V.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trod,
His helm hung at the saddle bow;
Well, by his visage, you might know
He was a stalworth knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been:
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire:
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casque worn bare,
His thin mustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,
But more through toil than age;

His square turn'd joints, and strength of limb,
Show'd him no carpet knight so trim,
But, in close fight, a champion grim,
In camps, a leader sage.

VI.

Well was he arm'd from head to heel,
In mail and plate of Milan steel;
But his strong helm, of mighty cost,
Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd;
Amid the plumage of the crest

A falcon hover'd on her nest,

With wings outspread, and forward breast;
E'en such a falcon, on his shield,
Soar'd sable in an azure field:
The golden legend bore aright,
"Who checks at me, to death is dight."

Blue was the charger's broider'd rein;
Blue ribands deck'd his arching mane;
The knightly housing's ample fold
Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold.

VII.

Behind him rode two gallant squires,
Of noble name, and knightly sires;
They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim;
For well could each a war-horse tame,
Could draw the bow, the sword could sway,
And lightly bear the ring away;
Nor less with courteous precepts stored,
Could dance in hall, and carve at board,
And frame love-ditties passing rare,
And sing them to a ladye fair.

VIII.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe :
They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong,
And led his sumpter-mules along,
And ambling palfrey, when at need

Him listed ease his battle-steed.
The last, and trustiest of the four,
On high his forkyennon bore;
Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue,
Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue,
Where, blazon'd sable, as before,
The towering falcon seem'd to soar.
Last, twenty yeomen, two and two,
In hosen black, and jerkin blue,

Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck,
With silver scutcheon round their neck,
Stood on the steps of stone,

By which you reach the donjon gate,
And there, with herald pomp and state,
They hail'd Lord Marmion:
They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye,

Of Tamworth tower and town;
And he, their courtesy to requite,

Gave them a chain of twelve marks weight, All as he lighted down.

"Now, largesse;* largesse, Lord Marmion, Knight of the crest of gold!

A blazon'd shield in battle won,
Ne'er guarded heart so bold."

XII.

They marshall'd him to the castle hall, Where the guests stood all aside, And loudly flourish'd the trumpet call, And the heralds loudly cried,

"Room, lordings, room, for Lord Marmion, With the crest and helm of gold!

The cry by which the heralds express their th

for the bounty of the nobles.

Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold:
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
'Gainst Marmion's force to stand;
To him he lost his ladye love,

And to the king his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,

A sight both sad and fair;

We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare;

We saw the victor win the crest
He wears with worthy pride;
And on the gibbet tree, reversed,
His foeman's scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquer'd in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye!"

"Now, good Lord Marmion," Heron says, "Of your fair courtesy,

I pray you bide some little space

In this poor tower with me. Here may you keep your arms from rust,

May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath pass'd a week, but giust
Or feat of arms befel:

The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
And love to couch a spear;-
St. George a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space,
Our northern wars to learn;
I pray you for your ladye's grace."—
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.

XV.

The captain mark'd his alter'd look,
And gave a squire the sign;
A mighty wassail bowl he took,
And crown'd it high with wine.

"Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:

But first, I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine, That used to serve thy cup of wine,

Whose beauty was so rare? When last in Raby towers we met,

The boy I closely eyed,

And often mark'd his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide:
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
To burnish shield, or sharpen brand,

Or saddle battle steed;

But meeter seem'd for lady fair,
To fan her cheeks, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead:

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom-when he sigh'd,
The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride!
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in ladye's bower?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour's?"

XVI.

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; He roll'd his kindling eye,

With pain his rising wrath suppress'd,

Yet made a calm reply:

"That boy thou thought'st so goodly fair,

He might not brook the northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarn:
Enough of him.-But, Heron, say,
Why does thy lovely lady gay
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage."—
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame.

XVII.

Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt,
Careless the knight replied,
"No bird whose feathers gayly flaunt,
Delights in cage to bide:
Norham is grim, and grated close,
Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower;
And better loves my lady bright,
To sit in liberty and light,

In fair queen Margaret's bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove;

But where shall we find leash or band,
For dame that loves to rove?

Let the wild falcon soar her swing
She'll stoop when she has tired her wing."-

XVIII.

"Nay, if with royal James bride,
The lovely lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger,
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;
For, to the Scottish court address'd,

I journey at our king's behest,

And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me, and mine, a trusty guide.
I have not ridden in Scotland since
James back'd the cause of that mock prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey's power
What time we razed old Ayton tower."-

XIX.

"For such like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow;
For here be some have prick'd as far,
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale,
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods,
And given them light to set their hoods."—

XX.

"Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion cried,
"Were I in warlike-wise to ride
A better guard I would not lack,
Than your stout forayers at my back;
But, as in form of peace I go,
A friendly messenger, to know,

Why, through all Scotland, near and far,
Their king is mustering troops for war,
The sight of plundering border spears
Might justify suspicious fears,
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,
Break out in some unseemly broil:
A herald were my fitting guide;
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;
Or pardoner, or travelling priest,
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least."

XXI.

The captain mused a little space,
And pass'd his hand across his face.
"Fain would I find the guide you want,
But ill may spare a pursuivant,
The only men that safe can ride
Mine errands on the Scottish side:
And, though a bishop built this fort,
Few holy brethren here resort;
E'en our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege, we have not seen;
The mass he might not sing or say,
Upon one stinted meal a day;
So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,
And pray'd for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, wo betide,
Is all too well in case to ride.

The priest of Shores wood-he could rein
The wildest warhorse in your train;
But then, no spearman in the hall
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.
Friar John of Tillmouth were the man;
A blithsome broth at the can,

A welcome guest

hall and bower,

He knows each castle, town, and tower,
In which the wine and ale are good,
"Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.
But that good man, as ill befalls,
Hath seldom left our castle walls,

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,

In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed,
To teach dame Alison her creed.
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;
And John, an enemy to strife,

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath deeply swore,
That, if again he venture o'er,
He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know; '
Yet, in your guard, perchance, will go.”—

XXII.

