Chapter 7

WHEN dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sunbeam throws, Upon the weary waste of snows, A cold and profitless regard, Like patron on a needy bard, When silvan occupation’s done, And o’er the chimney rests the gun, And hang, in idle trophy, near, The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; When wiry terrier, rough and grim, And greyhound, with his length of limb, And pointer, now employed no more, Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor; When in his stall the impatient steed Is long condemned to rest and feed; When from our snow-encircled home, Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, Since path is none, save that to bring The needful water from the spring; When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o’er, Beguiles the dreary hour no more, And darkling politican, crossed Inveighs against the lingering post, And answering housewife sore complains Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains; When such the country cheer, I come, Well pleased, to seek our city home; For converse, and for books, to change The Forest’s melancholy range, And welcome, with renewed delight, The busy day and social night. Not here need my desponding rhyme Lament the ravages of time, As erst by Newark’s riven towers, And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers. True—Caledonia’s Queen is changed, Since on her dusky summit ranged, Within its steepy limits pent, By bulwark, line, and battlement, And flanking towers, and laky flood, Guarded and garrisoned she stood, Denying entrance or resort, Save at each tall embattled port; Above whose arch, suspended, hung Portcullis spiked with iron prong. That long is gone,—but not so long, Since, early closed, and opening late, Jealous revolved the studded gate, Whose task, from eve to morning tide, A wicket churlishly supplied. Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow, Dunedin! Oh, how altered now, When safe amid thy mountain court Thou sitt’st, like empress at her sport, And liberal, unconfined, and free, Flinging thy white arms to the sea, For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower, That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower, Thou gleam’st against the western ray Ten thousand lines of brighter day. Not she, the championess of old, In Spenser’s magic tale enrolled, She for the charméd spear renowned, Which forced each knight to kiss the ground— Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, What time she was Malbecco’s guest, She gave to flow her maiden vest; When from the corslet’s grasp relieved, Free to the sight her bosom heaved; Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile, Erst hidden by the aventayle; And down her shoulders graceful rolled Her locks profuse, of paly gold. They who whilom, in midnight fight, Had marvelled at her matchless might, No less her maiden charms approved, But looking liked, and liking loved. The sight could jealous pangs beguile, And charm Malbecco’s cares a while; And he, the wandering squire of dames, Forgot his Columbella’s claims, And passion, erst unknown, could gain The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; Nor durst light Paridel advance, Bold as he was, a looser glance. She charmed at once, and tamed the heart, Incomparable Britomarte! So thou, fair city! disarrayed Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid, As stately seem’st, but lovelier far Than in that panoply of war. Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne Strength and security are flown; Still as of yore Queen of the North! Still canst thou send thy children forth. Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, Than now, in danger, shall be thine, Thy dauntless voluntary line; For fosse and turret proud to stand, Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. Thy thousands, trained to martial toil, Full red would stain their native soil, Ere from thy mural crown there fell The slightest knosp or pinnacle. And if it come—as come it may, Dunedin! that eventful day— Renowned for hospitable deed, That virtue much with Heaven may plead In patriarchal times whose care Descending angels deigned to share; That claim may wrestle blessings down On those who fight for the good town, Destined in every age to be Refuge of injured royalty; Since first, when conquering York arose, To Henry meek she gave repose, Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw. Truce to these thoughts!—for, as they rise, How gladly I avert mine eyes, Bodings, or true or false, to change, For Fiction’s fair romantic range, Or for tradition’s dubious light, That hovers ’twixt the day and night: Dazzling alternately and dim, Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim, Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see Creation of my fantasy, Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, And make of mists invading men. Who love not more the night of June Than dull December’s gloomy noon? The moonlight than the fog of frost? And can we say which cheats the most? But who shall teach my harp to gain A sound of the romantic strain, Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere Could win the royal Henry’s ear, Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved The minstrel, and his lay approved? Who shall these lingering notes redeem, Decaying on Oblivion’s stream; Such notes as from the Breton tongue Marie translated, Blondel sung? O! born Time’s ravage to repair, And make the dying muse thy care; Who, when his scythe her hoary foe Was poising for the final blow, The weapon from his hand could wring, And break his glass, and shear his wing, And bid, reviving in his strain, The gentle poet live again; Thou, who canst give to lightest lay An unpedantic moral gay, Nor less the dullest theme bid flit On wings of unexpected wit; In letters as in life approved, Example honoured and beloved— Dear Ellis! to the bard impart A lesson of thy magic art, To win at once the head and heart— At once to charm, instruct, and mend, My guide, my pattern, and my friend! Such minstrel lesson to bestow Be long thy pleasing task—but, oh! No more by thy example teach— What few can practise, all can preach— With even patience to endure Lingering disease, and painful cure, And boast affliction’s pangs subdued By mild and manly fortitude. Enough, the lesson has been given: Forbid the repetition, Heaven! Come, listen, then! for thou hast known, And loved the minstrel’s varying tone, Who, like his Border sires of old, Waked a wild measure rude and bold, Till Windsor’s oaks, and Ascot plain, With wonder heard the Northern strain. Come, listen! bold in thy applause, The bard shall scorn pedantic laws; And, as the ancient art could stain Achievements on the storied pane, Irregularly traced and planned, But yet so glowing and so grand— So shall he strive in changeful hue, Field, feast, and combat to renew, And loves, and arms, and harpers’ glee, And all the pomp of chivalry.

