Marmion

by Walter Scott

  Against the English war:

  And, closer question’d, thus he told

  A tale, which chronicles of old

  In Scottish story have enroll’d:

  XV.

  Sir David Lindsey’s Tale.

  ‘Of all the palaces so fair,

  Built for the royal dwelling,

  In Scotland, far beyond compare

  Linlithgow is excelling;

  And in its park, in jovial June,

  How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,

  How blithe the blackbird’s lay!

  The wild buck bells from ferny brake,

  The coot dives merry on the lake,

  The saddest heart might pleasure take

  To see all nature gay.

  But June is to our Sovereign dear

  The heaviest month in all the year:

  Too well his cause of grief you know,

  June saw his father’s overthrow.

  Woe to the traitors, who could bring

  The princely boy against his King!

  Still in his conscience burns the sting.

  In offices as strict as Lent,

  King James’s June is ever spent.

  XVI.

  ‘When last this ruthful month was come,

  And in Linlithgow’s holy dome

  The King, as wont, was praying;

  While, for his royal father’s soul,

  The chanters sung, the bells did toll,

  The Bishop mass was saying-

  For now the year brought round again

  The day the luckless King was slain-

  In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,

  With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,

  And eyes with sorrow streaming;

  Around him in their stalls of state,

  The Thistle’s Knight-Companions sate,

  Their banners o’er them beaming.

  I too was there, and, sooth to tell,

  Bedeafen’d with the jangling knell,

  Was watching where the sunbeams fell,

  Through the stain’d casement gleaming;

  But, while I mark’d what next befell,

  It seem’d as I were dreaming.

  Stepp’d from the crowd a ghostly wight,

  In azure gown, with cincture white;

  His forehead bald, his head was bare,

  Down hung at length his yellow hair.-

  Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,

  I pledge to you my knightly word,

  That, when I saw his placid grace,

  His simple majesty of face,

  His solemn bearing, and his pace

  So stately gliding on,-

  Seem’d to me ne’er did limner paint

  So just an image of the Saint,

  Who propp’d the Virgin in her faint,-

  The loved Apostle John!

  XVII.

  ‘He stepp’d before the Monarch’s chair,

  And stood with rustic plainness there,

  And little reverence made;

  Nor head, nor body, bow’d nor bent,

  But on the desk his arm he leant,

  And words like these he said,

  In a low voice,-but never tone

  So thrill’d through vein, and nerve, and bone:-

  “My mother sent me from afar,

  Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-

  Woe waits on thine array;

  If war thou wilt, of woman fair,

  Her witching wiles and wanton snare,

  James Stuart, doubly warn’d, beware:

  God keep thee as He may!”-

  The wondering monarch seem’d to seek

  For answer, and found none;

  And when he raised his head to speak,

  The monitor was gone.

  The Marshal and myself had cast

  To stop him as he outward pass’d;

  But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast,

  He vanish’d from our eyes,

  Like sunbeam on the billow cast,

  That glances but, and dies.’

  XVIII.

  While Lindesay told his marvel strange,

  The twilight was so pale,

  He mark’d not Marmion’s colour change,

  While listening to the tale:

  But, after a suspended pause,

  The Baron spoke:-‘Of Nature’s laws

  So strong I held the force,

  That never superhuman cause

  Could e’er control their course;

  And, three days since, had judged your aim

  Was but to make your guest your game.

  But I have seen, since past the Tweed,

  What much has changed my sceptic creed,

  And made me credit aught.’-He staid,

  And seem’d to wish his words unsaid:

  But, by that strong emotion press’d,

  Which prompts us to unload our breast,

  Even when discovery’s pain,

  To Lindesay did at length unfold

  The tale his village host had told,

  At Gifford, to his train.

  Nought of the Palmer says he there,

  And nought of Constance, or of Clare;

  The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems

  To mention but as feverish dreams.

  XIX.

  ‘In vain,’ said he, ‘to rest I spread

  My burning limbs, and couch’d my head:

  Fantastic thoughts return’d;

  And, by their wild dominion led,

  My heart within me burn’d.

