Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister's soul?

Say, what may this portend?"Then first the Palmer silence broke (The live-long 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 accent of command controlled,
In camps, the boldest of the bold-
Thought, look, and utterance, failed him now,
Fallen was his glance, and flushed 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.
Thus 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 veil their eyes
Before their meanest slave.

XV.

Well might he faulter!-by his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed;
Not that he angur'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 deemed 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 nold,
For some slight mulct of penance-gold.
Thus judging he gave secret way,

When the stern priests surprised their prey;
His train but deemed the favourite page
Was left behind, to spare his age;
Or other if they deemed, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard:
Woe to the vassal who durst pry
Into Lord Marinion's privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept-he deemed her well, And safe secured in distant cell;

But, wakened 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 venomed throes,

Dark tales of convent vengeance rose:

And Constance, late betrayed and scorned,
All lovely on his soul returned:
Lovely as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent's peaceful wall,
Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike escape, pursuit,
Till love, victorious o'er alarms,
Hid fears and blushes in his arins.

XVII.

"Alas!" he thought, "how changed that mien!
How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt, and of disguise,
Have steeled her brow and armed 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.".

THE HOST'S TALE.

"A clerk could tell what years have flown Since Alexander filled our throne, (Third monarch of that warlike name.) And eke the time when here he came To see 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 toiled 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 laboured 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 marked with cross and spell;
Upon his breast a pentacle;

Ilis zone, of virgin parchment thin,
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin,
Before many a planetary sign,
Combust, and retrogade, and trine;
And in his hand he held prepared,
A naked sword, without a guard.

XXI.

"Dire dealings with the fiendish race
Had marked strange lines upon his face;
Vigil and fast had worn him grim,
His eyesight dazzled seemed, and dim,
As one unused to upper day:
Even his own menials with dismay
Beheld, Sir Knight, the griesly sire,
In this unwonted wild attire;--
Unwonted, for traditions run,
He seldom thus beheld the sun.

"I know," he said,-Iris voice was hoarse,
And broken seemed its hollow force,-
"I know the cause, although untold,
Why the king seeks his vassals 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 fixed or wandering star,
The issue of events afar:

But still their sullen aid withhold,
Save when by mightier force controlled.
Such late I summoned to my hall:
And though so potent was the call,
That scarce the deepest nook of hell
I deemed a refuge from the spell,
Yet, obstinate in silence still,
The haughty demon mocks my skill.
But thou, who little knowest thy might,
As born upon that blessed night,

When yawning graves, and dying groan,
Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown,-
With untaught valour shall compel
Response denied to magic spell
"Gramercy," quoth our monarch free,
"Place him but front to front with me,
And, by this good and honoured 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 viewed,
And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed.
"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,
o warrant for thy life."

I

XXIII.

"Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and armed, rode forth 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
Compelled the future war to show.
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
Where stili gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war;
Himself he saw, amid the field,
On high his brandished war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his car,
While, all around our shadowy king.
Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings.
'Tis said, that in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight,
Foreshowing future conquests far,
When our sons' sons wage northern war;

A royal city, tower, and spire,

Reddened 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 turned home again,
Hended his host, and quelled the Dane;
But yearly, when returned 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 nightly spear and shield
The elfin warrior doth wield,

Upon the brown hill's breast:

And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charmed 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."

*Edward I, surnamed Longshanks.

XXVI.

The quaighs* were deep, the liquors 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,
Oppressed 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, was 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 arrayed,
While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

XXIX.

"Didst never, good my youth, hear tell,
That on the hour when I was born,
St. George, who grac'd my sire's chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,

A weary weight 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 steel bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.
XXX.

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,
And marked him pace the village road,
And listened to his horse's tramp,
Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp
Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seemed, 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, stirred by idle tale,
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Arrayed 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, pricked to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed,
Come townward rushing on:
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
Then, clattering on the village road,-
In other pace than forth he yode*
Returned Lord Marmion.

Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, well-nigh 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 soiled 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, Ettricke Forest.

AN ancient minstrel sagely said,
Where is the life which late we led?"-
That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,
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 marked, like all below,
With chequered shades of joy and woe;
Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged,
Marked cities lost and empires changed,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fevered the progress of these years,

Yet 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's shore;

*Used by old poets for went.

58

Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh;
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettricke Pen,
Have don'd their wintry shrouds again;
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont, along the sky,
Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly;
The shepherd, who, in summer sun,
Has something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;
He who, outstretched, the live-long day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay;
Viewed the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumbered o'er his tattered book,
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o'er the lessened tide:-
At midnight now the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun
Through heavy vapours dank 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 flercest 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 his 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 path, 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 stiffened swain:
His 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:

*The Scottish harvest-home.

But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Called 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 chastened by their grief,
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou of late were doomed to twine,-
Just when thy bridal hour was by,-
The cypress with the myrtle tie;
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And blessed 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,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
"The widow's shield, the orphan's stay."
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deeni
My verse intrudes on this sad theme;
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
"Thy father's friend forgot thou not:"
And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:--
'Tis little-but 'tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;
When doing nought,-and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do.-
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And desultory, as our way,

Ranged unconfined from grave to gay.
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely labouring to portray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray;
I spelling o'er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, yeleped the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other's motions viewed,
And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the clouds;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the whitethorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossomed bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,
When winter stript the summer's bowers;
Careless we heard, what now I hear,

'The wild blast sighing deep and drear.

When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul

Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl.
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer missed, bewailed the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved R
And one whose name I may not say,

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sung shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And, with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came, and free of heart;
But soon their mood was changed:
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarranged.
Some clamoured loud for armour lost;
Some brawled and wrangled with the host;
"By Becket's bones," cried one," I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!"-
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,—
"Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:

To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he loves so well?"
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on the straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,
"What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lanthorn-led by Friar Rush."†

And, as the charge he cast and paid,
Ill thou deserv'st thy hire," he said;
Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight ?
Fairies have ridden hin all the night,

And left him in a foam!

I trust, that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their inferna. nome;

For, in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro."-
The laughing host looked on the hire,-
"Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com'st amoi g the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest.
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'

Here stayed their talk,-for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journeyed all the morning day,

IV.

The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill;
There narrower closed, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches inade.
"A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said;
"Such as where errant knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry;

Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound and looks aghast ;-
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed."
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind;
Perchance to show his lore designed;

For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome

Therefore he spoke,-but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answered nought again,

Of Caxton or De Worde.

V.

Now sudden distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasped his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know,
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band,
Some opener ground to gain:
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees, receding, showed
A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade,
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang So late the forest echoes rang;

On prancing steeds they forward pressed,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest.

Each at his trump a banner wore
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore;
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmont, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a king-at-arms,

Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quelled,
When wildest its alarms.