Chapter 4

Fixed was her look, and stern her air: Back from her shoulders streamed her hair; The locks, that wont her brow to shade, Stared up erectly from her head; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Her voice, despair’s wild energy Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate: With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspirèd form, And listened for the avenging storm; The judges felt the victim’s dread; No hand was moved, no word was said, Till thus the Abbot’s doom was given, Raising his sightless balls to heaven:— “Sister, let thy sorrows cease; Sinful brother, part in peace!” From that dire dungeon, place of doom, Of execution too, and tomb, Paced forth the judges three, Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery.

XXXIII.

A hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day; But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shriekings of despair, And many a stifled groan: With speed their upward way they take, Such speed as age and fear can make, And crossed themselves for terror’s sake, As hurrying, tottering on: Even in the vesper’s heavenly tone, They seemed to hear a dying groan, And bade the passing knell to toll For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o’er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, His beads the wakeful hermit told, The Bamborough peasant raised his head, But slept ere half a prayer he said; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, Listed before, aside, behind, Then couched him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.

_Ashestiel_, _Ettrick Forest_.

Like April morning clouds, that pass, With varying shadow, o’er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life’s chequered scene of joy and sorrow; Like streamlet of the mountain North, Now in a torrent racing forth, Now winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering on the plain; Like breezes of the Autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away, And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deems its murmur past; Thus various, my romantic theme Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace Of light and shade’s inconstant race; Pleased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell I love the license all too well, In sounds now lowly, and now strong, To raise the desultory song? Oft, when mid such capricious chime, Some transient fit of lofty rhyme To thy kind judgment seemed excuse For many an error of the muse, Oft hast thou said, “If, still misspent, Thine hours to poetry are lent, Go, and to tame thy wandering course, Quaff from the fountain at the source; Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb Immortal laurels ever bloom: Instructive of the feebler bard, Still from the grave their voice is heard; From them, and from the paths they showed, Choose honoured guide and practised road: Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude, of barbarous days.

“Or deem’st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse For Brunswick’s venerable hearse? What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, When valour bleeds for liberty? Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivalled light sublime— Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Though banded Europe stood her foes— The star of Brandenburg arose! Thou couldst not live to see her beam For ever quenched in Jena’s stream. Lamented chief!—it was not given To thee to change the doom of Heaven, And crush that dragon in its birth, Predestined scourge of guilty earth. Lamented chief!—not thine the power To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatched the spear, but left the shield! Valour and skill ’twas thine to try, And, tried in vain, ’twas thine to die. Ill had it seemed thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedom reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; Thy land’s, thy children’s wrongs to feel, And witness woes thou couldst not heal! On thee relenting Heaven bestows For honoured life an honoured close; And when revolves, in time’s sure change, The hour of Germany’s revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come To whet his sword on Brunswick’s tomb.

“Or of the red-cross hero teach, Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar. Alike to him the war that calls Its votaries to the shattered walls, Which the grim Turk, besmeared with blood, Against the invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, When stubborn Russ, and mettled Swede, On the warped wave their death-game played; Or that, where vengeance and affright Howled round the father of the fight, Who snatched, on Alexandria’s sand, The conqueror’s wreath with dying hand.

“Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung By silver Avon’s holy shore, Till twice a hundred years rolled o’er; When she, the bold enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatched the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon’s swans, while rung the grove With Montfort’s hate and Basil’s love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again.”

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed That secret power by all obeyed, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source concealed, or undefined: Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier termed the sway Of habit formed in early day? Howe’er derived, its force confessed Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia’s sultry sky, He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whitened wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He’ll say, from youth he loved to see The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weather-beaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; Through England’s laughing meads he goes, And England’s wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedgerows spread a verdant screen, And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between? No! not for these would he exchange His dark Lochaber’s boundless range: Nor for fair Devon’s meads forsake Ben Nevis grey, and Garry’s lake.

Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charmed me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, roused in life’s first day, Glow in the line and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour. Though no broad river swept along, To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sighed no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed Claimed homage from a shepherd’s reed; Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wallflower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall. I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round surveyed; And still I thought that shattered tower The mightiest work of human power; And marvelled as the aged hind With some strange tale bewitched my mind, Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurred their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home returning, filled the hall With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. Methought that still, with trump and clang, The gateway’s broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seamed with scars, Glared through the window’s rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms, Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms; Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While stretched at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o’er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war displayed; And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brightened at our evening fire! From the thatched mansion’s grey-haired sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood; Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, Showed what in youth its glance had been; Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-willed imp, a grandame’s child; But, half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caressed. For me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet’s well-conned task? Nay, Erskine, nay—On the wild hill Let the wild heathbell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimmed the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay—Since oft thy praise Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; Since oft thy judgment could refine My flattened thought, or cumbrous line; Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend. Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale!

CANTO THIRD. The Inn.

I.

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer showed, By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road, For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely failed to bar their way. Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer looked down; On wing of jet, from his repose In the deep heath, the blackcock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began, By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. The noon had long been passed before They gained the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour. To Scotland’s camp the lord was gone; His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes, On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch, whose front was graced With bush and flagon trimly placed, Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seemed large, though rude: Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, With jingling spurs the courtyard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall: Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.

III.