  So sore was the delirious goad,

  I took my steed, and forth I rode,

  And, as the moon shone bright and cold,

  Soon reach’d the camp upon the wold.

  The southern entrance I pass’d through,

  And halted, and my bugle blew.

  Methought an answer met my ear,-

  Yet was the blast so low and drear,

  So hollow, and so faintly blown,

  It might be echo of my own.

  XX.

  ‘Thus judging, for a little space

  I listen’d, ere I left the place;

  But scarce could trust my eyes,

  Nor yet can think they serve me true,

  When sudden in the ring I view,

  In form distinct of shape and hue,

  A mounted champion rise.-

  I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,

  In single fight, and mix’d affray,

  And ever, I myself may say,

  Have borne me as a knight;

  But when this unexpected foe

  Seem’d starting from the gulf below,-

  I care not though the truth I show,-

  I trembled with affright;

  And as I placed in rest my spear,

  My hand so shook for very fear,

  I scarce could couch it right.

  XXI.

  ‘Why need my tongue the issue tell?

  We ran our course,-my charger fell;-

  What could he ‘gainst the shock of hell?

  I roll’d upon the plain.

  High o’er my head, with threatening hand,

  The spectre shook his naked brand,-

  Yet did the worst remain:

  My dazzled eyes I upward cast,-

  Not opening hell itself could blast

  Their sight, like what I saw!

  Full on his face the moonbeam strook!-

  A face could never be mistook!

  I knew the stern vindictive look,

  And held my breath for awe.

  I saw the face of one who, fled

  To foreign climes, has long been dead,-

  I well believe the last;

  For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare

  A human warrior, with a glare

  So grimly and so ghast.

  Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade;

  But when to good Saint George I pray’d,

  (The first tim
e e’er I ask’d his aid),

  He plunged it in the sheath;

  And, on his courser mounting light,

  He seem’d to vanish from my sight:

  The moonbeam droop’d, and deepest night

  Sunk down upon the heath.-

  ‘Twere long to tell what cause I have

  To know his face, that met me there,

  Call’d by his hatred from the grave,

  To cumber upper air:

  Dead, or alive, good cause had he

  To be my mortal enemy.’

  XXII.

  Marvell’d Sir David of the Mount;

  Then, learn’d in story, ‘gan recount

  Such chance had happ’d of old,

  When once, near Norham, there did fight

  A spectre fell of fiendish might,

  In likeness of a Scottish knight,

  With Brian Bulmer bold,

  And train’d him nigh to disallow

  The aid of his baptismal vow.

  ‘And such a phantom, too, ‘tis said,

  With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid

  And fingers red with gore,

  Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,

  Or where the sable pine-tree shade

  Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,

  Dromouchty, or Glenmore.

  And yet, whate’er such legends say,

  Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,

  On mountain, moor, or plain,

  Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,

  True son of chivalry should hold

  These midnight terrors vain;

  For seldom have such spirits power

  To harm, save in the evil hour,

  When guilt we meditate within,

  Or harbour unrepented sin.’-

  Lord Marmion turn’d him half aside,

  And twice to clear his voice he tried,

  Then press’d Sir David’s hand,-

  But nought, at length, in answer said;

  And here their farther converse staid,

  Each ordering that his band

  Should bowne them with the rising day,

  To Scotland’s camp to take their way,

  Such was the King’s command.

  XXIII.

  Early they took Dun-Edin’s road,

  And I could trace each step they trode:

  Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,

  Lies on the path to me unknown.

  Much might if boast of storied lore;

  But, passing such digression o’er,

  Suffice it that their route was laid

  Across the furzy hills of Braid.

  They pass’d the glen and scanty rill,

  And climb’d the opposing bank, until

  They gain’d the top of Blackford Hill.

  XXIV.

  Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,

  Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,

  A truant-boy, I sought the nest,

  Or listed, as I lay at rest,

  While rose, on breezes thin,

  The murmur of the city crowd,

  And, from his steeple jangling loud,

  Saint Giles’s mingling din.

  Now, from the summit to the plain,

  Waves all the hill with yellow grain;

  And o’er the landscape as I look,

  Nought do I see unchanged remain,

  Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.

  To me they make a heavy moan,

  Of early friendships past and gone.