CANTO FIFTH. The Court.

I.

THE train has left the hills of Braid; The barrier guard have open made (So Lindesay bade) the palisade, That closed the tented ground; Their men the warders backward drew, And carried pikes as they rode through Into its ample bound. Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, Upon the Southern band to stare. And envy with their wonder rose, To see such well-appointed foes; Such length of shaft, such mighty bows, So huge, that many simply thought, But for a vaunt such weapons wrought; And little deemed their force to feel, Through links of mail, and plates of steel, When rattling upon Flodden vale, The clothyard arrows flew like hail.

II.

Nor less did Marmion’s skilful view Glance every line and squadron through; And much he marvelled one small land Could marshal forth such various band: For men-at-arms were here, Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, Like iron towers for strength and weight, On Flemish steeds of bone and height, With battle-axe and spear. Young knights and squires, a lighter train, Practised their chargers on the plain, By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, Each warlike feat to show, To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, The high curvet, that not in vain The sword sway might descend amain On foeman’s casque below. He saw the hardy burghers there March armed, on foot, with faces bare, For vizor they wore none, Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; But burnished were their corslets bright, Their brigantines, and gorgets light, Like very silver shone. Long pikes they had for standing fight, Two-handed swords they wore, And many wielded mace of weight, And bucklers bright they bore.

III.

On foot the yeomen too, but dressed In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, With iron quilted well; Each at his back (a slender store) His forty days’ provision bore, As feudal statutes tell. His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, A crossbow there, a hagbut here, A dagger-knife, and brand. Sober he seemed, and sad of cheer, As loth to leave his cottage dear, And march to foreign strand; Or musing who would guide his steer To till the fallow land. Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye Did aught of dastard terror lie; More dreadful far his ire Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name, In eager mood to battle came, Their valour like light straw on flame, A fierce but fading fire.

IV.

Not so the Borderer:—bred to war, He knew the battle’s din afar, And joyed to hear it swell. His peaceful day was slothful ease; Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please Like the loud slogan yell. On active steed, with lance and blade, The light-armed pricker plied his trade— Let nobles fight for fame; Let vassals follow where they lead, Burghers to guard their townships bleed, But war’s the Borderer’s game. Their gain, their glory, their delight, To sleep the day, maraud the night O’er mountain, moss, and moor; Joyful to fight they took their way, Scarce caring who might win the day, Their booty was secure. These, as Lord Marmion’s train passed by, Looked on at first with careless eye, Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know The form and force of English bow; But when they saw the lord arrayed In splendid arms and rich brocade, Each Borderer to his kinsman said:— “Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride? Oh! could we but on Border side, By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide, Beset a prize so fair! That fangless Lion, too, their guide, Might chance to lose his glistering hide; Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied Could make a kirtle rare.”

V.

Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, Of different language, form, and face— Avarious race of man; Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed, And wild and garish semblance made The chequered trews and belted plaid, And varying notes the war-pipes brayed To every varying clan; Wild through their red or sable hair Looked out their eyes with savage stare On Marmion as he passed; Their legs above the knee were bare; Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, And hardened to the blast; Of taller race, the chiefs they own Were by the eagle’s plumage known. The hunted red-deer’s undressed hide Their hairy buskins well supplied; The graceful bonnet decked their head; Back from their shoulders hung the plaid; A broadsword of unwieldy length, A dagger proved for edge and strength, A studded targe they wore, And quivers, bows, and shafts,—but, oh! Short was the shaft and weak the bow To that which England bore. The Islesmen carried at their backs The ancient Danish battle-axe. They raised a wild and wondering cry As with his guide rode Marmion by. Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, And, with their cries discordant mixed, Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt.

VI.

Thus through the Scottish camp they passed, And reached the city gate at last, Where all around, a wakeful guard, Armed burghers kept their watch and ward. Well had they cause of jealous fear, When lay encamped, in field so near, The Borderer and the Mountaineer. As through the bustling streets they go, All was alive with martial show; At every turn, with dinning clang, The armourer’s anvil clashed and rang; Or toiled the swarthy smith, to wheel The bar that arms the charger’s heel; Or axe or falchion to the side Of jarring grindstone was applied. Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace, Through street and lane and market-place Bore lance, or casque, or sword; While burghers, with important face, Described each new-come lord, Discussed his lineage, told his name, His following and his warlike fame. The Lion led to lodging meet, Which high o’erlooked the crowded street; There must the baron rest Till past the hour of vesper tide, And then to Holyrood must ride— Such was the king’s behest. Meanwhile the Lion’s care assigns A banquet rich, and costly wines, To Marmion and his train; And when the appointed hour succeeds, The baron dons his peaceful weeds, And following Lindesay as he leads, The palace-halls they gain.

