Walter Scott - Marmion

This were a guide o’er moor and dale;
But, when our John hath quaff’d his ale,
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.’-

‘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 Holy-Rood,
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.’-

‘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 listen’d at his cell;
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmur’d 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 mark’d ten aves, and two creeds.’-

-‘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 summon’d 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
Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.

When as the Palmer came in hall,
Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or look’d 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 look ‘d haggard wild:

Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burn’d 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.

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 blessed well,
Whose spring 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!’

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 drain’d it merrily;

Alone the Palmer pass’d it by,
Though Selby press’d him courteously.
This was a sign the feast was o’er;
It hush’d the merry wassel roar,
The minstrels ceased to sound.

Soon in the castle nought was heard,
But the slow footstep of the guard,
Pacing his sober round.

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 pass’d
That noble train, their Lord the last.

Then loudly rung the trumpet call;
Thunder’d 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 roli’d forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.