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We saw the victor win the crest
He wears with worthy pride ; And on the gibbet-tree, reversed,
His foeman's scutcheon tied. Place, nobles, for the Falcon-knight!
Room, room, you gentles gay, For him who conquer'd in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye !»
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
Or saddle battle-steed;
The slender silk to lead :
His bosom when he sigha,
Could scarce repel its pride!
To serve in lady's bower?
He roll'd his kindling. eye,
Yet made a calm reply:
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
And Captain of the Hold: (11) He led Lord Marmion to the deas,
Raised o'er the pavement high, And placed him in the upper place
They feasted full and high : The whiles a northern harper rude Chaunted a rhyme of deadly feud, « How the fierce Thirlwalls, and Ridleys all, (12)
And Hardriding Dick,
The harper's barbarous lay; -
And well those pains did pay:
« Of your fair courtesy,
In this poor tower with me.
May breathe your war-horse well;
Or feat of arms befel:
And love to couch a spear;
That have such neighbours near.
Our northern wars to learn;
And gave a squire the sign;
And crown'd it high with wine.
But first, I pray thee fair,
Whose beauty was so rare?
The boy I closely eyed,
With tears he fain would hide :
Careless the knight replied,
Delights in cage to bide:
And many a darksome tower;
In fair Queen Margaret's bower.
Our falcon on our glove;
For dame that loves to rovę?
The rest of this old bellad may be found in the note.
Little he loves such risks, I know;
XIX. « For such like need, my lord, I trow, Norham can find you guides enow; For here be some have prick'd as far, On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar; Ilave drunk the monks of St Bothan's ale, And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, And given them light to set their hoods.» (14)
XXII. Young Selby, at the fair hall-board Carved to his uncle and that lord, And reverently took up the word. « Kind uncle, woe were we each one, If barm should hap to brother Joho. He is a man of mirthful speech, Can many a game and gambol teach : Full well at tables can he play, And sweep, at bowls, the stake away. None can a lustier carol bawl; The needfullest among us all, When time hangs heavy in the hall, And snow comes thick at Christinas tide, And we can neither hunt, nor ride A foray on the Scottislı side. The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude May end in worse than loss of hood. Let Friar John, in safety, still In chimney-corner snore his fill, Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill. Last night to Norliam there came one Will belter guide Lord Marmion.»-
Nephew, » quoth leron, « by my fay, Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say."
XXIII. « Here is a lioly Palmer come, From Salem first, and last from Rome; One that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, And visited each holy shrive In Araby and Palestine; On hills of Armenie hath been, Where Noah's ark may yel be seen; By that Red Sca, loo,, hath he trod, Which parted at the prophet's rod; In Sinai's wilderness he saw The Mount where Israel heard the law, Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, Apd shadows, mists, and darkness, given. He shows St James's cockle-shell, Of fair Mountserrat too can tell;
And of that grot where olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, From all the youth of Sicily,
St Rosalie reuired to God. (16)
XXIV. « To stout St George of Norwich merry, St Thomas, too, of Canterbury, Cuthbert of Durham, and St Bede, For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. He knows the passes of the north, And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth; Little he eats, and long will wake, And drinks but of the stream or lake. This were a guide o'er moor and dale: But, when our John hath quaff d his ale, As little as the wind that blows, And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way
XXV. 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,
With angels fair and good.
With song, romance, or lay:
They bring to cheer the way.»-
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;
eye look'd baggard wild:
She had not known her child.
And blanch at once the hair;
More deeply than despair.
XXVI. « Ah! poble 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 muitering, 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 notFriar 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)
XXIX. Lord armion 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 !»—
On his broad shoulders wrought;(18)
Was from Loretto brought;
Or look'd more high and keen;
As he his peer had been
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 draind 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.
XXXI. With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : And first the chapel doors' unclose; Then, after morning rites were done (A hasty mass from Friar Jobn), And knight and squire had broke their fast, On rich substantial repast, Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse : Then came the stirrupcup in course;
Between the baron and his host
And shook the Scottish shore;
And hid its turrets hoar;
And foresters, in green-wood trim,
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO II.
THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A.
Asbestiel, Ettrick Forest. The scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourish'd once a forest fair, (1) When these waste gleos 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 compeersYon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, sogray and stubboro 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 every dell what birches hung, In every brecze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook !
Of sucb 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 br 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 nots 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.
« Here, in my shade,» methinks he'd
say, « The mighty stay 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,
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;
Nor point, retiring, bides a dell,
From Yair,- which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much be fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil, Iler 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!" 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, capnot, 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.
Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, ia 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.
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. "T is 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; 'Twixt 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 bill's huge outline you may view; Shaggy with beath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, por 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 conceald might lie;
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;(6) 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 haih No longer might my plaid avail, Back to my lonely home retire, And light my lamp, and trim my tire : 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.
1 There is, on a high mountainous range above the farm of Ashestiel. a fosse called Wallace's Trench.