Chapter 2

Then stepped, to meet that noble lord, Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twisell and of Ford, And captain of the hold. He led Lord Marmion to the dais, Raised o’er the pavement high, And placed him in the upper place— They feasted full and high: The whiles a Northern harper rude Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, “_How the fierce Thirwalls_, _and Ridleys all_, _Stout Willimondswick_, _And Hardriding Dick_, _And Hughie of Hawdon_, _and Will o’ the Wall_, _Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh_, _And taken his life at the Deadman’s-shaw_.” Scantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook The harper’s barbarous lay; Yet much he praised the pains he took, And well those pains did pay: For lady’s suit and minstrel’s strain, By knight should ne’er be heard in vain.

XIV.

“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 passed a week but just Or feat of arms befell: 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 lady’s grace!” Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

XV.

The captain marked his altered look, And gave a squire the sign; A mighty wassail-bowl he took, And crowned 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 marked 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 seemed for lady fair, To fan her cheek 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 sighed— The russet doublet’s rugged fold Could scarce repel its pride! Say, hast thou given that lovely youth To serve in lady’s bower? Or was the gentle page, in sooth, A gentle paramour?”

XVI.

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; He rolled his kindling eye, With pain his rising wrath suppressed, 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 Lindisfarne: 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 Whispered light tales of Heron’s dame.

XVII.

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt, Careless the knight replied, “No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt Delights in cage to bide; Norham is grim and grated close, Hemmed 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’s bride The lovely Lady Heron bide, Behold me here a messenger, Your tender greetings prompt to bear; For to the Scottish court addressed, 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 backed 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 pricked 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 passed his hand across his face. “Fain would I find the guide you want, But ill may 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; Even 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 prayed for our success the while. Our Norham vicar, woe betide, Is all too well in case to ride; The priest of Shoreswood—he could rein The wildest war-horse 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 blithesome brother at the can, A welcome guest in hall and bower, He knows each castle, town, and tower, In which the wine and ale is good, ’Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood. But that good man, as ill befalls, Hath seldom left our castle walls, Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede, In evil hour, he crossed 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 shrive 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, woe 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 vowed 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 kissed the blessèd 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 prayed. 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 stream or lake. This were a guide o’er moor and dale But when our John hath quaffed 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 Holyrood, 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 listened at his cell; Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, He murmured 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 marked 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 summoned 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 Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

XXVIII.

Whenas the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal, Or looked 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 looked haggard wild: Poor wretch! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan face and sun-burned hair, She had not known her child. Danger, long travel, want, or woe, 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 St. Andrews 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 blessèd well, Whose springs 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!”

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep, Where wine and spices richly steep, In massive bowl of silver deep, The page presents on knee. Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, The captain pledged his noble guest, The cup went through among the rest, Who drained it merrily; Alone the Palmer passed it by, Though Selby pressed him courteously. This was a sign the feast was o’er, It hushed the merry wassail roar, The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard But the slow footstep of the guard, Pacing his sober round.

XXXI.

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose: And first the chapel doors unclose; Then after morning rites were done (A hasty mass from Friar John), 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 passed That noble train, their lord the last. Then loudly rung the trumpet call; Thundered 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 turrets hoar; Till they rolled forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there, Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M.

_Ashestiel_, _Ettrick Forest_.

THE scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourished 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 compeers— Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell, Since he, so grey and stubborn now, Waved in each breeze a sapling 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 showed 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 mustered 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 falc’ners hold the ready hawk; And foresters in greenwood 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 arquebuss below; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter’s 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 blithe that silvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp, and mean our game Our mirth, dear Mariott, was the same. Remember’st 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, Passed by the intermitted space; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic and in Gothic lore: We marked 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 hears the well-known gun, And while his honest heart glows 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 deafened 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 orphans’ 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, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil,— Her long descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age ’twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight They pressed to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I called his ramparts holy ground! Kindled their brows to hear me speak; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years, Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, They will not, cannot, long endure; Condemned to stem the world’s rude tide, You may not linger by the side; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, And Passion ply the sail and oar. Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain and the rill; For trust, dear boys, the time will come When fiercer transport shall be dumb, And you will think right frequently, But, well I hope, without a sigh, On the free hours that we have spent Together, on the brown hill’s bent.

When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain; There is a pleasure in this pain: It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impressed. ’Tis silent amid worldly toils, And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, ’Twixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake; Thou know’st it well,—nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill’s huge outline you may view; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, Save where of land yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed might lie; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess, You see that all is loneliness: And silence aids—though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills; In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath lain our Lady’s chapel low, Yet still beneath the hallowed soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, Where erst his simple fathers prayed.

If age had tamed the passion’s strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I thought, ’twere sweet to dwell And rear again the chaplain’s cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage Where Milton longed to spend his age. ’Twere sweet to mark the setting day On Bourhope’s lonely top decay; And, as it faint and feeble died On the broad lake and mountain’s side, To say, “Thus pleasures fade away; Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;” Then gaze on Dryhope’s ruined tower, And think on Yarrow’s faded Flower: And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the tempest brings, ’Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, To sit upon the wizard’s grave— That wizard-priest’s, whose bones are thrust From company of holy dust; On which no sunbeam ever shines— So superstition’s creed divines— Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, Heave her broad billows to the shore; And mark the wild swans mount the gale, Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, And ever stoop again, to lave Their bosoms on the surging wave: Then, when against the driving hail No longer might my plaid avail, Back to my lonely home retire, And light my lamp, and trim my fire; There ponder o’er some mystic lay, Till the wild tale had all its sway, And, in the bittern’s distant shriek, I heard unearthly voices speak, And thought the wizard-priest was come To claim again his ancient home! And bade my busy fancy range, To frame him fitting shape and strange, Till from the task my brow I cleared, And smiled to think that I had feared.

But chief ’twere sweet to think such life (Though but escape from fortune’s strife), Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice; And deem each hour to musing given A step upon the road to heaven.