Marmion

by Walter Scott

  Inscribe above his mouldering clay,

  ‘The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.’

  Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem

  My verse intrudes on this sad theme;

  for sacred was the pen that wrote,

  ‘Thy father’s friend forget thou not:’

  And grateful title may I plead,

  For many a kindly word and deed,

  To bring my tribute to his grave:-

  ‘Tis little-but ‘tis all I have.

  To thee, perchance, this rambling strain

  Recalls our summer walks again;

  When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,

  Not anxious to find aught to do,-

  The wild unbounded hills we ranged,

  While oft our talk its topic changed,

  And, desultory as our way,

  Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

  Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,

  No effort made to break its trance,

  We could right pleasantly pursue

  Our sports in social silence too;

  Thou gravely labouring to pourtray

  The blighted oak’s fantastic spray;

  I spelling o’er, with much delight,

  The legend of that antique knight,

  Tirante by name, yclep’d the White.

  At either’s feet a trusty squire,

  Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

  Jealous, each other’s motions view’d,

  And scarce suppress’d their ancient feud.

  The laverock whistled from the cloud;

  The stream was lively, but not loud;

  From the white thorn the May-flower shed

  Its dewy fragrance round our head:

  Not Ariel lived more merrily

  Under the blossom’d bough, than we.

  And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,

  When Winter stript the summer’s bowers.

  Careless we heard, what now I hear,

  The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

  When fires were bright, and lamps beam’d gay,

  And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

  And he was held a laggard soul,

  Who shunn’d to quaff the sparkling bowl.

  Then he, whose absence we deplore,

  Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,

  The longer miss’d, bewail’d the more;

  And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-,

  And one whose name I may not say,-

  For not Mimosa’s tender tree

  Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-

  In merry chorus well combined,

  With laughter drown’d the whistling wind.

  Mirth was within; and care without

  Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

  Not but amid the buxom scene

  Some grave discourse might intervene-

  Of the good horse that bore him best,

  His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:

  For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,

  Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

  Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game

  Of manhood be more sober tame,

  And though the field-day, or the drill,

  Seem less important now-yet still

  Such may we hope to share again.

  The sprightly thought inspires my strain!

  And mark, how, like a horseman true,

  Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew.

  CANTO FOURTH.

  THE CAMP.

  I.

  Eustace, I said, did blithely mark

  The first notes of the merry lark.

  The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,

  And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,

  And with their light and lively call,

  Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

  Whistling they came, and free of heart,

  But soon their mood was changed;

  Complaint was heard on every part,

  Of something disarranged.

  Some clamour’d loud for armour lost;

  Some brawl’d and wrangled with the host;

  ‘By Becket’s bones,’ cried one, ‘I fear,

  That some false Scot has stolen my spear!’-

  Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire,

  Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;

  Although the rated horse-boy sware,

  Last night he dress’d him sleek and fair.

  While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

  Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,-

  ‘Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!

  Bevis lies dying in his stall:

  To Marmion who the plight dare tell,

  Of the good steed he loves so well?’-

  Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw

  The charger panting on his straw;

  Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,-

  ‘What else but evil could betide,

  With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

  Better we had through mire and bush

  Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.’

  II.

  Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess’d,

  Nor wholly understood,

  His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppress’d;

  He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.

  Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,

  And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,

  And did his tale display

  Simply, as if he knew of nought

  To cause such disarray.

  Lord Marmion gave attention cold,

  Nor marvell’d at the wonders told,-

  Pass’d them as accidents of course,

  And bade his clarions sound to horse.

  III.

  Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost

  Had reckon’d with their Scottish host;

  And, as the charge he cast and paid,

  ‘Ill thou deservest thy hire,’ he said;

  ‘Dost see, thou knave, my horse’s plight?

  Fairies have ridden him all the night,

  And left him in a foam!

  I trust, that soon a conjuring band,

  With English cross, and blazing brand,

  Shall drive the devils from this land,

  To their infernal home:

  For in this haunted den, I trow,

  All night they trampled to and fro.’-

  The laughing host look’d on the hire,-

  ‘Gramercy, gentle southern squire,

  And if thou comest among the rest,

  With Scottish broadsword to be blest,

  Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,

  And short the pang to undergo.’

  Here stay’d their talk,-for Marmion

  Gave now the signal to set on.

  The Palmer showing forth the way,

  They journey’d all the morning day.

  IV.

  The green-sward way was smooth and good,

  Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood;

  A forest-glade, which, varying still,

  Here gave a view of dale and hill,

  There narrower closed, till over head

  A vaulted screen the branches made.

  ‘A pleasant path,’ Fitz-Eustace said;

  ‘Such as where errant-knights might see

  Adventures of high chivalry;

  Might meet some damsel flying fast,

  With hair unbound, and looks aghast;

  And smooth and level course were here,

  In her defence to break a spear.

  Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;

  And oft, in such, the story tells,

  The damsel kind, from danger freed,

  Did grateful pay her champion’s meed.’

  He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion’s mind;

  Perchance to show his lore design’d;

  For Eustace mu
ch had pored

  Upon a huge romantic tome,

  In the hall-window of his home,

  Imprinted at the antique dome

  Of Caxton, or de Worde.

  Therefore he spoke,-but spoke in vain,

  For Marmion answer’d nought again.

  V.

  Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,

  In notes prolong’d by wood and hill,

  Were heard to echo far;

  Each ready archer grasp’d his bow,

  But by the flourish soon they know,

  They breathed no point of war.

  Yet cautious, as in foeman’s land,

  Lord Marmion’s order speeds the band,

  Some opener ground to gain;

  And scarce a furlong had they rode,

  When thinner trees, receding, show’d

  A little woodland plain.

  Just in that advantageous glade,

  The halting troop a line had made,

  As forth from the opposing shade

  Issued a gallant train.

  VI.

  First came the trumpets, at whose clang

  So late the forest echoes rang;

  On prancing steeds they forward press’d,

  With scarlet mantle, azure vest;

  Each at his trump a banner wore,

  Which Scotland’s royal scutcheon bore:

  Heralds and pursuivants, by name

  Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,

  In painted tabards, proudly showing

  Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,

  Attendant on a King-at-arms,

  Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,

  That feudal strife had often quell’d,

  When wildest its alarms.

  VII.

  He was a man of middle age;

  In aspect manly, grave, and sage,

  As on King’s errand come;

  But in the glances of his eye,

  A penetrating, keen, and sly

  Expression found its home;

  The flash of that satiric rage,

  Which, bursting on the early stage,

  Branded the vices of the age,

  And broke the keys of Rome.

  On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;

  His cap of maintenance was graced

  With the proud heron-plume.

  From his steed’s shoulder, loin, and breast,

  Silk housings swept the ground,

  With Scotland’s arms, device, and crest,

  Embroider’d round and round.

  The double tressure might you see,

  First by Achaius borne,

  The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,

  And gallant unicorn.

  So bright the King’s armorial coat,

  That scarce the dazzled eye could note,

  In living colours, blazon’d brave,

  The Lion, which his title gave;

  A train, which well beseem’d his state,

  But all unarm’d, around him wait.

  Still is thy name in high account,

  And still thy verse has charms,

  Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,

  Lord Lion King-at-arms!

  VIII.

  Down from his horse did Marmion spring,

  Soon as he saw the Lion-King;

  For well the stately Baron knew

  To him such courtesy was due,

  Whom Royal James himself had crown’d,

  And on his temples placed the round

  Of Scotland’s ancient diadem:

  And wet his brow with hallow’d wine,

  And on his finger given to shine

  The emblematic gem.

