Marmion Read online

  XXXI.

  Thus while they look’d, a flourish proud,

  Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,

  And fife, and kettle-drum,

  And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

  And war-pipe with discordant cry,

  And cymbal clattering to the sky,

  Making wild music bold and high,

  Did up the mountain come;

  The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

  Merrily toll’d the hour of prime,

  And thus the Lindesay spoke:

  ‘Thus clamour still the war-notes when

  The King to mass his way has ta’en,

  Or to Saint Katharine’s of Sienne,

  Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.

  To you they speak of martial fame;

  But me remind of peaceful game,

  When blither was their cheer,

  Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,

  In signal none his steed should spare,

  But strive which foremost might repair

  To the downfall of the deer.

  XXXII.

  ‘Nor less,’ he said,-‘when looking forth,

  I view yon Empress of the North

  Sit on her hilly throne;

  Her palace’s imperial bowers,

  Her castle, proof to hostile powers,

  Her stately halls and holy towers-

  Nor less,’ he said, ‘I moan,

  To think what woe mischance may bring,

  And how these merry bells may ring

  The death-dirge of our gallant King;

  Or with the larum call

  The burghers forth to watch and ward,

  ‘Gainst southern sack and fires to guard

  Dun-Edin’s leaguer’d wall.-

  But not for my presaging thought,

  Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!

  Lord Marmion, I say nay:

  God is the guider of the field,

  He breaks the champion’s spear and shield,―

  But thou thyself shalt say,

  When joins yon host in deadly stowre,

  That England’s dames must weep in bower,

  Her monks the death-mass sing;

  For never saw’st thou such a power

  Led on by such a King.’-

  And now, down winding to the plain,

  The barriers of the camp they gain,

  And there they made a stay.-

  There stays the Minstrel, till he fling

  His hand o’er every Border string,

  And fit his harp the pomp to sing,

  Of Scotland’s ancient Court and King,

  In the succeeding lay.

  INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

  TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

  Edinburgh.

  When dark December glooms the day,

  And takes our autumn joys away;

  When short and scant the sunbeam throws,

  Upon the weary waste of snows,

  A cold and profitless regard,

  Like patron on a needy bard;

  When silvan occupation’s done,

  And o’er the chimney rests the gun,

  And hang, in idle trophy, near,

  The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear;

  When wiry terrier, rough and grim,

  And greyhound, with his length of limb,

  And pointer, now employ’d no more,

  Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor;

  When in his stall the impatient steed

  Is long condemn’d to rest and feed;

  When from our snow-encircled home,

  Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam

  Since path is none, save that to bring

  The needful water from the spring;

  When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn’d o’er,

  Beguiles the dreary hour no more,

  And darkling politician, cross’d,

  Inveighs against the lingering post,

  And answering housewife sore complains

  Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains;

  When such the country cheer, I come,

  Well pleased, to seek our city home;

  For converse, and for books, to change

  The Forest’s melancholy range,

  And welcome, with renew’d delight,

  The busy day and social night.

  Not here need my desponding rhyme

  Lament the ravages of time,

  As erst by Newark’s riven towers,

  And Ettrick stripp’d of forest bowers.

  True,-Caledonia’s Queen is changed,

  Since on her dusky summit ranged,

  Within its steepy limits pent,

  By bulwark, line, and battlement,

  And flanking towers, and laky flood,

  Guarded and garrison’d she stood,

  Denying entrance or resort,

  Save at each tall embattled port;

  Above whose arch, suspended, hung

  Portcullis spiked with iron prong.

  That long is gone,-but not so long,

  Since, early closed, and opening late,

  Jealous revolved the studded gate,

  Whose task, from eve to morning tide,

  A wicket churlishly supplied.

  Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,

  Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,

  When safe amid thy mountain court

  Thou sitt’st, like Empress at her sport,

  And liberal, unconfined, and free,

  Flinging thy white arms to the sea,

  For thy dark cloud, with umber’d lower,

  That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower,

  Thou gleam’st against the western ray

  Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

  Not she, the Championess of old,

  In Spenser’s magic tale enroll’d,

  She for the charmed spear renown’d,

  Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,-

  Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,

  What time she was Malbecco’s guest,

  She gave to flow her maiden vest;

  When from the corselet’s grasp relieved,

  Free to the sight her bosom heaved;

  Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,

  Erst hidden by the aventayle;

  And down her shoulders graceful roll’d

  Her locks profuse, of paly gold.

  They who whilom, in midnight fight,

  Had marvell’d at her matchless might,

  No less her maiden charms approved,

  But looking liked, and liking loved.

  The sight could jealous pangs beguile,

  And charm Malbecco’s cares a while;

  And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,

  Forgot his Columbella’s claims,

  And passion, erst unknown, could gain

  The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;

  Nor durst light Paridel advance,

  Bold as he was, a looser glance.

  She charm’d, at once, and tamed the heart,

  Incomparable Britomane!

  So thou, fair City! disarray’d

  Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid,

  As stately seem’st, but lovelier far

  Than in that panoply of war.

  Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne

  Strength and security are flown;

  Still as of yore, Queen of the North!

  Still canst thou send thy children forth.

  Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call

  Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,

  Than now, in danger, shall be thine,

  Thy dauntless voluntary line;

  For fosse and turret proud to stand,

  Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.

  Thy thousands, train’d to martial toil,

  Full red would stain their native soil,

  Ere from thy mural crown there fell

  The slightest knosp, or pinnacle.r />
  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,

  In patriarchal times whose care

  Descending angels deign’d to share;

  That claim may wrestle blessings down

  On those who fight for The Good Town,

  Destined in every age to be

  Refuge of injured royalty;

  Since first, when conquering York arose,

  To Henry meek she gave repose,

  Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,

  Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw.

  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,

  That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:

  Dazzling alternately and dim

  Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,

  Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see,

  Creation of my fantasy,

  Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,

  And make of mists invading men.-

  Who loves not more the night of June

  Than dull December’s gloomy noon?

  The moonlight than the fog of frost?

  But can we say, which cheats the most?

  But who shall teach my harp to gain

  A sound of the romantic strain,

  Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere

  Could win the royal Henry’s ear,

  Famed Beauclerk call’d, for that he loved

  The minstrel, and his lay approved?

  Who shall these lingering notes redeem,

  Decaying on Oblivion’s stream;

  Such notes as from the Breton tongue

  Marie translated, Blondel sung?-

  O! born, Time’s ravage to repair,

  And make the dying Muse thy care;

  Who, when his scythe her hoary foe

  Was poising for the final blow,

  The weapon from his hand could wring,

  And break his glass, and shear his wing,

  And bid, reviving in his strain,

  The gentle poet live again;

  Thou, who canst give to lightest lay

  An unpedantic moral gay,

  Nor less the dullest theme bid flit

  On wings of unexpected wit;

  In letters as in life approved,

  Example honour’d, and beloved,-

  Dear ELLIS! to the bard impart

  A lesson of thy magic art,

  To win at once the head and heart,-

  At once to charm, instruct, and mend,

  My guide, my pattern, and my friend!

  Such minstrel lesson to bestow

  Be long thy pleasing task,-but, O!

  No more by thy example teach,-

  What few can practise, all can preach,-

  With even patience to endure

  Lingering disease, and painful cure,

  And boast affliction’s pangs subdued

  By mild and manly fortitude.

  Enough, the lesson has been given:

  Forbid the repetition, Heaven!

  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,

  With wonder heard the northern strain.

  Come listen! bold in thy applause,

  The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws;

  And, as the ancient art could stain

  Achievements on the storied pane,

  Irregularly traced and plann’d,

  But yet so glowing and so grand,-

  So shall he strive, in changeful hue,

  Field, feast, and combat, to renew,

  And loves, and arms, and harpers’ glee,

  And all the pomp of chivalry.

  CANTO FIFTH.

  THE COURT.

  I.

  The train has left the hills of Braid;

  The barrier guard have open made

  (So Lindesay bade) the palisade,

  That closed the tented ground;

  Their men the warders backward drew,

  And carried pikes as they rode through,

  Into its ample bound.

  Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,

  Upon the Southern band to stare.

  And envy with their wonder rose,

  To see such well-appointed foes;

  Such length of shafts, such mighty bows,

  So huge, that many simply thought,

  But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;

  And little deem’d their force to feel,

  Through links of mail, and plates of steel,

  When rattling upon Flodden vale,

  The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.

  II.

  Nor less did Marmion’s skilful view

  Glance every line and squadron through;

  And much he marvell’d one small land

  Could marshal forth such various band;

  For men-at-arms were here,

  Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,

  Like iron towers for strength and weight,

  On Flemish steeds of bone and height,

  With battle-axe and spear.

  Young knights and squires, a lighter train,

  Practised their chargers on the plain,

  By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,

  Each warlike feat to show,

  To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,

  And high curvett, that not in vain

  The sword sway might descend amain

  On foeman’s casque below.

  He saw the hardy burghers there

  March arm’d, on foot, with faces bare,

  For vizor they wore none,

  Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;

  But burnish’d were their corslets bright,

  Their brigantines, and gorgets light,

  Like very silver shone.

  Long pikes they had for standing fight,

  Two-handed swords they wore,

  And many wielded mace of weight,

  And bucklers bright they bore.

  III.

  On foot the yeoman too, but dress’d

  In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,

  With iron quilted well;

  Each at his back (a slender store)

  His forty days’ provision bore,

  As feudal statutes tell.

  His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,

  A crossbow there, a hagbut here,

  A dagger-knife, and brand.

  Sober he seem’d, and sad of cheer,

  As loath to leave his cottage dear,

  And march to foreign strand;

  Or musing, who would guide his steer,

  To till the fallow land.

  Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye

  Did aught of dastard terror lie;

  More dreadful far his ire,

  Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name,

  In eager mood to battle came,

  Their valour like light straw on name,

  A fierce but fading fire.

  IV.

  Not so the Borderer:-bred to war,

  He knew the battle’s din afar,

  And joy’d to hear it swell.

  His peaceful day was slothful ease;

  Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,

  Like the loud slogan yell.

  On active steed, with lance and blade,

  The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,-

  Let nobles fight for fame;

  Let vassals follow where they lead,

  Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,

  But war’s the Borderer’s game.

&
nbsp; Their gain, their glory, their delight,

  To sleep the day, maraud the night,

  O’er mountain, moss, and moor;

  Joyful to fight they took their way,

  Scarce caring who might win the day,

  Their booty was secure.

  These, as Lord Marmion’s train pass’d by,

  Look’d on at first with careless eye,

  Nor marvell’d aught, well taught to know

  The form and force of English bow.

  But when they saw the Lord array’d

  In splendid arms, and rich brocade,

  Each Borderer to his kinsman said,-

  ‘Hist, Ringan! seest thou there!

  Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride?-

  O! could we but on Border side,

  By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,

  Beset a prize so fair!

  That fangless Lion, too, their guide,

  Might chance to lose his glistering hide;

  Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied,

  Could make a kirtle rare.’

  V.

  Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race,

  Of different language, form, and face,

  A various race of man;

  Just then the Chiefs their tribes array’d,

  And wild and garish semblance made,

  The chequer’d trews, and belted plaid,

  And varying notes the war-pipes bray’d,

  To every varying clan,

  Wild through their red or sable hair

  Look’d out their eyes with savage stare,

  On Marmion as he pass’d;

  Their legs above the knee were bare;

  Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,