Chapter 9

HEAP on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We’ll keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; E’en, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew; Then in his low and pine-built hall, Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone; Or listened all, in grim delight, While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, While wildly-loose their red locks fly, And dancing round the blazing pile, They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recall The boist’rous joys of Odin’s hall. And well our Christian sires of old Loved, when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night; On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung; That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron’s hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of “post and pair.” All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall table’s oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell, How, when, and where, the monster fell: What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roared with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But oh! what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. ’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; ’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale: A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man’s heart through half the year. Still linger, in our Northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim To Southern ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain-stream. And thus my Christmas still I hold Where my great grandsire came of old, With amber beard, and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic air— The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: Small thought was his in after time E’er to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land—but kept his beard. In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand Of the fair dame that rules the land. Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer, Speed on their wings the passing year. And Mertoun’s halls are fair e’en now, When not a leaf is on the bough. Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace: Gladly as he, we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home. How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour we’ve known, And heard the chimes of midnight’s tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, “Were pretty fellows in their day;” But time and tide o’er all prevail— On Christmas eve a Christmas tale, Of wonder and of war—“Profane! What! leave the loftier Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse’s charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjuror and ghost, Goblin and witch!” Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:—in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides’ _wraith_; Æneas, upon Thracia’s shore, The ghost of murdered Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, _locutus Bos_. As grave and duly speaks that ox, As if he told the price of stocks Or held in Rome republican, The place of common-councilman. All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look—the peasant see Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun “the spirit’s blasted tree.” The Highlander, whose red claymore The battle turned on Maida’s shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If asked to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful elfin king, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Did’st e’er, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchèmont, Which, like an eagle’s nest in air, Hang o’er the stream and hamlet fair; Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amassed through rapine and through wrong, By the last Lord of Franchèmont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A huntsman sits, its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: And ’twere not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle e’er in brake did sound, Or ever hallooed to a hound. To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged necromantic priest: It is an hundred years at least, Since ’twixt them first the strife begun, And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the conjuror’s words will make The stubborn demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, Fast as ’tis opened, shuts again. That magic strife within the tomb May last until the day of doom, Unless the adept shall learn to tell The very word that clenched the spell, When Franchèmont locked the treasure cell. A hundred years are past and gone, And scarce three letters has he won. Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from heaven, That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland’s king, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the monk of Durham’s tale, Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Gifford’s goblin-cave. But why such instances to you, Who in an instant can renew Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franchèmont chest, While gripple owners still refuse To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest’s whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfered gem. Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can like the owner’s self enjoy them? But, hark! I hear the distant drum! The day of Flodden Field is come. Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth!

CANTO SIXTH. The Battle.

I.

WHILE great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanour, changed and cold, Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war He snuffed the battle from afar; And hopes were none, that back again Herald should come from Terouenne, Where England’s king in leaguer lay, Before decisive battle-day; Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the dame’s devotions share: For the good countess ceaseless prayed To Heaven and saints, her sons to aid, And with short interval did pass From prayer to book, from book to mass, And all in high baronial pride— A life both dull and dignified; Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed Upon her intervals of rest, Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthened prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart.

II.

I said, Tantallon’s dizzy steep Hung o’er the margin of the deep. Many a rude tower and rampart there Repelled the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vexed the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. Above the rest, a turret square Did o’er its Gothic entrance bear, Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; The bloody heart was in the field, And in the chief three mullets stood, The cognisance of Douglas blood. The turret held a narrow stair, Which, mounted, gave you access where A parapet’s embattled row Did seaward round the castle go. Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, Sometimes in platform broad extending, Its varying circle did combine Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign: Above the booming ocean leant The far projecting battlement; The billows burst in ceaseless flow Upon the precipice below. Where’er Tantallon faced the land, Gateworks and walls were strongly manned; No need upon the sea-girt side; The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Approach of human step denied; And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, Were left in deepest solitude.

III.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there, And list the sea-bird’s cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark grey bulwark’s side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. Oft did the cliff, and swelling main, Recall the thoughts of Whitby’s fane— A home she ne’er might see again; For she had laid adown, So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, And frontlet of the cloister pale, And Benedictine gown: It were unseemly sight, he said, A novice out of convent shade. Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, Again adorned her brow of snow; Her mantle rich, whose borders round, A deep and fretted broidery bound, In golden foldings sought the ground; Of holy ornament, alone Remained a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broidered o’er, Her breviary book. In such a place, so lone, so grim, At dawning pale, or twilight dim, It fearful would have been To meet a form so richly dressed, With book in hand, and cross on breast, And such a woeful mien. Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, And did by Mary swear— Some lovelorn fay she might have been, Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen; For ne’er, in work-day world, was seen A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide, It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And, sighing, thought—“The Abbess, there, Perchance, does to her home repair; Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, Walks hand in hand with Charity; Where oft Devotion’s trancèd glow Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, That the enraptured sisters see High vision, and deep mystery; The very form of Hilda fair, Hovering upon the sunny air, And smiling on her votaries’ prayer. Oh! wherefore, to my duller eye, Did still the saint her form deny! Was it that, seared by sinful scorn, My heart could neither melt nor burn? Or lie my warm affections low, With him, that taught them first to glow? Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, To pay thy kindness grateful due, And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! condemned to bide My doom from this dark tyrant’s pride. But Marmion has to learn, ere long, That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloucester’s Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne’er shall bend, although he break.”

