XXXIII

But scant three miles the band had rode,
When o'er a height they passed,
And, sudden, close before them showed
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. 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.

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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 marvelled Marmion,
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland;
But whispered 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 gathered in the Southern land, And marched into Northumberland, And camp at Wooler ta'en.

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ΙΟΙΟ

1020

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.

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1030

Mertoun House, Christmas

-

HEAP on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer: 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 decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer, Caroused in seas of sable beer, While round in brutal jest were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrowbone, Or listened all in grim delight

While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy 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.

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That only night in all the year

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merrymen go,
To gather in the mistletoe.

Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of 'post and pair.'
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

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The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50 Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, 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;

Then the grim boar's - head frowned on high,

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Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where, the monster fell,
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared 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;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoras half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'T was Christmas broached the mightiest
ale,

'T was Christmas told the merriest tale;

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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.

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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 pilfered 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.

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CANTO SIXTH

THE BATTLE

I

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 snuffed 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, —
While these things were, the mournful
Clare

Did in the dame's devotions share;
For the good countess ceaseless prayed
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 pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear

The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

II

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,

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40

Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gateworks and walls were strongly manned;

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.

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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 bulwarks' 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 adorned 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.

Remained a cross with ruby stone;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound and broidered o'er,

Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale or twilight dim,

-

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It fearful would have been
To meet a form so richly dressed,
With book in hand, and cross on breast, 90
And such a woful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her at distance gliding slow,

And did by Mary swear

Some lovelorn fay she might have been, Or in romance some spell-bound queen,