  Their mutual greetings duly made,

  The Lion thus his message said:-

  ‘Though Scotland’s King hath deeply swore

  Ne’er to knit faith with Henry more,

  And strictly hath forbid resort

  From England to his royal court;

  Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion’s name,

  And honours much his warlike fame,

  My liege hath deem’d it shame, and lack

  Of courtesy, to turn him back;

  And, by his order, I, your guide,

  Must lodging fit and fair provide,

  Till finds King James meet time to see

  The flower of English chivalry.’

  IX.

  Though inly chafed at this delay,

  Lord Marmion bears it as he may.

  The Palmer, his mysterious guide,

  Beholding thus his place supplied,

  Sought to take leave in vain:

  Strict was the Lion-King’s command,

  That none, who rode in Marmion’s band,

  Should sever from the train:

  ‘England has here enow of spies

  In Lady Heron’s witching eyes;’

  To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,

  But fair pretext to Marmion made.

  The right hand path they now decline,

  And trace against the stream the Tyne.

  X.

  At length up that wild dale they wind,

  Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;

  For there the Lion’s care assign’d

  A lodging meet for Marmion’s rank.

  That Castle rises on the steep

  Of the green vale of Tyne:

  And far beneath, where slow they creep,

  From pool to eddy, dark and deep,

  Where alders moist, and willows weep,

  You hear her streams repine.

  The towers in different ages rose;

  Their various architecture shows

  The builders’ various hands;

  A mighty mass, that could oppose,

  When deadliest hatred fired its foes,

  The vengeful Douglas bands.

  XI.

  Crichtoun! though now thy miry court

  But pens the lazy steer and sheep,

  Thy turrets rude, and totter’d Keep,

  Have been the minstrel’s loved resort.

  Oft have I traced, within thy fort,

  Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,

  Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,

  Quarter’d in old armorial sort,

  Remains of rude magnificence.

  Nor wholly yet had time defaced

  Thy lordly gallery fair;

  Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,

  Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,

  Adorn thy ruin’d stair.

  Still rises unimpair’d below,

  The court-yard’s graceful portico;

  Above its cornice, row and row

  Of fair hewn facets richly show

  Their pointed diamond form,

  Though there but houseless cattle go,

  To shield them from the storm.

  And, shuddering, still may we explore,

  Where oft whilom were captives pent,

  The darkness of thy Massy More;

  Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

  May trace, in undulating line,

  The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

  XII.

  Another aspect Crichtoun show’d,

  As through its portal Marmion rode;

  But yet ‘twas melancholy state

  Received him at the outer gate;

  For none were in the Castle then,

  But women, boys, or aged men.

  With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,

  To welcome noble Marmion, came;

  Her son, a stripling twelve years old,

  Proffer’d the Baron’s rein to hold;

  For each man that could draw a sword

  Had march’d that morning with their lord,

  Earl Adam Hepburn,-he who died

  On Flodden, by his sovereign’s side.

  Long may his Lady look in vain!

  She ne’er shall see his gallant train,

  Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-D
ean.

  ‘Twas a brave race, before the name

  Of hated Bothwell stain’d their fame.

  XIII.

  And here two days did Marmion rest,

  With every rite that honour claims,

  Attended as the King’s own guest;-

  Such the command of Royal James,

  Who marshall’d then his land’s array,

  Upon the Borough-moor that lay.

  Perchance he would not foeman’s eye

  Upon his gathering host should pry,

  Till full prepared was every band

  To march against the English land.

  Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit

  Oft cheer the Baron’s moodier fit;

  And, in his turn, he knew to prize

  Lord Marmion’s powerful mind, and wise,-

  Train’d in the lore of Rome and Greece,

  And policies of war and peace.

  XIV.

  It chanced, as fell the second night,

  That on the battlements they walk’d,

  And, by the slowly fading light,

  Of varying topics talk’d;

  And, unaware, the Herald-bard

  Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,

  In travelling so far;

  For that a messenger from heaven

  In vain to James had counsel given