Marmion Read online

  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

  To 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;

  Ever the first to scale a tower,

  As venturous in a lady’s bower:-

  Such buxom chief shall lead his host

  From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

  V.

  Resting upon his pilgrim staff,

  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,

  Strove by a frown to quell;

  But not for that, though more than once

  Full met their stern encountering glance,

  The Palmer’s visage fell.

  VI.

  By fits less frequent from the crowd

  Was heard the burst of laughter loud;

  For still, as squire and archer stared

  On that dark face and matted beard,

  Their glee and game declined.

  All gazed at length in silence drear,

  Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear

  Some 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,

  Whene’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.’

  VII.

  But Marmion, as to chase the awe

  Which thus had quell’d their hearts, who saw

  The ever-varying fire-light show

  That figure stern and face of woe,

  Now call’d upon a squire:-

  ‘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.

  Ill 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

  Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,

  No nightingale her love-lorn tune

  More sweetly warbles to the moon.

  Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,

  Detains from us his melody,

  Lavish’d on rocks, and billows stern,

  Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

  Now must I venture as I may,

  To sing his favourite roundelay.’

  IX.

  A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,

  The 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.

  Now 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

  Who 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,

  Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,

  Recall’d fair Scotland’s hills again!

  X.

  Song

  Where shall the lover rest,

  Whom the fates sever

  From his true maiden’s breast,

  Parted for ever?

  Where, through groves deep and high,

  Sounds the far billow,

  Where early violets die,

  Under the willow.

  CHORUS.

  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;

  There, thy rest shalt thou take,

  Parted for ever,

  Never again to wake,

  Never, O never!

  CHORUS.

  Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

  XI.

  Where shall the traitor rest,

  He, the deceiver,

  Who could win maiden’s breast,

  Ruin, and leave her?

  In the lost battle,

  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

  O’er the false-hearted;

  His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

  Ere life be parted.

  Shame and dishonour sit

  By his grave ever;

  Blessing shall hallow it,-

  Never, O never.

  CHORUS.

  Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

  XII.

  It ceased, the melancholy sound;

  And silence sunk on all around.

  The 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,

  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,

  The 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.

  XIII.

  High minds, of native pride and force,

  Most 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 steel

  Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,

  Even while they writhe beneath the smart

  Of 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,

  Seem’d in mine ear a death-peal rung,

  Such as in nunneries they toll

  For some departing sister’s soul?

  Say, what may this portend?’-

  Then first the Palmer silence broke,

  (The livelong day he had not spoke)

  ‘The death of a dear friend.’

  XIV.

  Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

  Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

  Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,

  Even 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:

  For either in the tone,

  Or something in the Palmer’s look,

  So full upon his conscience strook,

  That answer he found none.

  T
hus oft it haps, that when within

  They 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.

  XV.

  Well might he falter!-By his aid

  Was 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

  Threaten 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;

  And deem’d restraint in convent strange

  Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge,

  Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,

  Held Romish thunders idle fear,

  Secure his pardon he might hold,

  For 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 page

  Was left behind, to spare his age;

  Or other if they deem’d, none dared

  To mutter what he thought and heard:

  Woe to the vassal, who durst pry

  Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

  XVI.

  His conscience slept-he deem’d her well,

  And 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,

  To 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,

  She 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.

  ‘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

  The blood that mantles in her cheeks;

  Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,

  Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;

  And I the cause-for whom were given

  Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!-

  Would,’ thought he, as the picture grows,

  ‘I on its stalk had left the rose!

  Oh, why should man’s success remove

  The very charms that wake his love!-

  Her convent’s peaceful solitude

  Is 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!-

  Vigil, 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

  She should be safe, though not at large?

  They durst not, for their island, shred

  One golden ringlet from her head.’

  XVIII.

  While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove

  Repentance and reviving love,

  Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway

  I’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

  From Scotland’s simple land away,

  To visit realms afar,

  Full often learn the art to know

  Of future weal, or future woe,

  By word, or sign, or star;

  Yet might a knight his fortune hear,

  If, knight-like, he despises fear,

  Not far from hence;-if fathers old

  Aright our hamlet legend told.’-

  These broken words the menials move,

  (For marvels still the vulgar love,)

  And, Marmion giving license cold,

  His tale the host thus gladly told:-

  XIX.

  The Host’s Tale

  ‘A Clerk could tell what years have flown

  Since Alexander fill’d our throne,

  (Third monarch of that warlike name,)

  And eke the time when here he came

  To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:

  A braver never drew a sword;

  A wiser never, at the hour

  Of midnight, spoke the word of power:

  The same, whom ancient records call

  The founder of the Goblin-Hall.

  I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay

  Gave you that cavern to survey.

  Of 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,

  It all was wrought by word and charm;

  And I have heard my grandsire say,

  That the wild clamour and affray

  Of those dread artisans of hell,

  Who labour’d under Hugo’s spell,

  Sounded 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,

  To meet upon the western coast;

  For Norse and Danish galleys plied

  Their oars within the Frith of Clyde.

  There floated Haco’s banner trim,

  Above Norweyan warriors grim,

  Savage 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,

  And 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

  A pointed cap, such as of yore

  Clerks 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,

  Or, 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.

  XXI.

  ‘Dire dealings with the fiendish race

  Had 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;

  Even his own menials with dismay

  Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,

  In his unwonted wild attire;

  Unwonted, for traditions run,

  He seldom thus beheld the sun.-

  “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

  His 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,

  Can 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;

  And though so potent was the call,

  That scarce the deepest nook of hell

  I deem’d a refuge from the spell,

  Yet, obstinate in silence still,

  The haughty demon mocks my skill.

  But thou,-who little know’st thy might,

  As born upon that blessed night

  When yawning graves, and dying groan,

  Proclaim’d hell’s empire overthrown,-

  With untaught valour shalt compel

  Response denied to magic spell.”-

  “Gramercy,” quoth our Monarch free,