.

  -‘Fitz-Eustace! rise,-I cannot rest;

  Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,

  And graver thoughts have chafed my mood:

  The air must cool my feverish blood;

  And fain would I ride forth, to see

  The scene of elfin chivalry.

  Arise, and saddle me my steed;

  And, gentle Eustace, take good heed

  Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;

  I would not, that the prating knaves

  Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,

  That I could credit such a tale.’-

  Then softly down the steps they slid,

  Eustace the stable door undid,

  And, darkling, Marmion’s steed array’d,

  While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

  XXIX.

  ‘Did’st never, good my youth, hear tell,

  That on the hour when I was born,

  Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,

  Down from his steed of marble fell,

  A weary wight forlorn?

  The flattering chaplains all agree,

  The champion left his steed to me.

  I would, the omen’s truth to show,

  That I could meet this Elfin Foe!

  Blithe would I battle, for the right

  To ask one question at the sprite:

  Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,

  An empty race, by fount or sea,

  To dashing waters dance and sing,

  Or round the green oak wheel their ring.’

  Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,

  And from the hostel slowly rode.

  XXX.

  Fitz-Eustace follow’d him abroad,

  And mark’d him pace the v
illage road,

  And listen’d to his horse’s tramp,

  Till, by the lessening sound,

  He judged that of the Pictish camp

  Lord Marmion sought the round.

  Wonder it seem’d, in the squire’s eyes,

  That one, so wary held, and wise,―

  Of whom ‘twas said, he scarce received

  For gospel, what the Church believed,-

  Should, stirr’d by idle tale,

  Ride forth in silence of the night,

  As hoping half to meet a sprite,

  Array’d in plate and mail.

  For little did Fitz-Eustace know,

  That passions, in contending flow,

  Unfix the strongest mind;

  Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,

  We welcome fond credulity,

  Guide confident, though blind.

  XXXI.

  Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,

  But, patient, waited till he heard,

  At distance, prick’d to utmost speed,

  The foot-tramp of a flying steed,

  Come town-ward rushing on;

  First, dead, as if on turf it trode,

  Then, clattering on the village road,-

  In other pace than forth he yode,

  Return’d Lord Marmion.

  Down hastily he sprung from selle,

  And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell;

  To the squire’s hand the rein he threw,

  And spoke no word as he withdrew:

  But yet the moonlight did betray,

  The falcon-crest was soil’d with clay;

  And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,

  By stains upon the charger’s knee,

  And his left side, that on the moor

  He had not kept his footing sure.

  Long musing on these wondrous signs,

  At length to rest the squire reclines,

  Broken and short; for still, between,

  Would dreams of terror intervene:

  Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark

  The first notes of the morning lark.

  INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

  TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

  Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

  An ancient Minstrel sagely said,

  ‘Where is the life which late we led?’

  That motley clown in Arden wood,

  Whom humorous Jacques with envy view’d,

  Not even that clown could amplify,

  On this trite text, so long as I.

  Eleven years we now may tell,

  Since we have known each other well;

  Since, riding side by side, our hand

  First drew the voluntary brand;

  And sure, through many a varied scene,

  Unkindness never came between.

  Away these winged years have flown,

  To join the mass of ages gone;

  And though deep mark’d, like all below,

  With chequer’d shades of joy and woe;

  Though thou o’er realms and seas hast ranged,

  Mark’d cities lost, and empires changed,

  While here, at home, my narrower ken

  Somewhat of manners saw, and men;

  Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,

  Fever’d the progress of these years,

  Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem

  The recollection of a dream,

  So still we glide down to the sea

  Of fathomless eternity.

  Even now it scarcely seems a day,

  Since first I tuned this idle lay;

  A task so often’ thrown aside,

  When leisure graver cares denied,

  That now, November’s dreary gale,

  Whose voice inspired my opening tale,

  That same November gale once more

  Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.

  Their vex’d boughs streaming to the sky,

  Once more our naked birches sigh,

  And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,

  Have donn’d their wintry shrouds again:

  And mountain dark, and flooded mead,

  Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.

  Earlier than wont along the sky,

  Mix’d with the rack, the snow mists fly;

  The shepherd who, in summer sun,

  Had something of our envy won,

  As thou with pencil, I with pen,

  The features traced of hill and glen;-

  He who, outstretch’d the livelong day,

  At ease among the heath-flowers lay,

  View’d the light clouds with vacant look,

  Or slumber’d o’er his tatter’d book,

  Or idly busied him to guide

  His angle o’er the lessen’d tide;-

  At midnight now, the snowy plain

  Finds sterner labour for the swain.

  When red hath set the beamless sun,

  Through heavy vapours dark and dun;

  When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,

  Hears, half asleep, the rising storm

  Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,

  Against the casement’s tinkling pane;

  The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,

  To shelter in the brake and rocks,

  Are warnings which the shepherd ask

  To dismal and to dangerous task.

  Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,

  The blast may sink in mellowing rain;

  Till, dark above, and white below,

  Decided drives the flaky snow,

  And forth the hardy swain must go.

  Long, with dejected look and whine,

  To leave the hearth his dogs repine;

  Whistling and cheering them to aid,

  Around his back he wreathes the plaid:

  His flock he gathers, and he guides,

  To open downs, and mountain-sides,

  Where fiercest though the tempest blow,

  Least deeply lies the drift below.

  The blast, that whistles o’er the fells,

  Stiffens his locks to icicles;

  Oft he looks back, while streaming far,

  His cottage window seems a star,-

  Loses its feeble gleam,-and then

  Turns patient to the blast again,

  And, facing to the tempest’s sweep,

  Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.

  If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,

  Benumbing death is in the gale;

  His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,

  Close to the hut, no more his own,

  Close to the aid he sought in vain,

  The morn may find the stiffen’d swain:

  The widow sees, at dawning pale,

  His orphans raise their feeble wail;

  And, close beside him, in the snow,

  Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,

  Couches upon his master’s breast,

  And licks his cheek to break his rest.

  Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,

  His healthy fare, his rural cot,

  His summer couch by greenwood tree,

  His rustic kirn’s loud revelry,

  His native hill-notes, tuned on high,

  To Marion of the blithesome eye;

  His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,

  And all Arcadia’s golden creed?

  Changes not so with us, my Skene,

  Of human life the varying scene?

  Our youthful summer oft we see

  Dance by on wings of game and glee,

  While the dark storm reserves its rage,

  Against the winter of our age:

  As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,

  His manhood spent in peace and joy;

  But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,

  Call’d ancient Priam forth to arms.

  Then happy those, since each must drain

  His share of pleasure, share of pain,-

/>   Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,

  To whom the mingled cup is given;

  Whose lenient sorrows find relief,

  Whose joys are chasten’d by their grief.

  And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,

  When thou, of late, wert doom’d to twine,―

  Just when thy bridal hour was by,-

  The cypress with the myrtle tie.

  Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled,

  And bless’d the union of his child,

  When love must change its joyous cheer,

  And wipe affection’s filial tear.

  Nor did the actions next his end,

  Speak more the father than the friend:

  Scarce had lamented Forbes paid

  The tribute to his Minstrel’s shade;

  The tale of friendship scarce was told,

  Ere the narrator’s heart was cold-

  Far may we search before we find

  A heart so manly and so kind!

  But not around his honour’d urn,

  Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;

  The thousand eyes his care had dried,

  Pour at his name a bitter tide;

  And frequent falls the grateful dew,

  For benefits the world ne’er knew.

  If mortal charity dare claim

  The Almighty’s attributed name,