Marmion

by Walter Scott

  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!’

  XVII.

  Displeased was James, that stranger view’d

  And tamper’d with his changing mood.

  ‘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,

  The good Lord Marmion tarries long,

  Perchance our meeting next may fall

  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 stem 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,

  And to his nobles loud did call,-

  ‘Lords, to the dance,-a hall! a hall!’

  Himself his cloak and sword flung by,

  And led Dame Heron gallantly;

  And Minstrels, at the royal order,

  Rung out-‘Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.’

  XVIII.

  Leave we these revels now, to tell

  What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,

  Whose galley, as they sail’d again

  To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.

  Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,

  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,

  Mid 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 rose 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 antique buildings, climbing high,

  Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,

  Were here wrapt deep in shade;

  There on their brows the moon-beam broke,

  Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,

  And on the casements play’d.

  And other light was none to see,

  Save torches gliding far,

  Before some chieftain of degree,

  Who left the royal revelry

  To bowne him for the war.-

  A solemn scene the Abbess chose;

  A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

  XXI.

  ‘O, holy Palmer!’ she began,-

  ‘For sure he must be sainted man,

  Whose blessed feet have trod the ground

  Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found,-

  For His dear Church’s sake, my tale

  Attend, nor deem of light avail,

  Though I must speak of worldly love,-

  How vain to those who wed above!-

  De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo’d

  Clara de Clare, of Gloster’s blood;

  (Idle it were of Whitby’s dame,

  To say of that same blood I came;)

  And once, when jealous rage was high,

  Lord Marmion said despiteously,

  Wilton was traitor in his heart,

  And had made league with Martin Swart,

  When he came here on Simnel’s part;

  And only cowardice did restrain

  His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain,-

  And down he threw his glove:-the thing

  Was tried, as wont, before the King;

  Where frankly did De Wilton own,

  That Swart in Guelders he had known;

  And that between them then there went

  Some scroll of courteous compliment.

  For this he to his castle sent;

  But when his messenger return’d,

  Judge how De Wilton’s fury burn’d!

  For in his packet there were laid

  Letters that claim’d disloyal aid,

  And proved King Henry’s cause betray’d.

  His fame, thus blighted, in the field

  He strove to clear, by spear and shield;-

  To clear his fame in vain he strove,

  For wondrous are His ways above!

  Perchance some form was unobserved;

  Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved;

  Else how could guiltless champion quail,

  Or how the blessed ordeal fail?

  XXII.

  ‘His squire, who now De Wilton saw

  As recreant doom’d to suffer law,

  Repentant, own’d in vain,

  That, while he had the scrolls in care,

  A stranger maiden, passing fair,

  Had drench’d him with a beverage rare;

  His words no faith could gain.

  With Clare alone he credence won,

  Who, rather
than wed Marmion,

  Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair,

  To give our house her livings fair,

  And die a vestal vot’ress there.

  The impulse from the earth was given,

  But bent her to the paths of heaven.

  A purer heart, a lovelier maid,

  Ne’er shelter’d her in Whitby’s shade,

  No, not since Saxon Edelfled;

  Only one trace of earthly strain,

  That for her lover’s loss

  She cherishes a sorrow vain,

  And murmurs at the cross.

  And then her heritage;-it goes

  Along the banks of Tame;

  Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,

  In meadows rich the heifer lows,

  The falconer and huntsman knows

  Its woodlands for the game.

  Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,

  And I, her humble vot’ress here,

  Should do a deadly sin,

  Her temple spoil’d before mine eyes,

  If this false Marmion such a prize

  By my consent should win;

  Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn,

  That Clare shall from our house be torn;

  And grievous cause have I to fear,

  Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

  XXIII.

  ‘Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray’d

  To evil power, I claim thine aid,

  By every step that thou hast trod

  To holy shrine and grotto dim,

  By every martyr’s tortured limb,

  By angel, saint, and seraphim,

  And by the Church of God!

  For mark:-When Wilton was betray’d,

  And with his squire forged letters laid,

  She was, alas! that sinful maid,

  By whom the deed was done,-

  Oh! shame and horror to be said!

  She was a perjured nun!

  No clerk in all the land, like her,

  Traced quaint and varying character.

  Perchance you may a marvel deem,

  That Marmion’s paramour

  (For such vile thing she was) should scheme

  Her lover’s nuptial hour;

  But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,

  As privy to his honour’s stain,

  Illimitable power:

  For this she secretly retain’d

  Each proof that might the plot reveal,

  Instructions with his hand and seal;

  And thus Saint Hilda deign’d,

  Through sinners’ perfidy impure,

  Her house’s glory to secure,

  And Clare’s immortal weal.

  XXIV.

  ‘Twere long, and needless, here to tell,

  How to my hand these papers fell;

  With me they must not stay.

  Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!