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carved to his uncle, and that lord,
And reverently took up the word.
"Kind uncle, wo were we each one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach;
Full well at tables can he play,
And sweep, at bowls, the stake away.
None can a lustier carol bawl,
The needfullest among us all,

When time hangs heavy in the hall,
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,
And we can neither hunt, nor ride

A foray on the Scottish side.

The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude,
May end in worse than loss of hood.
Let Friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:
Last night to Norham there came one
Will better guide Lord Marmion."

Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay, Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say."

XXIII.

"Here is a holy palmer come,

From Salem first, and last from Rome:
One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb,
And visited each holy shrine,

In Araby and Palestine;
On hills of Armenie hath been,
Where Noah's ark may yet be seen;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,
Which parted at the prophet's rod;
In Sinai's wilderness he saw

The mount, where Israel heard the law,
Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.
He shows Saint James's cockle shell,
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

And of that grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.

XXIV.

"To stout Saint George of Norwich merry
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham, and Saint Bede,
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd.
He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;

Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the streams or lake.
This were a guide o'er moor and dale;
But, when our John hath quaff'd his ale,
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."—
XXV.

"Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion,
"Full loth were I, that friar John,
That venerable man, for me,
Were placed in fear or jeopardy:
If this same palmer will me lead

From hence to Holy-Rood,
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed,
Instead of cockle shell or bead,
With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers; still
They know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay:
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend, at the least,

They bring to cheer the way."-

XXVI.

Ah! noble sir," young Selby said,

And finger on his lip he laid,

"This man knows much, perchance, e'en more

Than he could learn by holy lore.

Still to himself he's muttering,

And shrinks, as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listen'd at his cell;

Strange sounds we heard, and, soooth to tell,
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er,
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.

I cannot tell-I like it not-
Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

No conscience clear and void of wrong,
Can rest awake, and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds."-
XXVII.

"Let pass," quoth Marmion; "by my fay,
This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company;
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This palmer to the castle hall."
The summon'd palmer came in place;
His sable cowl o'erhung his face:
In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

On his broad shoulders wrought;
The scallop shell his cap did deck;
The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought;
His sandals were with travel tore,
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore:
The faded palm branch in his hand,
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land.
XXVIII.

When as the palmer came in hall,

Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,

Or had a statelier step withal,

Or look'd more high and keen
For no saluting did he wait,
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marmion where he sate,

As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil,
His cheek was sunk, alas, the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,

His eye look'd haggard wild:
Poor wretch the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,

In his wan face, and sunburn'd hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or wo,

Soon change the form that best we know-
For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;
Hard toil can roughen form and face,

And want can quench the eye's bright grace;
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace,

More deeply than despair.
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor palmer knew them all.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
-"But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair Saint Andrew's bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,

Sung to the billows' sound; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,

And the crazed brain restore :

Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!"

And knight, and squire had broke their fast,

On rich substantial repast,

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse:

Then came the stirrup cup in course,
Between the baron and his host,

No point of courtesy was lost;

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the captain made,
Till, filing from the gate had past
That noble train, their lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call;
Thunder'd the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,

And hid its turret's hoar;
Till they roll'd forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO II.

TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. THE scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourish'd once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon thorn-perchance, whose prickly spears Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeersYon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so gray and stubborn now, Waved in each breeze a sappling bough; Would he could tell how deep the shade, A thousand mingled branches made; How broad the shadows of the oak, How clung the rowan to the rock, And through the foliage show'd his head, With narrow leaves, and berries red; What pines on every mountain sprung, O'er every dell what birches hung, In every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook! "Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, "The mighty stag at noontide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet, While doe and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by through gay greenwood. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals muster'd round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with crossbow bent; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falconers hold the ready hawk;

Mountain-ash.

And foresters, in greenw od trim,
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,
Attentive, as the bratchet's bay
From the dark covert drove the prey,
To slip them as he broke away.
The startled quarry bounds amain,
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain :
Whistles the arrow from the bow,
Answers the harquebuss below;
While all the rocking hills reply,
To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry,
And bugles ringing lightsomely."

Of such proud huntings, many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick, and on Yarrow,
Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow.
But not more blith that sylvan court,
Than we have been at humbler sport;
Though small our pomp and mean our game,
Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same,
Rememberest thou my greyhounds true?
O'er holt, or hill, there never flew,
From slip, or leash, there never sprang,
More fleet of foot or sure of fang,
Nor dull, between each merry chase,
Pass'd by the intermitted space;
For we had fair resource in store,
In classic, and in Gothic lore;
We mark'd each memorable scene,
And held poetic talk between;
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now-for now are still
Thy bowers untenanted Bowhill!
No longer, from thy mountains dun,
The yeoman bears the well-known gun,
And, while his honest heart grows warm,
At thought of his paternal farm,
Round to his mates a brimmer fills,
And drinks, "The chieftain of the hills!"
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers,
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw,
By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh;
No youthful baron's left to grace
The forest-sheriff's lonely chase,
And ape, in manly step and tone,
The majesty of Oberon ;

And she is gone, whose lovely face
Is but her least and lowest grace;
Though if to Sylphid queen 'twere given,
To show our earth the charms of heaven,
She could not glide along the air,
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow's deafen'd ear
Grows quick, that lady's step to hear;
At noontide she expects her not,
Nor busies her to trim the cot;
Pensive she turns her humming wheel,
Or pensive cooks her orphan's meal;
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
The gentle hand by which they're fed.

From Yair-which hills so closely bind,
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,

Slow-hound.