by Walter Scott
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 moon-beam slumbering lay,
And pour’d its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,
Upon Tantallon tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel’s pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was there 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 moon-shine 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 darest 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, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.’-
Lord Marmion turn’d,-well was his need,
And dash’d the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
&nb
sp; 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 his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
‘Horse! horse!’ the Douglas cried, ‘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, e’er 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 to 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 Nun-
O, 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 extending;
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 see
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 strugg
les 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 southern strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead?
What ‘vails the vain knight-errant’s 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 torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne!-
The precious hour has pass’d in vain,
And England’s host has gain’d the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
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 hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap,
Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till!-
Yet more! yet more!-how far array’d
They file from out the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by!
With all their banners bravely spread,
And all their armour flashing high,
