XIV.

It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walked, And, by the slowly fading light,

Of varying topics talked; And, unaware, the Herald-bard

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far;

For that a messenger from Heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war:

And, closer questioned, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish stories have enrolled:-

XV.

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE.

"Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,

In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;

And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blithe the blackbird's lay!
The wild buck bells* from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year;
Too well his cause of grief you know,-
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,

King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.

When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The king, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chaunters sung, the bells did toll, The Bishop mass was sayingFor now the year brought round again The day the luckless King was slainIn Katherine's aisle the Monarch knelt, With sackcloth-shirt and iron belt,

And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him, in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stained casement gleaming;
But, while I marked what next befell,
It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.
Now mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,-

Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint,

Who propped the Virgin in her faint,—
The loved Apostle John.

And little reverence made:
Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,

And words like these he said,

In a low voice,-but never tone
So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone
My mother sent me from afar,

Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-
Woe waits on thine array;

If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:
God keep thee as he may !'-

The wondering Monarch seemed to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.

The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward past:
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
He vanished from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies."

XVIII.

While Lindesay told this marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,

He marked not Marmion's colour change,
While listening to the tale:
But, after a suspended pause,

The Baron spoke:-"Of nature's laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause

Could e'er control their course;

And, three days since, had judged your aim,
Was but to make your guest your game.
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught."-"He staid,
And seemed to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion pressed,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery's pain,

To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford to his train.

Nought of the Palmer says he there,

And nought of Constance, or of Clare:

The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.

"In vain," said he, "to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couched my head:
Fantastic thoughts returned;
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burned.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reached the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear-
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX.

"Thus judging, for a little space I listened, ere I left the place;

But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they served me true When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue, A mounted champion rise,I've fought, Lord Lion, many a day, In single fight and mixed affray And ever, I myself may say,

Have borne me as a knight: But when this unexpected foe Seemed starting with the gulf belowI care not though the truth I show

VII.

He was a man of middle age;
In aspect manly, grave, and sage,
As on king's errand come:
But in the glances of his eye
A penetrating, keen, and sly

Expression found its home;
The flash of that satiric rage,
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,

And broke the keys of Rome.

On milk-white palfrey forth he paced
His cap of maintenance was graced
With the proud heron-plume

From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
Embroidered round and round.
The double tressure might you see,
First by Achains borne,
The thistle, and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn.

So bright the king's armorial coat,

That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colours blazoned brave,
The Lion, which his title gave.

A train, which well beseemed his state,
But all unarmed, around him wait,
Still is thy namie in high account,
And still thy verse has charms,
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-Arms!

VIII.

Down from his horse did Marmion spring,
Soon as he saw the Lion-King,
For well the stately Baron knew
To him such courtesy was due,

Whom royal James himself had crowned,
And on his temples placed the round
Of Scotland's ancient diadem;
And wet his brow with hallowed wine,
And on his finger given to shine

The emblematic gem.

Their mutual greetings duly made,
The Lion thus his message said :-

"Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
From England to his royal court,
Yet, for he knew Lord Marmion's name,
And honours much his warlike fame,

My liege hath deemed it shame, and lack
Of courtesy, to turn him back;
And by his order, I, your guide,
Must lodging fit and fair provide,
Till finds King James meet time to see
The flower of English chivalry."

IX.

Though inly chafed at this delay,
Lord Marmion bears it as he may,
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,

Sought to take leave in vain:
Strick was the Lion-King's command,
That none who rode in Marmion's band
Should sever from the train.
"England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes;"
To Marchmont thus, apart, he said,
But fair pretext to Marmion made,
The right-hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.

At length up that wild dale they wind,
Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;

For there the Lion's care assigned
A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.

That castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne; And far beneath, where slow they creep, From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep, You hear her streams repine. The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows The builders' various hands; A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fired its foes, The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort,

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honour or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.

Still rises unimpaired, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Through there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
Where oft whilome were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More:*

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement May trace, in undulating line,

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun showed,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
For none were in the castle then
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came:
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffered the Baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword

Had marched that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,-he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side,
Long may his Lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun Dean.
"Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest,
With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the king's own guest.-
Such the command of royal James
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,-
Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace.

*The pit, or prison-vault.-See Note.

XIV.

