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:
Strict 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 Marchmount 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 (5) crowns the bank;
For there the Lion's care assign'd

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 totter'd 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, Quarter'd 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 notes, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair.

Still rises unimpair'd, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore
Where oft whilom 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 show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet it was 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,
Proffer'd the baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword
Had march'd that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,(6)-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.

'T was a brave race, before the name

Of hated Bothwell stain'd 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 marshall'd then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay.

The pit, or prison vault.-See Note.

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

Lard Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,-
Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace.

XIV

It chanced, as fell the second night,
That on the battlement they walk'd,
And, by the slowly fading light,
On varying topics talk'd;
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: (7)

And, closer question'd, thus he told
A tale which chronicles of old

In Scottish story have enroll'd:

XV.

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE.

Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling,

la 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' (8) 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. (9)
Woe to the traitors who could bring
The princely boy against his king!
Stial in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,

King James's June is ever spent.

I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sun-beams fell,
Through the stain'd casement gleaming;
But, while I mark'd what next befel,

It seem'd as I were dreaming.
Stepp'd 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,

Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the saint
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,—
The loved Apostle John.

XVII.

« He stepp'd before the monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there,

And little reverence made;

Nor head nor body bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,

And words like these he said,

In a low voice,-but never tone

So thrill'd 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 warn'd, beware:
God keep thee as he may !'

The wondering monarch seem'd 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 vanish'd from our eyes,

Like sun-beam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.»-

XVIII.

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

He mark'd 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 super-human 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 seem'd to wish his words unsaid: But, by that strong emotion press'd, Which prompts us to unload our breast, Ev'n 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 couch'd my head:
Fantastic thoughts return'd;

And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burn'd.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I pass'd 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 listen'd, 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 mix'd affray, And ever, I myself may say,

Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem'd starting from the gulf below,-
I 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 couch 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 roll'd 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 like what I saw !

Full on his face the moon-beam strook,-
A face could never be mistook!

I knew the stern viudictive 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 St George I pray'd
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid),
He plunged it in the sheath;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem'd to vanish from my sight:
The moon-beam droop'd, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.-

'T were long to tell what cause I have
To know his face that met me there,
Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air;
Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.»>—

XXII.

Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learn'd 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 train'd him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.

«And such a phantom too, 't is said,
With Highland broadsword, targe and plaid,
And fingers red with gore,

Is seen in Rothiemurchus' glade,
Or where the sable pine-trees shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.1
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, host, 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 turn'd him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then press'd 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.

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 me 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 pass'd the glen and scanty rill,
And climb'd the opposing bank, until
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill.

See the traditions concerning Bulmer, and the spectre call Lham-deurg, or Bloody-hand, in Note 5 on Cauto III.

XXIV.

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

While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,

St 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.

Bat different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Black ford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below, (10)
Upland, and dale, and down:

A thousand, did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That chequer'd 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.

Ill-omen'd gift! the Guns remain

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII.

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
Various in shape, device, and hue,

Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol,' there
O'er the pavilions flew. (11)
Highest and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide:

The staff a pine-tree strong and straight,
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
Whene'er the western wind uoroll'd,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold. (12)

XXIX.

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,-
He view'd it with a chief's delight,-
Until within him burn'd his heart,
And lightning from his did
eye part,
As on the battle-day;

Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.
«Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said,
Thy king from warfare to dissuade

Were but a vain essay;

For, by St George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine,

Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
In glorious battle-fray!»--
Answer d the bard, of milder mood:
«Fair is the sight,-and yet 't were good,
That kings would think withal,

When peace and wealth their land has bless'd, "T is better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall. »——

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,
For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,

The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,

Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different rank of those entitled to display them.

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And, as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-bay, and Berwick Law;
And, broad between them roll'd,
The gallant Frith the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float

Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,

The

spur he to his charger lent, And raised his bridle-hand,

And, making demi-volte in air,

Cried, Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!»

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
the mountain come;
Did up

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,
Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,

And thus the Lindesay spoke :

« Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The king to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to St Catherine's of Sienne,
Or chapel of St Rocque.

То you they speak of martial fame;
But me remind of peaceful game,

When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland woods the air,
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfall of the deer.

God is the guider of the field,

He breaks the champion's spear and shield,-
But thou thyself shalt say,

When joins yon host in deadly stowre,
That England's dames must weep in bower,
Her monks the death-mass sing;
For never saw'st thou such a power
Led on by such a king.»—
And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain,

And there they make a stay.—
There stays the minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing
Of Scotland's ancient court and king,
In the succeeding lay.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO V.

TO

GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.

WHEN dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away;

Edinburgh.

When short and scant the sun-beam throws, Upon the weary waste of snows,

A cold and profitless regard,

Like patron on a needy bard;
When sylvan occupation's done,
And o'er the chimney rests the gun,
And hang, in idle trophy, near,

The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear;
When wiry terrier, rough and grim,

And greyhound, with his length of limb,
And pointer, now employ'd no more,
Cumber our parlour's narrow floor;
When in his stall the impatient steed
Is long condemn'd to rest and feed;
When from our snow-encircled home,
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam,
Since path is none, save that to bring
The needful water from the spring;

When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er,
Beguiles the dreary hour no more,
And darkling politician, cross'd,
Inveighs against the lingering post,
And answering housewife sore complains
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains:
When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleased, to seek our city home;
For converse, and for books to change
The Forest's melancholy range,
And welcome, with renew'd delight,
The busy day, and social night.

Not here need my desponding rhyme
Lament the ravages of time,

As erst by Newark's riven towers,
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers.1
True,-Caledonia's Queen is changed, (1)
Since, on her dusky summit ranged,

See Introduction to Canto U.