Austin,-Remember'st thou, my Clare, How thou didst blush, when the old man, When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless

pair?

Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor's bed,—
He only held my burning head,
And tended me for many a day,
While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care,
When sense return'd to wake despair;
For I did tear the closing wound,
And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.
At length, to calmer reason brought,
Much by his kind attendance wrought,
With him I left my native strand,
And, in a Palmer's weeds array'd,
My hated name and form to shade,
I journey'd many a land;
No more a lord of rank and birth,
But mingled with the dregs of earth.

Oft Austin for my reason fear'd,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes uprear'd.
My friend at length fell sick, and said,
God would remove him soon:
And, while upon his dying bed,

He begg'd of me a boonIf e'er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII.

"Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta'en,
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish'd of my wound,-

None cared which tale was true:
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass.
A chance most wondrous did provide,
That I should be that Baron's guide-
I will not name his name !-

"A word of vulgar augury,
That broke from me, I scarce knew why.
Brought on a village tale;
Which wrought upon his moody sprite.
And sent him armed forth by night.
I borrow'd steed and mail,
And weapons, from his sleeping band:
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and counter'd hand to hand,-
He fell on Gifford moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew
(O then my helmed head he knew,

The Palmer's cowl was gone,) Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid,My hand the thought of Austin staid; I left him there alone.

O good old man! even from the gra
Thy spirit could thy master save:
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear,
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton's name.-
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,

That broke our secret speech-
It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle play'd,

A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best.
When my name came among the res.

IX.

"Now here, within Tantallon Holi,
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom my house was known of es
Won by my proofs, his falchion brig
This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did t
The tide of fight on Otterburne,

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the Dead Douglas won the field.
These Angus gave-his armourer's care,
Ere morn, shall every breach repair;
For nought, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-hair'd

men;

The rest were all in Twisel glen.
And now I watch my armour here,
By law of arms, till midnight's near;
Then, once again a belted knight,
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light.

X.

"There soon again we meet, my Clare!
This Baron means to guide thee there:
Douglas reveres his King's command,
Else would he take thee from his band.
And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too,
Will give De Wilton justice due.
Now meeter far for martial broil,
Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil,
Once more". "O Wilton! must we

then

Risk new-found happiness again,
Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not an humble glen,

Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid

Thy task on dale and moor? That reddening brow!-too well I know, Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, While falsehood stains thy name: Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go! Clare can a warrior's feelings know, And weep a warrior's shame; Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, And belt thee with thy brand of steel, And send thee forth to fame!”

XI.

That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, And pour'd its silver light, and pure, Through loop-hole, and through embra

zure,

Upon Tantallon tower and hall;

But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel's pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was their need; though seam'd
with scars,

Two veterans of the Douglas' wars,

Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry The chapel's carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, Chequering the silvery moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.
Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful eye
But little pride of prelacy;

More pleased that, in a barbarous age,
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doff'd his furr'd gown, and sable hood:
O'er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;
And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seem'd as, from the tombs around
Rising at judgment-day,

Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old array;

So pale his face, so huge his limb,
So old his arms, his look so grim.

XII.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt,
At buckling of the falchion belt !

And judge how Clara changed her hue,
While fastening to her lover's side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
He once had found untrue!
Then Douglas struck him with his blade:
"Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,

I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir!
For King, for Church, for Lady fair,
See that thou fight."—

And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said "Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace, and trouble;

For He, who honour best bestows,

May give thee double."

De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must"Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust

That Douglas is my brother!""Nay, nay," old Angus said, "not so; To Surrey's camp thou now must go, Thy wrongs no longer smother. I have two sons in yonder field; And, if thou meet'st them under shield, Upon them bravely-do thy worst; And foul fall him that blenches first!"

XIII.

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the Royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whisper'd in an under tone, "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu :— "Though something I might plain,” he said,

"Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall

still

Be open, at my Sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my King's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone-
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."-

XIV.

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire,

And-"This to me!" he said,"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He, who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou 'rt defied! And if thou said'st, I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !"-
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth,-" And dares
thou then

To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?