  Who knows what outrage he might do,

  While journeying by the way?-

  O, blessed Saint, if e’er again

  I venturous leave thy calm domain,

  To travel or by land or main,

  Deep penance may I pay!-

  Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:

  I give this packet to thy care,

  For thee to stop they will not dare;

  And O! with cautious speed,

  To Wolsey’s hand the papers ‘bring,

  That he may show them to the King:

  And, for thy well-earn’d meed,

  Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine

  A weekly mass shall still be thine,

  While priests can sing and read.

  What ail’st thou?-Speak!’-For as he took

  The charge, a strong emotion shook

  His frame; and, ere reply,

  They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,

  Like distant clarion feebly blown,

  That on the breeze did die;

  And loud the Abbess shriek’d in fear,

  ‘Saint Withold, save us!-What is here!

  Look at yon City Cross!

  See on its battled tower appear

  Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,

  And blazon’d banners toss!’-

  XXV.

  Dun-Edin’s Cross, a pillar’d stone,

  Rose on a turret octagon;

  (But now is razed that monument,

  Whence royal edict rang,

  And voice of Scotland’s law was sent

  In glorious trumpet-clang.

  O! be his tomb as lead to lead,

  Upon its dull destroyer’s head!-

  A minstrel’s malison is said.)-

  Then on its battlements they saw

  A vision, passing Nature’s law,

  Strange, wild, and dimly seen;

  Figures that seem’d to rise and die,

  Gibber and sign, advance and fly,

  While nought confirm’d could ear or eye

  Discern of sound or mien.

  Yet darkly did it seem, as there

  Heralds and Pursuivants prepare,

  With trumpet sound, and blazon fair,

  A summons to proclaim;

  But indistinct the pageant proud,

  As fancy forms of midnight cloud,

  When flings the moon upon her shroud

  A wavering tinge of flame;

  It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,

  From midmost of the spectre crowd,

  This awful summons came:-

  XXVI.

  ‘Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,

  Whose names I now shall call,

  Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!

  Subjects of him who sent me here,

  At his tribunal to appear,

  I summon one and all:

  I cite you by each deadly sin,

  That e’er hath soil’d your hearts within;

  I cite you by each brutal lust,

  That e’er defiled your earthly dust,-

  By wrath, by pride, by fear,

  By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone,

  By the dark grave, and dying groan!

  When forty days are pass’d and gone,

  I cite you at your Monarch’s throne,

  To answer and appear.’-

  Then thundered forth a roll of names:-

  The first was thine, unhappy James!

  Then all thy nobles came;

  Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,

  Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,

  Why should I tell their separate style?

  Each chief of birth and fame,

  Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,

  Fore-doom’d to Flodden’s carnage pile,

  Was cited there by name;

  And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,

  Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye;

  De Wilton, erst of Aberley,

  The self-same thundering voice did say.-

  But then another spoke:

  ‘Thy fatal summons I deny,

  And thine infernal Lord defy,

  Appealing me to Him on high,

  Who burst the sinner’s yoke.’

  At that dread accent, with a scream,

  Parted the pageant like a dream,

  The summoner was gone.

  Prone on her face the Abbess fell,

  And fast, and fast, her beads did tell;

  Her nuns came, startled by the yell,

  And found her there alone.

  She mark’d not, at the scene aghast,

  What time, or how, the Palmer pass’d.

  XXVII.

  Shift we the scene.-The camp doth move,

  Dun-Edin’s streets are empty now,

  Save when, for weal of those they love,

  To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,

  The tottering child, the anxious fair,

  The grey-hair’d sire, with pious care,

  To chapels and to shrines repair-

  Where is the Pal
mer now? and where

  The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?-

  Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair

  They journey in thy charge:

  Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,

  The Palmer still was with the band;

  Angus, like Lindesay, did command,

  That none should roam at large.

  But in that Palmer’s altered mien

  A wondrous change might now be seen;

  Freely he spoke of war,

  Of marvels wrought by single hand,

  When lifted for a native land;

  And still look’d high, as if he plann’d

  Some desperate deed afar.

  His courser would he feed and stroke,

  And, tucking up his sable frocke,

  Would first his mettle bold provoke,

  Then soothe or quell his pride.

  Old Hubert said, that never one

  He saw, except Lord Marmion,

  A steed so fairly ride.

  XXVIII.

  Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,

  By Eustace govern’d fair,

  A troop escorting Hilda’s Dame,

  With all her nuns, and Clare.

  No audience had Lord Marmion sought;

  Ever he fear’d to aggravate

  Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;

  And safer ‘twas, he thought,

  To wait till, from the nuns removed,

  The influence of kinsmen loved,

  And suit by Henry’s self approved,

  Her slow consent had wrought.

  His was no flickering flame, that dies

  Unless when fann’d by looks and sighs,

  And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;