Drove the monks forth of Coventry,'
Bid him his fate explore!
Prancing in pride of earthly trust,
His charger hurl'd him to the dust,
And, by a base plebeian thrust,
He died his band before.
God judge 'twixt Marmion and me;
He is a Chief of high degree,
And I a poor recluse:
Yet oft, in holy writ, we see
Even such weak minister as me
May the oppressor bruise:
For thus, inspired, did Judith slay
The mighty in his sin,
And Jael thus, and Deborah"-
Here hasty Blount broke in:
"Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;
St. Anton fire thee! wilt thou stand
All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
To hear the Lady preach?
By this good light! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, d'on thy cap, and mount thy horse; The Dame must patience take perforce."
"Submit we then to force," said Clare,
But let this barbarous lord despair
His purposed aim to win;
Let him take living, land, and life;
But to be Marmion's wedded wife
In me were deadly sin:
And if it be the King's decree,
That I must find no sanctuary,
In that inviolable dome,"
Where even a homicide might come,
And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,
The kinsmen of the dead; Yet one asylum is my own Against the dreaded hour;
A low, a silent, and a lone,
Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there.
1 See Appendix, Note 4 B.
* This line, necessary to the rhyme, is now for the first time restored from the MS. It must have been omitted by an oversight in the original printing.-ED.
3 For the origin of Marmion's visit to Tantallon Castle, in the Poem, see Life of Scott, vol. iii. p. 17.
"During the regency (subsequent to the death of James V.) the Dowager Queen Regent, Mary of Guise, became desirous of putting a French garrison into Tantallon, as she had into Dunbar and Inchkeith, in order the better to bridle the lords and barons, who inclined to the reformed faith, and to secure by citadels the sea-coast of the Frith of Forth. For this purpose, the Regent, to use the phrase of the time, dealed
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer
Remember your unhappy Clare!"
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows
Kind blessings many a one:
Weeping and wailing loud arose,
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes
Of every simple nun.
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried,
And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.
Then took the squire her rein,
And gently led away her steed,
And, by each courteous word and deed,
To cheer her strove in vain.
But scant three miles the band had rode,
When o'er a height they pass'd,
And, sudden, close before them show'd
His towers, Tantallon vast;
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,
And held impregnable in war.
On a projecting rock they rose,
And round three sides the ocean flows,
The fourth did battled walls enclose,
And double mound and fosse.1
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,
Through studded gates, an entrance long,
To the main court they cross.
It was a wide and stately square:
Around were lodgings, fit and fair,
And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky,
Whence oft the Warder could descry
The gathering ocean-storm.
Here did they rest. The princely care
Of Douglas, why should I declare,
Or say they met reception fair?
Or why the tidings say,
Which, varying, to Tantallon came,
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame,
With ever-varying day?
with the (then) Earl of Angus for his consent to the proposes measure. He occupied himself, while she was speaking, 18 feeding a falcon which sat upon his wrist, and only replied by addressing the bird, but leaving the Queen to make the appli cation, The devil is in this greedy gled-she will never be fou. But when the Queen, without appearing to notice this hint, continued to press her obnoxious request, Angus replied, in the true spirit of a feudal noble, Yes, Madam, the castle is yours: God forbid else. But by the might of God, Madam !' such was his usual oath, I must be your Captain and Keeper for you, and I will keep it as well as any you can place there.'"'SIR WALTER SCOTT's Miscellaneous Prosa Works, vol, vii. p. 436.
And, first they heard King James had won
Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,
That Norham Castle strong was ta'en.
At that sore marvell'd Marmion;
And Douglas hoped his Monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland:
But whisper'd news there came,
That, while his host inactive lay,
And melted by degrees away,
King James was dallying off the day
With. Heron's wily dame.
Such acts to Chronicles I yield;
Go seek them there, and see; Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,
And not a history.—
At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their post,
Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain;
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gather'd in the Southern land,
And march'd into Northumberland,
And camp at Wooler ta'en.
Marmion, like charger in the stall,
That hears, without, the trumpet-call,
Began to chafe, and swear:-
"A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
When such a field is near!
Needs must I see this battle-day:
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away!
The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath bated of his courtesy:
No longer in his halls I'll stay."
Then bade his band they should array
For march against the dawning day.
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall;
They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw'd rib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen'd all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in phrensy, would they hie,
While wildly-loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 25
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night;
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holy green; ·
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the misletoe.
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside, 40
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.
The vulgar game of "post and pair." All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.
1 Mertoun-House, the seat of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden,
s beautifully situated on the Tweed, about two miles below Dryburgh Abbey.
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
The banish'd race of kings revered, And lost his land,—but kept his beard.
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green garb'd ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.1
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roar'd, with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;2
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted checks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when •
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
"Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
"Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambel oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
Still linger, in our northern clime,
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our valleys here,
We hold the kindred title dear,
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim
To Southron ear sounds empty name;
For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.
And thus, my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard, and flaxen hair,^
And reverend apostolic air-
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,
And honest mirth with thoughts divine:
Small thought was his, in after time
1 MS." And all the hunting of the boar.
Then round the merry wassel-bowl,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithe did trowl,
And the large sirloin steam'd on high,
Plum-porridge, hare, and savory pie."