VII.

Old Holyrood rung merrily That night with wassail, mirth, and glee: King James within her princely bower Feasted the chiefs of Scotland’s power, Summoned to spend the parting hour; For he had charged that his array Should southward march by break of day. Well loved that splendid monarch aye The banquet and the song, By day the tourney, and by night The merry dance, traced fast and light, The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, The revel loud and long. This feast outshone his banquets past: It was his blithest—and his last. The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, Cast on the Court a dancing ray; Here to the harp did minstrels sing; There ladies touched a softer string; With long-eared cap and motley vest The licensed fool retailed his jest; His magic tricks the juggler plied; At dice and draughts the gallants vied; While some, in close recess apart, Courted the ladies of their heart, Nor courted them in vain; For often in the parting hour Victorious Love asserts his power O’er coldness and disdain; And flinty is her heart, can view To battle march a lover true— Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, Nor own her share of pain.

VIII.

Through this mixed crowd of glee and game, The King to greet Lord Marmion came, While, reverent, all made room. An easy task it was, I trow, King James’s manly form to know, Although, his courtesy to show, He doffed, to Marmion bending low, His broidered cap and plume. For royal was his garb and mien: His cloak, of crimson velvet piled. Trimmed with the fur of martin wild; His vest of changeful satin sheen The dazzled eye beguiled; His gorgeous collar hung adown, Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown, The thistle brave, of old renown; His trusty blade, Toledo right, Descended from a baldric bright: White were his buskins, on the heel His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; His bonnet, all of crimson fair, Was buttoned with a ruby rare: And Marmion deemed he ne’er had seen A prince of such a noble mien.

IX.

The monarch’s form was middle size: For feat of strength or exercise Shaped in proportion fair; And hazel was his eagle eye, And auburn of the darkest dye His short curled beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists: And, oh! he had that merry glance That seldom lady’s heart resists. Lightly from fair to fair he flew, And loved to plead, lament, and sue— Suit lightly won and short-lived pain, For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. I said he joyed in banquet bower; But, ’mid his mirth, ’twas often strange How suddenly his cheer would change, His look o’ercast and lower, If, in a sudden turn, he felt The pressure of his iron belt, That bound his breast in penance pain, In memory of his father slain. Even so ’twas strange how, evermore, Soon as the passing pang was o’er Forward he rushed, with double glee, Into the stream of revelry: Thus dim-seen object of affright Startles the courser in his flight, And half he halts, half springs aside; But feels the quickening spur applied, And, straining on the tightened rein, Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.

X.

O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say, Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway: To Scotland’s Court she came, To be a hostage for her lord, Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored, And with the king to make accord Had sent his lovely dame. Nor to that lady free alone Did the gay king allegiance own; For the fair Queen of France Sent him a turquoise ring and glove, And charged him, as her knight and love, For her to break a lance; And strike three strokes with Scottish brand, And march three miles on Southron land, And bid the banners of his band In English breezes dance. And thus for France’s queen he drest His manly limbs in mailèd vest; And thus admitted English fair His inmost counsels still to share: And thus, for both, he madly planned The ruin of himself and land! And yet, the sooth to tell, Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen, Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, From Margaret’s eyes that fell, His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI.

The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day, The war against her native soil, Her monarch’s risk in battle broil; And in gay Holyrood the while Dame Heron rises with a smile Upon the harp to play. Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er The strings her fingers flew; And as she touched and tuned them all, Ever her bosom’s rise and fall Was plainer given to view; For, all for heat, was laid aside Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitched her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring; And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say Her pretty oath, By yea and nay, She could not, would not, durst not play! At length upon the harp with glee, Mingled with arch simplicity, A soft yet lively air she rung, While thus the wily lady sung:—

XII. LOCHINVAR.

Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone; So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all; Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword— For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word— “Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar— “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume: And the bride’s-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung. “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

XIII.

The monarch o’er the siren hung, And beat the measure as she sung; And, pressing closer and more near, He whispered praises in her ear. In loud applause the courtiers vied, And ladies winked and spoke aside. The witching dame to Marmion threw A glance, where seemed to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest too, A real or feigned disdain: Familiar was the look, and told Marmion and she were friends of old. The king observed their meeting eyes With something like displeased surprise: For monarchs ill can rivals brook, E’en in a word or smile or look. Straight took he forth the parchment broad Which Marmion’s high commission showed: “Our Borders sacked by many a raid, Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said; “On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en— Unworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne.”

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood, And with stern eye the pageant viewed— I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, Who coronet of Angus bore, And, when his blood and heart were high, Did the third James in camp defy, And all his minions led to die On Lauder’s dreary flat: Princes and favourites long grew tame, And trembled at the homely name Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat; The same who left the dusky vale Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, Its dungeons and its towers, Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air, And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, To fix his princely bowers. Though now in age he had laid down His armour for the peaceful gown, And for a staff his brand, Yet often would flash forth the fire That could in youth a monarch’s ire And minion’s pride withstand; And e’en that day, at council board, Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood, Against the war had Angus stood, And chafed his royal lord.

XV.