  XXV.

  But different far the change has been,

  Since Marmion, from the crown

  Of Blackford, saw that martial scene

  Upon the bent so brown:

  Thousand pavilions, white as snow,

  Spread all the Borough-moor below,

  Upland, and dale, and down:-

  A thousand did I say? I ween,

  Thousands on thousands there were seen

  That chequer’d all the heath between

  The streamlet and the town;

  In crossing ranks extending far,

  Forming a camp irregular;

  Oft giving way, where still there stood

  Some relics of the old oak wood,

  That darkly huge did intervene,

  And tamed the glaring white with green:

  In these extended lines there lay

  A martial kingdom’s vast array.

  XXVI.

  For from Hebudes, dark with rain,

  To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,

  And from the southern Redswire edge,

  To farthest Rosse’s rocky ledge:

  From west to east, from south to north,

  Scotland sent all her warriors forth.

  Marmion might hear the mingled hum

  Of myriads up the mountain come;

  The horses’ tramp, and tingling clank,

  Where chiefs review’d their vassal rank,

  And charger’s shrilling neigh;

  And see the shifting lines advance,

  While frequent flash’d, from shield and lance,

  The sun’s reflected ray.

  XXVII.

  Thin curling in the morning air,

  The wreaths of failing smoke declare

  To embers now the brands decay’d,

  Where the night-watch their fires had made.

  They saw, slow rolling on the plain,

  Full many a baggage-cart and wain,

  And dire artillery’s clumsy car,

  By sluggish oxen tugg’d to war;

  And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,

  And culverins which France had given.

  Ill-omen’d gift! the guns remain

  The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.

  XXVIII.

  Nor mark’d they less, where in the air

  A thousand streamers flaunted fair;

  Various in shape, device, and hue,

  Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,

  Broad, narrow, swallow-tail’d, and square,

  Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there

  O’er the pavilions flew.

  Highest, and midmost, was descried

  The royal banner floating wide;

  The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,

  Pitch’d deeply in a massive stone,

  Which still in memory is shown,

  Yet bent beneath the standard’s weight

  Whene’er the western wind unroll’d,

  With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,

  And gave to view the dazzling field,

  Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,

  The ruddy lion ramp’d in gold.

  XXIX.

  Lord Marmion view’d the landscape bright,-

  He view’d it with a chiefs delight,-

  Until within him burn’d his heart,

  And lightning from his eye did part,

  As on the battle-day;

  Such glance did falcon never dart,

  When stooping on his prey.

  ‘Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,

  Thy King from warfare to dissuade

  Were but a vain essay:

  For, by St. George, were that host mine,

  Not power infernal, nor divine,

  Should once to peace my soul incline,

  Till I had dimm’d their armour’s shine

  In glorious battle-fray!’

  Answer’d the Bard, of milder mood:

  ‘Fair is the sight,-and yet ‘twere good,

  That Kings would think withal,

  When peace and wealth their land has bless’d,

  ‘Tis better to sit still at rest,

  Than rise, perchance to fall.’

  XXX.

  Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay’d,

  For fairer scene he ne’er survey’d.

  When sated with the martial show

  That peopled all the plain below,

  The wanderin
g eye could o’er it go,

  And mark the distant city glow

  With gloomy splendour red;

  For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

  That round her sable turrets flow,

  The morning beams were shed,

  And tinged them with a lustre proud,

  Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.

  Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

  Where the huge Castle holds its state,

  And all the steep slope down,

  Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,

  Piled deep and massy, close and high,

  Mine own romantic town!

  But northward far, with purer blaze,

  On Ochil mountains fell the rays,

  And as each heathy top they kiss’d,

  It gleam’d a purple amethyst.

  Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;

  Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;

  And, broad between them roll’d,

  The gallant Frith the eye might note,

  Whose islands on its bosom float,

  Like emeralds chased in gold.

  Fitz-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;

  As if to give his rapture vent,

  The spur he to his charger lent,

  And raised his bridle hand,

  And, making demi-volte in air,

  Cried, ‘Where’s the coward that would not dare

  To fight for such a land!’

  The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

  Nor Marmion’s frown repress’d his glee.