It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlements they walked, And, by the slowly fading light,

Of varying topics talked ; And, unaware, the Herald-bard

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far;

For that a messenger from Heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war:

And, closer questioned, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish stories have enrolled:-

XV.

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE.

"Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,

In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;

And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blithe the blackbird's lay!
The wild buck bells* from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year;
Too well his cause of grief you know,—
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,

King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.

When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The king, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chaunters sung, the bells did toll, The Bishop mass was sayingFor now the year brought round again The day the Inckless King was slainIn Katherine's aisle the Monarch knelt, With sackcloth-shirt and iron belt,

And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him, in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stained casement gleaming;
But, while 1 marked what next befell,
It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white:
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.
Now mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,

His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,-

Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint,

Who propped the Virgin in her faint,-
The loved Apostle John.

XVII.

"He stepped before the Monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there,

*An ancient word for the cry of deer.-See Note.

And little reverence made:
Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,

And words like these he said,
In a low voice,-but never tone

So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone
My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-
Woe waits on thine array;

If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:
God keep thee as he may !'-

The wondering Monarch seemed to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.

The Marshal and myself had cast

To stop him as he outward past;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
He vanished from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies."

XVIII.

While Lindesay told this marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,

He marked not Marmion's colour change,
While listening to the tale:
But, after a suspended pause,

The Baron spoke:-"Of nature's laws
So strong I held the force,

That never superhuman cause

Could e'er control their course;
And, three days since, had judged your aim,
Was but to make your guest your game.
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught."-"He staid,
And seemed to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion pressed,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery's pain,

To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford to his train.

Nought of the Palmer says he there,

And nought of Constance, or of Clare:

The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.

"In vain," said he, "to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couched my head:
Fantastic thoughts returned;
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burned.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reached the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my car-
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX.

"Thus judging, for a little space I listened, ere I left the place;

But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they served me true When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue, A mounted champion rise,I've fought, Lord Lion, many a day, In single fight and mixed affray And ever, I myself may say,

Have borne me as a knight; But when this unexpected foe Seemed starting with the gulf belowI care not though the truth I show

I trembled with affright; And as I placed in rest my spear, My hand so shook for very fear,

I scarce could touch it right.

XXI.

"Why need my tongue the issue tell;"
We ran our course-my charger fell;-
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?-
I rolled upon the plain.

High o'er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand:

Yet did the worst remain;
My dazzled eyes I upward cast-
Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight what like I saw !

Full on his face the moonbeam strook,
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.

I saw the face of one who, fled

To foreign climes, has long been dead-
I well believe the last;

For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare

So grimly and so ghast.

Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade; But when to good Saint George I prayed (The first time e'er I asked his aid)

He plunged it in the sheath;
An on his courser mounting light,
He seemed to vanish from iny sight:
The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.

'Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me there,
Called by his hatred from the grave
To cumber upper air:

Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be no mortal enemy."

XXII.

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learned in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old,

When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,

With Brian Bulmer bold,

And trained him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.

"And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,

With Highland broad word, targe, and plaid,
And fingers red with gore,

Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pinetrees shade
Dark Tomantoul and Achnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.*

And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,
On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold

These midnight terrors vain;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin."
Lord Marmion turned him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then pressed Sir David's hand-
But nought at length in answer said;
And here their farther converse staid,
Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland's camp to take their way,-
Such was the King's command.

See the traditions concerning_Bulmer, and the spectre called Lhamdearg, or Bloody-hand, in a note on Canto III.

XXIII.

Early they took Dun Edin's road,
And I could trace each step they trode :
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to ine unknown.
Much might it boast of storied lore;
But, passing such digression o'er,
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They passed the glen and scanty rill,
And climbed the opposing bank, until
They gained the top of Blackford Hill.

XXIV.

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,
A truant boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed as I lay at rest,

While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,
Saint Giles's mingling din.

Now from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
And o'er the landscape as I look
Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan
Of early friendships past and gone.

XXV.

But different far the change has been
Since Marmion from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down:

A thousand did I say? I ween,

Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That chequered all the heath between
The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;

Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some reliques of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,

And tamed the glaring white with green;
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.

XXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge;
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum,
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horse's tramp, and tinkling clank,
Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank
And charger's shrilling neigh;

And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flashed, from shield and lance,
The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of falling smoke déclare,

To embers now the brands decayed,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,*
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omened gift! the guns remain

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

*Seven culverins so called, cast by one Borthwick.