And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?

No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms-what, War der, ho!

Let the portcullis fall."— Lord Marmion turn'd,-well was h need,

And dash'd the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous grate behind him rung To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

XV.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reach'd hi
band,

He halts, and turns with clenched han
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cred
"and chase!"

But soon he rein'd his fury's pace:

"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.—
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line:
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.-
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him too," he cried:
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

XVI.

The day in Marmion's journey wore; Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, They cross'd the heights of Stanrig

moor.

His troop more closely there he scann'd,
And miss'd the Palmer from the band.-
"Palmer or not," young Blount did say,
He parted at the peep of day;
Good sooth, it was in strange array."
"In what array?" said Marmion, quick.
"My Lord, I ill can spell the trick;
But all night long, with clink and bang,
Close to my couch did hammers clang;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,
And from a loop-hole while I peep,
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep,
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair,
As fearful of the morning air;
Beneath, when that was blown aside,
A rusty shirt of mail I spied,
By Archibald won in bloody work,
Against the Saracen and Turk :
Last night it hung not in the hall;
I thought some marvel would befall,
And next I saw them saddled lead
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed;
A matchless horse, though something old,
Prompt in his paces, cool and bold.
I heard the Sheriff Sholto say,
The Earl did much the Master pray
To use him on the battle-day ;

But he preferr'd"—"Nay, Henry,

cease!

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.

Eustace, thou bear'st a brain-I pray What did Blount see at break of day?"

XVII.

"In brief, my lord, we both descried (For then I stood by Henry's side) The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,

Upon the Earl's own favourite steed: All sheathed he was in armour bright, And much resembled that same knight, Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:

Lord Angus wish'd him speed.". The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, A sudden light on Marmion broke ;"Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!" He mutter'd; "'Twas nor fay nor ghost I met upon the moonlight wold, But living man of earthly mould.O dotage blind and gross! Had I but fought as wont, one thrust Had laid De Wilton in the dust,

My path no more to cross.How stand we now?-he told his tale To Douglas; and with some avail; 'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged brow.

Will Surrey dare to entertain, 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and

vain?

Small risk of that, I trow. Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun; Must separate Constance from the NunO, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive! A Palmer too!-no wonder why I felt rebuked beneath his eye:

I might have known there was but one, Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." XVIII.

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed

His troop, and reach'd, at eve, the Tweed, Where Lennel's convent closed their

march;

(There now is left but one frail arch,

Yet mourn thou not its cells; Our time a fair exchange has made; Hard by, in hospitable shade,

A reverend pilgrim dwells, Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there Give Marmion entertainment fair, And lodging for his train and Clare. Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, To view afar the Scottish power,

Encamp'd on Flodden edge: The white pavilions made a show, Like remnants of the winter snow, Along the dusky ridge.

Long Marmion look'd:—at length his eye Unusual movement might descry

Amid the shifting lines:

The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the hedge of spears

The eastern sunbeam shines.
Their front now deepening, now extend-

ing;

Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, Now drawing back, and now descending, The skilful Marmion well could know, They watch'd the motions of some foe, Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX.

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge The Scots beheld the English host Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,

And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd

The Till by Twisel Bridge.

High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile;
Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
In slow succession still,

And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to many a trumpet clang,
Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang;

And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we ser
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom
To give the marching columns room.

XX.

And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's souther strand,

His host Lord Surrey lead? What 'vails the vain knight-errant' brand?

O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight
And cry-"Saint Andrew and our right"
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate's dark book a leaf been tom
And Flodden had been Bannock-
bourne !-

The precious hour has pass'd in vain,
And England's host has gain'd the plain.
Wheeling their march, and circling stil
Around the base of Flodden hill.

XXI.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,
"Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come

Between Tweed's river and the hill, Foot, horse, and cannon:-hap what hig My basnet to a prentice cap.

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!— Yet more! yet more !-how far array They file from out the hawthorn shade And sweep so gallant by !

With all their banners bravely spread.

And all their armour flashing high, Saint George might waken from the dead To see fair England's standards fly."