2 See Appendix, Note 4 E.
3"Blood is warmer than water,"-a proverb meant to vindicate our family predilections.
4 See Appendix, Note 4 F.
5 MS.- In these fair halls, with merry cheer, Is bid farewell the dying year."
"A lady of noble German descent, born Countess Harriet Bruhl of Martinskirchen, married to H. Scott, Esq. of Harden nov Lord Polwarth), the author's relative and much-valued
In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined;
Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand
Of the fair dame that rules the land."
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loath to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face,
And clips her with a close embrace :—
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,
And as reluctant turn us home.
How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we've known, And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore, Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, "Were pretty fellows in their day;" But time and tide o'er all prevail— On Christmas eve a Christmas taleOf wonder and of war-" Profane! What! leave the lofty Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse's charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjurer and ghost, Goblin and witch!"-Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear: Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore,”
friend almost from infancy."-Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv.
The MS. adds:-"As boasts old Shallow to Sir John.” 8"Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir-a very pretty fellow in his day."-Old Bachelor.
MS. With all his many-languaged lore."
John Leyder M. D., who had been of great service to Sir Walter Scott in the preparation of the Border Minstrelsy, sailed for India in April, 1803, and died at Java in August 1811, before completing his 36th year.
"Scenes sung by him who sings no more!
His brief and bright career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
This may I say:-in realms of death
Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith;
Eneas, upon Thracia's shore,
The ghost of murder'd Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus Bos.
As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks;
Or held, in Rome republican,
The place of common-councilman.
All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look-the peasant see, Bethink him of Glendowerdy,
And shun "the spirit's Blasted Tree.""
The Highlander, whose red claymore
The battle turn'd on Maida's shore,
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,
If ask'd to tell a fairy tale :2
He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring:
Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchémont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amass'd through rapine and through wrong
By the last Lord of Franchémont.
The iron chest is bolted hard,
A huntsman sits, its constant guard;
Around his neck his horn is hung,
His hanger in his belt is slung;
Before his feet his blood-hounds lie:
An 'twere not for his gloomy eye,
Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,
As bugle e'er in brake did sound,
Or ever balloo'd to a hound.
To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged necromantic priest;
It is an hundred years at least,
That loved the light of song to pour:
A distant and a deadly shore
Has LEYDEN's cold remains !"
Lord of the Isles, Canto IV. post.
See a notice of his life in the Author's Miscellaneous Prose Works.
1 See Appendix, Note 4 G.
a Ibid. Note 4 H.
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost nor won.
And oft the Conjurer's words will make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake;
And oft the bands of iron break,
Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb,
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clench'd the spell,
When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure cell.
An hundred years are pass'd and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven," That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning;7 May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. But why such instances to you, Who, in an instant, can renew
Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes
rest
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest,
While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use;
Give them the priest's whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;
Yet who of all who thus employ them,
Can like the owner's self enjoy them?-
But, hark! I hear the distant drum!
The day of Flodden Field is come.-
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health,
And store of literary wealth.
This paragraph appears interpolated on the blank page of the MS.
4 MS." Which, high in air, like eagle's nest,
Hang from the dizzy mountain's breast."
See Appendix, Note 4 I.
Ibid. Note 3 B.
7 Ibid. Note 4 A. The four lines which follow are not in the MS.
WHILE great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanor, changed and cold,
Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuff'd the battle from afar;
And hopes were none, that back again,
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England's King in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day;
Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare
Did in the Dame's devotions share:
For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd
To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid,
And, with short interval, did pass
From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high Baronial pride,-
A life both dull and dignified;
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repell'd the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.
Above the rest, a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the Field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,'
Which, mounted, gave you access where
A parapet's embattled row
Did seaward round the castle go.
Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,
Sometimes in platform broad extending,
Its varying circle did combine
MS.-"The tower contain'd a narrow stair, And gave an open access where."
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line,
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign;
Above the booming ocean leant
The far-projecting battlement;
The billows burst, in ceaseless flow,
Upon the precipice below.
Where'er Tantallon faced the land,
Gate-works, and walls, were strongly mann'd;
No need upon the sea-girt side;
The steepy rock, and frantic tide,
Approach of human step denied;
And thus these lines and ramparts rude,
Were left in deepest solitude.
And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,
And list the sea-bird's cry;
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide
Along the dark-gray bulwark's side,
And ever on the heaving tide
Look down with weary eye.
Oft did the cliff and swelling main,
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,-
A home she ne'er might see again;
For she had laid adown,
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil,
And frontlet of the cloister pale,
And Benedictine gown:
It were unseemly sight, he said,
A novice out of convent shade.-
Now her bright locks, with sunny glow,
Again adorn'd her brow of snow;
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,
A deep and fretted broidery bound,
In golden foldings sought the ground;
Of holy ornament, alone
Remain'd a cross with ruby stone;
And often did she look
On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er,
In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been
To meet a form so richly dress'd,'
With book in hand, and cross on breast,
And such a woeful mien.
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practice on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,
And did by Mary swear,-
Some love-lorn Fay she might have been,
Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen;
MS.-"To meet a form so fair, and dress'd
In antiqne robes, with price on breast."
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