XXV.

his meed,

«Gramercy!» quoth Lord Marmion,
« Full loth were I that Friar John,
That venerable man, for me
Were placed in fear or jeopardy.
If this same Palmer will me lead
From hence to Holyrood,
Like his good saint I'll pay
Instead of cockle-shell or bead,
With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers; still
They know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay:
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend, at the least,

They bring to cheer the way.»-

XXVI.

Ah! noble sir,» young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid,

This man knows much, perchance e'en more
Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he 's muttering,

And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listen'd at his cell;

Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.

I cannot tell-I like it not

Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

No conscience clear and void of wrong
Can rest awake, and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads

Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds.»-(17)

XXVII.

Let pass,» quoth Marmion; « by my fay, This man shall guide me on my way, Although the great arch-fiend and he Had sworn themselves of company. So please you, gentle youth, to call This Palmer to the castle-hall,»— The summon'd Palmer came in place; His sable cowl o'erhung his face; In his black mantle was he clad, With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

On his broad shoulders wrought; (18)
The scallop shell his cap did deck;
The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought;
His sandals were with travel tore,
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;
His cheek was sunk, alas, the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,

His eye look'd haggard wild :
Poor wretch the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face and sunburnt hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,

Soon change the form that best we know-
For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;
Hard toil can roughen form and face,
And want can quench the eye's bright grace,
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace,

More deeply than despair.
Happy whom none of these befal,
But this poor Palmer knew them all.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
-« But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair St Andrews bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good St Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,
Sung to the billows' sound; (19)
Thence to St Fillan's blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,
And the crazed brain restore: (20)
St Mary grant that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!»-

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The captain pledged his noble guest,
The cup went through among the rest,
Who drain'd it merrily;
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by,
Though Selby press'd him courteously.
This was the sign the feast was o'er;
It hush'd the merry wassel roar,

The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard, But the slow footstep of the guard, Pacing his sober round.

Between the baron and his host

No point of courtesy was lost;

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had past
That noble train, their lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet-call :
Thunder'd the cannon from the wall,

And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,

And hid its turrets hoar;

Till they roll'd forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO II.

ΤΟ

THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

THE scenes are desert now, and bare,
Where flourish'd once a forest fair, (1)
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spears
Have fenced him for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers-
You lonely thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,
Since he, so gray and stubborn now,
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough;
Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made;
How broad the shadows of the oak,
How clung the rowan' to the rock,
And through the foliage show'd his head,
With narrow leaves and berries red;
What pines on every mountain sprung,
O'er dell what birches bung,

every

In every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook!

<< Here, in my shade, » methinks he'd say, «The mighty stag at noontide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game (The neighbouring dingle bears his name), With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; While doe and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by through gay green-wood. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals muster'd round,

With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;
And I might see the youth intent
Guard every pass with cross-bow bent;
And through the brake the rangers stalk,
And falc'ners hold the ready hawk;

1 Mountain-ash.

And foresters, in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain: Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the arquebuss below : While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter's cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely.» —

Of such proud huntings many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. (2)
But not more blithe that sylvan court,
Than we have been at humbler sport;
Though small our pomp, and mean our game,
Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same.
Remember'st thou my greyhounds true?
O'er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
Nor dull between each merry chase,
Pass'd by the intermitted space;
For we had fair resource in store,
In classic, and in Gothic lore:
We mark'd each memorable scene,
And held poetic talk between;
Nor hill nor brook we paced along
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now-for now are still
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill !
No longer from thy mountains dun
The yeoman hears the well-known gun,
And, while his honest heart glows warm
At thought of his paternal farm,
Round to his mates a brimmer fills,
And drinks « the Chieftain of the Hills!»
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers,
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw,
By moon-light, dance on Carterhaugh;
No youthful baron's left to grace
The Forest-sheriff's lonely chace,
And ape, in manly step and tone,
The majesty of Oberon :

And she is gone, whose lovely face
Is but her least and lowest grace;
Though if to sylphid queen 't were given,
To show our earth the charms of heaven,
She could not glide along the air,
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow's deafen'd ear
Grows quick that lady's step to hear:
At noontide she expects her not,
Nor busies her to trim the cot;
Pensive she turns her humming wheel
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal;
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
The gentle hand by which they 're fed.

Slow-hound.

From Yair,-which hills so closely bind,
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,
Till all his eddying currents boil,-
Her long-descended lord is gone,
And left us by the stream alone.
And much I miss those sportive boys,
Companions of my mountain joys,
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech, and speech is truth.
Close to my side with what delight
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight,
When, pointing to his airy mound,
I call'd his ramparts holy ground! 1
Kindled their brows to hear me speak;
And I have smiled to feel my cheek,
Despite the difference of our years,
Return again the glow of theirs.
Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,
They will not, cannot, long endure;
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide,
You may not linger by the side;

For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,
And Passion ply the sail and oar.
Yet cherish the remembrance still
Of the lone mountain and the rill;
For trust, dear boys, the time will come,
When fiercer transport shall be dumb,
And you will think right frequently,
But, well I hope, without a sigh,

On the free hours that we have spent,
Together, on the brown hill's bent.

When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain,-
There is a pleasure in this pain:
It soothes the love of lonely rest,
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd.
Tis silent amid worldly toils,
And stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosom thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
"Twist resignation and content.
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake
By lone St Mary's silent lake; (3)

Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;
Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand

Marks where the water meets the land.
Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,
Save where of land yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal'd might lie;

There is, on a high mountainous ridge above the farm of Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace's Trench.

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,

Where swain, or woodman, lone might dwell; There's nothing left to fancy's guess,

You see that all is loneliness;

And silence aids-though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills,

In summer-tide so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, (4) Yet still beneath the hallow'd soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.

If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I thought, 't were sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage Where Milton long'd to spend his age. "T were sweet to mark the setting day On Bourhope's lonely top decay; And, as it faint and feeble died On the broad lake and mountain's side, To say, « Thus pleasures fade away; Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray!»— Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, And think on Yarrow's faded Flower : And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings,

'T were sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,

To sit upon the Wizard's grave;

That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust

From company of holy dust; (5)

On which no sun-beam ever shines

(So superstition's creed divines,)
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore:
And mark the wild swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,
And ever stoop again, to lave

Their bosoms on the surging wave:
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire:
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,

And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,
And smiled to think that I had fear'd.

But chief, 't were sweet to think such life (Though but escape from fortune's strife), Something most matchless, good, and wise, And great and grateful sacrifice; And deem each hour to musing given, A step upon the road to heaven.

Yet him whose heart is ill at ease Such peaceful solitudes displease: He loves to drown his bosom's jar

Amid the elemental war:

And my black Palmer's choice had been

Some ruder and more savage scene,

Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. (6)

There eagles scream from isle to shore;

Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O'er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving as if condemn'd to lave
Some demon's subterranean cave,
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.
And well that Palmer's form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,
And wheeling round the Giant's Grave,
White as the snowy charger's tail,
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung: Then list to me, and thou shalt know Of this mysterious Man of Woe.

CANTO II.

THE CONVENT.

I.

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke,
Round Norham Castle roll'd,

When all the loud artillery spoke,
With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the hold.

It curl'd not Tweed alone that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

It freshly blew, and strong,

Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd pile,
Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, (7)
It bore a bark along.

Upon the gale she stoop'd her side,
And bounded o'er the swelling tide,

As she were dancing home;

'T was sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage.

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail
With many a benedicite;

One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray;
Then shriek'd because the sea-dog, nigh,
His round black head, and sparkling eye,
Rear'd o'er the foaming spray :
And one would still adjust her veil,
Disorder'd by the summer gale,-
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy;
Perchance, because such action graced
Hler fair-turn'd arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share,-
The abbess, and the novice Clare.

III.

The abbess was of noble blood, But early took the veil and hood, Ere upon life she cast a look, Or knew the world that she forsook. Fair too she was, and kind had been As she was fair, but ne'er had seen For her a timid lover sigh, Nor knew the influence of her eye. Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combined with vanity and shame; Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all Bounded within the cloister wall: The deadliest sin her mind could reach, Was of monastic rule the breach; And her ambition's highest aim To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample dower, To raise the convent's eastern tower; For this, with carving rare and quaint, She deck'd the chapel of the saint, And gave the relique-shrine of cost, With ivory and gems embost. The poor her convent's bounty blest, The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

IV.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reform'd on benedictine school;
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;
Vigils, and penitence austere,

Had early quench'd the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame in sooth,

Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouth's priory and bay;
They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall

Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods
Rush to the sea through sounding woods;
They past the tower of Widderington,
Mother of many a valiant son;

At Coquet-isle their beads they tell
To the good saint who own'd the cell;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name;
And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear
The whitening breakers sound so near,
Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar
On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore;

Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there;
King Ida's castle, huge and square,
From its tall rock look grimly down,

And on the swelling ocean frown;
Then from the coast they bore away,
And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

IX.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain,
And girdled in the saint's domain;
For, with the flow and ebb, the style
Varies from continent to isle;
Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The castle with its battled walls,
The ancient monastery's halls,
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Placed on the margin of the isle.

X.

In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd,
With massive arches broad and round,
That rose alternate row and row,
On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley'd walk
To emulate in stone.

On the deep walls the heathen Dane
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain;
And needful was such strength to these,
Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway,
Open to rovers fierce as they,

Which could twelve hundred years

withstand

Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. Not but that portions of the pile, Rebuilded in a later style,

Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been;

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,
And moulder'd in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,
The pointed angles of cach tower:
Yet still entire the abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued.