And on the spot where burst the brand,
Just where the Page had flung him down,
Some saw an arm, and some a hand,

And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence prayed and shook,
And terror dimmed each lofty look.
But none of all the astonished train
Was so dismayed as Deloraine;

His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'Twas feared his mind would ne'er return;
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him, of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.*
At length, by fits, he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold-
That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapped around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like pilgrim from beyond the sea;
And knew-but how it mattered not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott.

XXVII.

The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling, heard the wondrous tale;
No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke;

And he a solemn sacred plight
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake
Of Michael's restless sprite.

Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some blessed saint his prayers addressed;
Some to St. Modan made their vows,

Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,

Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle,

Some to Our Lady of the Isle ;

Each did his patron witness make,

That he such pilgrimage would take,

And Monks should sing, and bells should toll,

All for the weal of Michael's soul.

While vows were ta'en, and prayers were prayed, 'Tis said the noble Dame, dismayed, Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid.

XXVIII.

Nought of the bridal will I tell,

Which after in short space befell:

Nor how brave sons and daughters fair

Blessed Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's heir:

After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain

To wake the note of mirth again.

*The Isle of Man.-See Note.

More meet it were to mark the day
Of penitence and prayer divine,
When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array,
Sought Melrose' holy shrine.

XXIX.

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest,
And arms enfolded on his breast,
Did every pilgrim go;

The standers-by might hear uneath,
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath,
Through all the lengthened row:
No lordly look, nor martial stride,
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,
Forgotten their renown;

Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide
To the high altar's hallowed side,

And there they kneeled them down:
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave;
Beneath the lettered stones were laid
The ashes of their fathers dead;
From many a garnished niche around,
Stern saints and tortured martyrs frowned.

And slow up the dim aisle afar,

With sable cowl and scapular,

And snow-white stoles, in order due,

The holy Fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;

Taper, and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner, flourished fair
With the Redeemer's name:
Above the prostrate pilgrim band
The mitred Abbot stretched his hand,
And blessed them as they kneeled;

With holy cross he signed them all,
And prayed they might be sage in hall,
And fortunate in field.

Then mass was sung, and prayers were said,

And solemn requiem for the dead;

And bells tolled out their mighty peal,

For the departed spirit's weal;

And ever in the office close

The hymn of intercession rose;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song,-

DIES IRE, DIES ILLA,

SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA ;
While the pealing organ rung;
Were it meet with sacred strain
To close my lay, so light and vain,
Thus the holy Fathers sung.

XXXI.

Hymn for the Dead.

That day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
What power shall be the sinner's stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

HUSHED is the harp-the Minstrel gone.
And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage?
No-close beneath proud Newark's tower,
Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower;
A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze,
Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begged before.
So passed the winter's day; but still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;
When throstles sung in Hare-head shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak,
The aged Harper's soul awoke !
Then would he sing achievements high,
And circumstance of chivalry,
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day;

And noble youths, the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he rolled along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.

MARMION;

A

TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD.

A Poem.

IN SIX CANTOS.

Alas! that Scottish Mald should sing

The combat where her lover fell!

That Scottish Bard should wake the string,
The triumph of our foes to tell!

LEYDEN.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY, LORD MONTAGU,

&c., &c., &c.

THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION, 1808.

It is hardly to be expected, that an Author, whom the Public have honoured with some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the Author of MARMION must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first Poem may have procured him. The present Story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for the manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any historical narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity of THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Public.

The poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of Flodden, 9th September 1513.