Soon by the chimney’s merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store And gammons of the tusky boar, And savoury haunch of deer. The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside, Were tools for housewives’ hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And viewed around the blazing hearth His followers mix in noisy mirth; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.

IV.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest; And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art To win the soldier’s hardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy; Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady’s bower: Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff, Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance, The Palmer’s visage fell.

VI.

By fits less frequent from the crowd Was heard the burst of laughter loud For still, as squire and archer stared On that dark face and matted beard Their glee and game declined. All gazed at length in silence drear, Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, Thus whispered forth his mind:— “Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our lord he sets his eye; For his best palfrey, would not I Endure that sullen scowl.”

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw The ever-varying firelight show That figure stern and face of woe, Now called upon a squire: “Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away? We slumber by the fire.”

VIII.

“So please you,” thus the youth rejoined, “Our choicest minstrel’s left behind. Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustomed Constant’s strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, And wake the lover’s lute alike; To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, No nightingale her lovelorn tune More sweetly warbles to the moon. Woe to the cause, whate’er it be, Detains from us his melody, Lavished on rocks, and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. Now must I venture, as I may To sing his favourite roundelay.”

IX.

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On Lowland plains, the ripened ear. Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listened, and stood still, As it came softened up the hill, And deemed it the lament of men Who languished for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound On Susquehana’s swampy ground, Kentucky’s wood-encumbered brake, Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake, Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, Recalled fair Scotland’s hills again!

X. SONG.

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden’s breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.

CHORUS.

_Eleu loro_, &c. Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, oh, never!

CHORUS.

_Eleu loro_, &c. Never, oh, never!

XI.

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden’s breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war’s rattle With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

_Eleu loro_, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap O’er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever: Blessing shall hallow it, Never, oh, never!

CHORUS.

_Eleu loro_, &c. Never, oh, never!

XII.

It ceased, the melancholy sound; And silence sunk on all around. The air was sad; but sadder still It fell on Marmion’s ear, And plained as if disgrace and ill, And shameful death, were near. He drew his mantle past his face, Between it and the band, And rested with his head a space Reclining on his hand. His thoughts I scan not; but I ween, That, could their import have been seen, The meanest groom in all the hall, That e’er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave! Yet fatal strength they boast to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, Even while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil conflict in the heart. For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said— “Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister’s soul; Say, what may this portend?” Then first the Palmer silence broke, (The livelong day he had not spoke) “The death of a dear friend.”

XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye Ne’er changed in worst extremity; Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, Even from his king, a haughty look: Whose accent of command controlled, In camps, the boldest of the bold; Thought, look, and utterance failed him now— Fall’n was his glance, and flushed his brow: For either in the tone, Or something in the Palmer’s look, So full upon his conscience strook, That answer he found none. Thus oft it haps, that when within They shrink at sense of secret sin, A feather daunts the brave; A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes veil their eyes Before their meanest slave.

XV.

Well might he falter!—By his aid Was Constance Beverley betrayed. Not that he augured of the doom, Which on the living closed the tomb: But, tired to hear the desperate maid Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid; And wroth, because in wild despair She practised on the life of Clare; Its fugitive the Church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave; And deemed restraint in convent strange Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear; Secure his pardon he might hold, For some slight mulct of penance-gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way, When the stern priests surprised their prey. His train but deemed the favourite page Was left behind, to spare his age Or other if they deemed, none dared To mutter what he thought and heard; Woe to the vassal, who durst pry Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept, he deemed her well, And safe secured in distant cell; But, wakened by her favourite lay, And that strange Palmer’s boding say, That fell so ominous and drear Full on the object of his fear, To aid remorse’s venomed throes Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose; And Constance, late betrayed and scorned, All lovely on his soul returned; Lovely as when, at treacherous call, She left her convent’s peaceful wall, Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute, Dreading alike, escape, pursuit, Till love, victorious o’er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

XVII.

“Alas!” he thought, “how changed that mien! How changed these timid looks have been, Since years of guilt and of disguise Have steeled her brow, and armed her eyes! No more of virgin terror speaks The blood that mantles in her cheeks: Fierce and unfeminine, are there, Frenzy for joy, for grief despair: And I the cause—for whom were given Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven! Would,” thought he, as the picture grows, “I on its stalk had left the rose! Oh, why should man’s success remove The very charms that wake his love! Her convent’s peaceful solitude Is now a prison harsh and rude; And, pent within the narrow cell, How will her spirit chafe and swell! How brook the stern monastic laws! The penance how—and I the cause! Vigil and scourge—perchance even worse!” And twice he rose to cry, “To horse!” And twice his sovereign’s mandate came, Like damp upon a kindling flame; And twice he thought, “Gave I not charge She should be safe, though not at large? They durst not, for their island, shred One golden ringlet from her head.”

XVIII.

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove Repentance and reviving love, Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey, Their host the Palmer’s speech had heard, And, talkative, took up the word: “Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray From Scotland’s simple land away, To visit realms afar, Full often learn the art to know Of future weal, or future woe, By word, or sign, or star; Yet might a knight his fortune hear, If, knightlike, he despises fear, Not far from hence; if fathers old Aright our hamlet legend told.” These broken words the menials move, For marvels still the vulgar love, And, Marmion giving license cold, His tale the host thus gladly told: