Chapter 24

The train from out the castle drew; But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:-- "Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I stayed,-- Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:-- "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone, From turret to foundation-stone;-- The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp!" Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And--"This to me!" he said,-- "An 't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, Haughty peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, E'en in thy pitch of pride, Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near-- (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied! And if thou said'st I am not a peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" On the earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then, To beard the lion in his den,-- The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!-- Up drawbridge, grooms! what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need,-- And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous gate behind him rung: To pass, there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim: And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, A shout of loud defiance pours, And shakes his gauntlet at the towers! Sir W. Scott.

CLXV.

HIGHLAND WAR-SONG.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset! Sir W. Scott.

CLXVI.

DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.

The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:--

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father!' from those dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"But death is on thee; I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;-- But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee. Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'T is hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee!-- And thy dark skin!--oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively as if in prayer; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently--and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. N. P. Willis.

CLXVII.

"LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE."

Look not upon the wine when it Is red within the cup! Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, A spell of madness lurks below. They say 't is pleasant on the lip, And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood, And dulls the tooth of pain. Ay--but within its glowing deeps A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire, Its coolness change to thirst; And, by its mirth, within the brain A sleepless worm is nursed. There's not a bubble at the brim That does not carry food for him.

Then dash the brimming cup aside, And spill its purple wine; Take not its madness to thy lip-- Let not its curse be thine. 'T is red and rich but grief and woe Are in those rosy depths below. N. P. Willis.

CLXVIII.

THE LEPER.

Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail; and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:--

"Depart! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod, And to the desert-wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free.

"Depart! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er. And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide; Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him, Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod-- Depart! O leper! and forget not God!"

And he went forth--alone! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way, Sick and heart-broken, and alone--to die! For God had cursed the leper!

It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips, Praying he might be so blest--to die! Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean!--unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name-- "Helon!" The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument--most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon arise!" And he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before him.

Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye, As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a lofty lineage wore; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear--yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His lips, The lion would have crouched to in his lair. His garb was simple, and His sandals worn; His statue modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touched with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; His hair, unshorn, Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart was moved; and stooping down, He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped him. N. P. Willis.

CLXLX.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere, Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-- The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, hiss fine earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of His thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his fight

"Bring me the captive, now! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens--around me play Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back! Look!--as Prometheus in my picture here! Quick!--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near! Now--bend him on the rack! Press down the poisoned links into his flesh! And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So,--let him writhe! How long Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! What a fine agony works upon his brow! Ha! gray-haired and so strong! How fearfully he stifles that short moan! Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar-- But does the robed priest for his pity falter? I'd rack thee, though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine-- What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"But, there's a deathless name! A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn-- And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone-- By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay--though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-- Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-- Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild--

"All--I would do it all-- Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-- Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! O heavens!--but I appall Your heart, old man!--forgive--ha! on your lives Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

"Vain--vain--give o'er. His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-- Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! Gods! if he do not die, But for one moment--one--till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath-- Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death? Look! how his temple flutters! Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! He shudders--gasps--Jove help him--so--he's dead."

How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought, And enthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's life, We look upon our splendor, and forget The thirst of which we perish! Oh, if earth be all, and heaven nothing, What thrice mocked fools are we! N. P. Willis.

CLXX.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

The flames rolled on. He would not go Without his father's word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: "say, father, say If yet my task is done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh! where was he! Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart! Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXI.

THE BENDED BOW.

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was poured on the free winds far,

As the land rose up at the sound of war: Heard ye not the battle horn? Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven; Swords must flash, and spears be riven: Leave it for the winds to shed,-- Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red! And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Hunter! leave the mountain chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day; Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungalled sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh! And the hunter armed, ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fire gives ruddy light, Leave the hearth and leave the hall,-- Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall! And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

Prince! thy father's deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd's lay is sung, Where the minstrel's harp is strung! Foes are on thy native sea,-- Give our bards a tale of thee! And the prince came armed, like a leader's son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on. Mother! stay thou not thy boy! He must learn the battle's joy. Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part; Britain calls the strong in heart! And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song of a battle won. Mrs. Hemans.

CLXXII.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant shore?-- Shall we not seek it and weep no more?-- Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle boughs?" --"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" --"Not there, not there, my child!"