Come listen, then! for thou hast known, And loved the minstrel's varying tone, Who, like his Border sires of old, Waked a wild measure rude and bold, Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, With wonder heard the northern strain. Come, listen!-bold in thy applause, The bard shall scorn pedantic laws, And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, Irregularly traced and plann'd, But yet so glowing and so grand :— So shall he strive, in changeful bue, Field, feast, and combat, to renew, And loves, and arms, and harper's glee, And all the pomp of chivalry.

CANTO V.

THE COURT.

I.

THE train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,

That closed the tented ground;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes as they rode through,
Into its ample bound.

Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the southern band to stare;
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes;

Such length of shafts, such mighty bows,
So huge, that many simply thought,
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;
And little deem'd their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of steel,
When, rattling upon Flodden vale,
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. (5)

II.

Nor less did Marmion's skilful view
Glance every line and squadron through;
And much he marvell'd one small land
Could marshal forth such various band:
For men-at-arms were here,
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,

Like iron towers for strength and weight,

On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
With battle-axe and spear.

Young knights and squires, a lighter train,
Practised their charges on the plain,

By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
Each warlike feat to show;

To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
And high curvett, that not in vain
The sword-sway might descend amain
On foeman's casque below. (6)
He saw the hardy burghers there
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare, (7)
For visor they wore none,

Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
But burnish'd were their corslets bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,

Like

very silver shone.

Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,

And many wielded mace of weight,
And bucklers bright they bore.

III.

On foot the yeoman too, (8) but dress'd
In his steel jack, a swarthy vest,

With iron quilted well;
Each at his back (a slender store),
His forty days' provision bore,

As feudal statutes tell.

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A cross-bow there, a hagbut here,
A dagger knife, and brand.-
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer,
As loth to leave his cottage dear,
And march to foreign strand;

Or musing, who would guide his steer,
To till the fallow land.

Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye

Did aught of dastard terror lie;

More dreadful far his ire,

Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name,
In eager mood to battle came,

Their valour like light straw on flame,
A fierce but fading fire.

IV.

Not so the Borderer:-bred to war,
He knew the battle's din afar,

And joy'd to hear it swell.
His peaceful day was slothful ease;
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,
Like the loud slogan yell.

On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm'd pricker plied his trade,—
Let nobles fight for fame;

Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
But war's the Borderers' game.
Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,

O'er mountain, moss, and moor;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,

Their booty was secure. These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by, Look'd on at first with careless eye,

Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know

The form and force of English bow.
But when they saw the lord array'd
In splendid arms, and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said,-

« Hist, Ringan! seest thou there?

Canst guess which road they'll homeward ride?O! could we but on Border side,

By Eusedale glen, or Liddel's tide,

Beset a prize so fair!

That fangless Lion, too, their guide,

Might chance to lose his glistering hide;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied,
Could make a kirtle rare.»>

V.

Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race-
Of different language, form, and face,
A various race of man;

Just then the chiefs their tribes array'd,
And wild and garish semblance made,
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid;
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd,
To every varying clan;

Wild through their red or sable hair
Look'd out their eyes, with savage stare,
On Marmion as he past;

Their legs above the knee were bare;
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
And harden'd to the blast;

Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle's plumage known.
The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied;
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head;
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid;
A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge and strength,
A studded targe they wore,

And quivers, bows, and shafts,-but, O!
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore.

The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.

They raised a wild and wondering cry,

As with his guide rode Marmion by.

Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen;
And, with their cries discordant mix'd,
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt.

Old Holyrood rung merrily,

That night, with wassel, mirth, and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power,
Summon'd to spend the parting hour;
For he had charged, that his array
Should southward march by break of day.
Well loved that splendid monarch aye
The banquet and the song,

By day the tourney, and by night
The merry dance, traced fast and light,
The masquers quaint, the pageant bright,
The revel loud and long.

This feast outshone his banquets past;
It was his blithest,-and his last.
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,
Cast on the court a dancing ray;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;
There ladies touch'd a softer string;
With long-car'd cap, and motley vest,
The licensed fool retail'd his jest ;
His magic tricks the juggler plied;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;
While
in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,
Nor courted them in vain;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious love asserts his power
O'er coldness and disdain;
And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true-
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.

some,

VIII.

Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game,
The king to greet Lord Marmion came,
While, reverent, all made room.

An easy task it was, I trow,
King James's manly form to know,

Following-Feudal retainers.

Although, his courtesy to show,

He doff'd, to Marmion bending low,
His broider'd cap and plume.
For royal were his garb and mien,

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
Trimm'd with the fur of marten wild;
Ilis vest of changeful satin sheen,

The dazzled eye beguiled;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,

Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown;
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright;
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was button'd with a ruby rare:

And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen
A prince of such a noble mien.

IX.

The monarch's form was middle size;
For feat of strength, or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair,
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye

His short curl'd beard and hair.

Light was his footstep in the dance,
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, oh! he had that merry glance
That seldom lady's heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue:-
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain;
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

I said he joy'd in banquet-bower;
But, mid his mirth, 't was often strange,
How suddenly his cheer would change,

His look o'ercast and lower,

If, in a sudden turn, he felt
The pressure of his iron belt,

That bound his breast in penance pain,
In memory of his father slain. (10)
Even so 't was strange how evermore,
Soon as the passing pang was o'er,
Forward he rush'd, with double glee,
Into the stream of revelry:
Thus, dim-seen object of affright
Startles the courser in his flight,
And half he halts, half springs aside;
But feels the quickening spur applied,
And, straining on the tighten'd rein,
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.

X.

O'er James's heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway: (11)
To Scotland's court she came,

To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored,
And with the king to make accord,

Had sent his lovely dame.

Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay king allegiance own;

For the fair Queen of France

Sent him a turquois ring, and glove,
And charged him, as her knight and love,
For her to break a lance; (12)

And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on southron land,
And bid the banners of his band

In English breezes dance.

And thus, for France's Queen he drest
His manly limbs in mailed vest;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share;
And thus, for both, he madly plann'd
The ruin of himself and land!

And yet, the sooth to tell,

Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,

From Margaret's eye that fell,

His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI.

The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch's risk in battle broil;-
And in gay Holyrood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er

The strings her fingers flew;
And as she touch'd, and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom's rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;
For all, for heat, was laid aside,
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitel'd her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
And then around the silent ring;
And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by yea and nay,

She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,

A soft, yet lively air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung.

XII.

LOCHINVAR.

LADY HERON'S SONG.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

The monarch o'er the syren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw
A glance, where seem'd to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest, too,

A real or feign'd disdain :
Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.
The king observed their meeting eyes,
With something like displeased surprise;
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment broad,
Which Marmion's high commission show'd :

« Our Borders sack'd by many a raid,
Our peaceful liegemen robb'd,» he said;
« On day of truce our warden slain,
Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'en-
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance ery in vain;
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.»>

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the

pageant view'd: I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, Who coronet of Angus bore,

And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy,

And all his minions led to die

On Lauder's dreary flat: Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; (13) The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddesdale,

Its dungeons, and its towers, Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,

To fix his princely bowers. Though now, in age, he had laid down His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand; Yet often would flash forth the fire, That could, in youth, a monarch's ire And minion's pride withstand; And even that day, at council board,

Unapt to sooth his sovereign's mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal lord. (14)

XV.

His giant-form, like ruin'd tower,

Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt,
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,
Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower:
His locks and beard in silver grew;
His eye-brows kept their sable hue.
Near Douglas when the monarch stood,
His bitter speech he thus pursued:

« Lord Marmion, since these letters say,
That in the north
needs must stay,
you
While slightest hopes of remain,
peace
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
To say,-Return to Lindisfarn,
Until my herald come again.-
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold; (15)
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,-
A chief unlike his sires of old.
He wears their motto on his blade, (16)
Their blazon o'er his tower's display'd;
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country's foes.
And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,

But e'en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first fruits of the war,
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar,
A bevy of the maids of heaven.

Under your guard, these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades,
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say.»>
And, with the slaughter'd favourite's name,
Across the monarch's brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI.

In answer nought could Angus speak;
His proud heart swell'd well nigh to break :
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek

A burning tear there stole.
His hand the monarch sudden took,

That sight his kind heart could not brook;
«Now, by the Bruce's soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live,
As he said of the Douglas old,
I well may say of you,-
That never king did subject hold,
In speech more free, in war more bold,
More tender, and more true;'
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.>>-
And, while the king his hand did strain,
The old man's tears fell down like rain.
To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whisper'd to the king aside:
«Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed!
A child will weep a bramble's smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,
A stripling for a woman's heart:
But woe awaits a country, when
She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye!»-

Laugh those that can, weep those that may,>>

Thus did the fiery monarch say,

« Southward I march by break of day;

And if within Tantallon strong,

fall

The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
Perchance our meeting next may
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.»-
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,
And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt:
«Much honour'd were my humble home,
If in its halls King James should come;
But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Derby hills the paths are steep;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep:
And many a banner will be torn,
And many a knight to earth be borne,
And many a sheaf of arrows spent,

Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent:

Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.»>— The monarch lightly turn'd away,

10, Dowglas: Dowglas!

Tendir and trew.

The Houlate.

Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda's maids befel,
Whose galley, as they sail'd again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en.
Now at Dun-Edin did they hide,
Till James should of their fate decide;
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summon'd, to prepare
To journey under Marmion's care,
As escort honour'd, safe, and fair,
Again to English land.

The abbess told her chaplet o'er,

Nor knew which saint she should implore;
For, when she thought of Constance, sore
She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood.
And judge what Clara must have felt!
The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt,
Had drunk De Wilton's blood.
Unwittingly, King James had given,

As guard to Whitby's shades,
The man most dreaded under heaven
By these defenceless maids;
Yet what petition could avail,
Or who would listen to the tale
Of woman, prisoner, and nun,
Midst bustle of a war begun?
They deem'd it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the king assign'd,
To Marmion's, as their guardian, join'd;
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the abbess' eye,
Who warn'd him by a scroll,
She had a secret to reveal,

That much concern'd the church's weal,
And health of sinner's soul;
And, with deep charge of secrecy,

She named a place to meet,
Within an open balcony,

That hung from dizzy pitch and high,

Above the stately street:

To which, as common to each home,
At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night, in secret, there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.
The moon among the clouds rode high,
And all the city hum was by.
Upon the street, where late before
Did din of war and warriors roar,

You might have heard a pebble fall,

A beetle hum, a cricket sing,

An owlet flap his boding wing
On Giles's steeple tall.

The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant.