His helm hung at the saddle-bow; Well by his visage you might know And had in many a battle been ; The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd A token true of Bosworth field; His eye-brow dark, and eye of fire, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, His square-turn'd joints, and strength of limb, But, in close fight, a champion grim, In camps, a leader sage. VOL. VI. VI. Well was he arm'd from head to heel, In mail, and plate, of Milan steel; But his strong helm, of mighty cost, Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd; A falcon hover'd on her nest, With wings outspread, and forward breast; E'en such a falcon, on his shield, Soar'd sable in an azure field: The golden legend bore aright, Who checks at me, to death is dight. Blue was the charger's broider'd rein; Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane; The knightly housing's ample fold Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. VII. Behind him rode two gallant squires, Of noble name, and knightly sires; They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim; For well could each a war-horse tame, Could draw the bow, the sword could sway, And lightly bear the ring away; Nor less with courteous precepts stored, Could dance in hall, and carve at board, And sing them to a lady fair. VIII. Four men-at-arms came at their backs, With halbert, bill, and battle-axe: They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, And led his sumpter-mules along, And ambling palfrey, when at need Him listed ease his battle-steed. The last, and trustiest of the four, On high his forky pennon bore; Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue, Where, blazon'd sable, as before, The towering falcon seem'd to soar. Attended on their lord's behest. Each, chosen for an archer good, Each one a six-foot bow could bend, Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, Shew'd they had march'd a weary way. IX. "Tis meet that I should tell you now, How fairly arm'd, and order'd how, The soldiers of the guard, 1 With musket, pike, and morion, To welcome noble Marmion, Stood in the Castle-yard; Minstrels and trumpeters were there, Enter'd the train, and such a clang, As then through all his turrets rang, Old Norham never heard. X. The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, The trumpets flourish'd brave, The cannon from the ramparts glanced, And thundering welcome gave. A blithe salute, in martial sort, The minstrels well might sound, For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, He scatter'd angels round. |