IV. Their's was the glee of martial breast, And laughter their's at little jest; And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made : For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art To win the soldier's hardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine, and minstrelsy; Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady's bower: Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India's fires to Zembla's frost. V. Resting upon his pilgrim staff, Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer's visage fell. VI. By fits less frequent from the crowd All gazed at length in silence drear, Thus whispered forth his mind : "Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, Whene'er the fire-brand's fickle light Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our Lord he sets his eye; Endure that sullen scowl." VII. But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw The ever-varying fire-light shew That figure stern, and face of woe, Now called upon a squire: "Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away? We slumber by the fire." VIII. "So please you," thus the youth rejoined, "Our choicest minstrel's left behind. Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, Detains from us his melody, Lavished on rocks, and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarn. Now must I venture, as I may, To sing his favourite roundelay." IX. A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On lowland plains, the ripened ear. As it came softened up the hill, And deemed it the lament of men Who languished for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, Recalled fair Scotland's hills again! X. Song. Where shall the lover rest, Whom the Fates sever, From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever? |