V.

“But see;—what makes this armour here?” For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm;—she viewed them near. “The breast-plate pierced!—Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou ’gainst foeman’s spear, That hath made fatal entrance here, As these dark blood-gouts say. Thus, Wilton! Oh! not corslet’s ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom’s guard, On yon disastrous day!” She raised her eyes in mournful mood— Wilton himself before her stood! It might have seemed his passing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; And joy unwonted, and surprise, Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. Expect not, noble dames and lords, That I can tell such scene in words: What skilful limner e’er would choose To paint the rainbow’s varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven? Far less can my weak line declare Each changing passion’s shade: Bright’ning to rapture from despair, Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, And joy, with her angelic air, And hope, that paints the future fair, Their varying hues displayed: Each o’er its rival’s ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending. Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, And mighty Love retains the field. Shortly I tell what then he said, By many a tender word delayed, And modest blush, and bursting sigh, And question kind, and fond reply:—

VI. DE WILTON’S HISTORY.

“Forget we that disastrous day, When senseless in the lists I lay. Thence dragged—but how I cannot know, For, sense and recollection fled, I found me on a pallet low, Within my ancient beadsman’s shed. Austin—remember’st thou, my Clare, How thou didst blush, when the old man, When first our infant love began, Said we would make a matchless pair? Menials and friends and kinsmen fled From the degraded traitor’s bed— He only held my burning head, And tended me for many a day, While wounds and fever held their sway But far more needful was his care, When sense returned to wake despair; For I did tear the closing wound, And dash me frantic on the ground, If e’er I heard the name of Clare. At length, to calmer reason brought, Much by his kind attendance wrought, With him I left my native strand, And, in a palmer’s weeds arrayed. My hated name and form to shade I journeyed many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason feared, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes upreared. My friend at length fell sick, and said, God would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed, He begged of me a boon— If e’er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquered lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin’s sake.

VII.

“Still restless as a second Cain, To Scotland next my route was ta’en, Full well the paths I knew. Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perished of my wound— None cared which tale was true: And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his palmer’s dress; For now that sable slough is shed, And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the glass. A chance most wondrous did provide That I should be that baron’s guide— I will not name his name!— Vengeance to God alone belongs; But when I think on all my wrongs, My blood is liquid flame! And ne’er the time shall I forget, When, in a Scottish hostel set, Dark looks we did exchange: What were his thoughts I cannot tell; But in my bosom mustered Hell Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII.

“A word of vulgar augury, That broke from me, I scarce knew why, Brought on a village tale; Which wrought upon his moody sprite, And sent him arméd forth by night. I borrowed steed and mail, And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, We met, and countered hand to hand— He fell on Gifford Moor. For the death-stroke my brand I drew— Oh, then my helmdd head he knew, The palmer’s cowl was gone— Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid— My hand the thought of Austin stayed; I left him there alone. O good old man! even from the grave, Thy spirit could thy master save: If I had slain my foeman, ne’er Had Whitby’s Abbess, in her fear, Given to my hand this packet dear, Of power to clear my injured fame, And vindicate De Wilton’s name. Perchance you heard the Abbess tell Of the strange pageantry of Hell, That broke our secret speech— It rose from the infernal shade, Or featly was some juggle played, A tale of peace to teach. Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.

IX.

“Now here, within Tantallon Hold, To Douglas late my tale I told, To whom my house was known of old. Won by my proofs, his falchion bright This eve anew shall dub me knight. These were the arms that once did turn The tide of fight on Otterburne, And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, When the dead Douglas won the field. These Angus gave—his armourer’s care, Ere morn, shall every breach repair; For naught, he said, was in his halls, But ancient armour on the walls, And aged chargers in the stalls, And women, priests, and grey-haired 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 moonbeam slumbering lay, And poured its silver light, and pure, Through loophole, and through embrazure, Upon Tantallon’s tower and hall; But chief where archéd windows wide Illuminate the chapel’s pride, The sober glances fall. Much was there need; though, seamed 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 moonshine bright, A bishop by the altar stood, A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet showed 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, Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood: O’er his huge form and visage pale He wore a cap and shirt of mail; And leaned 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 seemed 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 sobbed, for sob he must— “Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust That Douglas is my brother!” “Nay, nay,” old Douglas 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.