Walter Scott - Marmion

Or other if they deem’d, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard:
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

His conscience slept-he deem’d her well,
And safe secured in yonder cell;

But, waken’d 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 venom’d throes,
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

And Constance, late betray’d and scorn’d,
All lovely on his soul return’d;

Lovely as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent’s peaceful wall,
Crimson’d with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike escape, pursuit,
Till love, victorious o’er alarms,
Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

‘Alas!’ he thought, ‘how changed that mien!
How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt, and of disguise,
Have steel’d her brow, and arm’d 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.’

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, knight-like, 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:-

‘A Clerk could tell what years have flown
Since Alexander fill’d our throne,
(Third monarch of that warlike name,)
And eke the time when here he came
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:
A braver never drew a sword;

A wiser never, at the hour
Of midnight, spoke the word of power:
The same, whom ancient records call
The founder of the Goblin-Hall.

I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay
Gave you that cavern to survey.

Of lofty roof, and ample size,
Beneath the castle deep it lies:

To hew the living rock profound,
The floor to pave, the arch to round,
There never toil’d a mortal arm,
It all was wrought by word and charm;

And I have heard my grandsire say,
That the wild clamour and affray
Of those dread artisans of hell,
Who labour’d under Hugo’s spell,
Sounded as loud as ocean’s war,
Among the caverns of Dunbar.

‘The King Lord Gifford’s castle sought,
Deep labouring with uncertain thought;
Even then he mustered all his host,
To meet upon the western coast;

For Norse and Danish galleys plied
Their oars within the Frith of Clyde.

There floated Haco’s banner trim,
Above Norweyan warriors grim,
Savage of heart, and large of limb;

Threatening both continent and isle,
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.

Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,
And tarried not his garb to change,
But, in his wizard habit strange,
Came forth,-a quaint and fearful sight;
His mantle lined with fox-skins white;

His high and wrinkled forehead bore
A pointed cap, such as of yore
Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:

His shoes were mark’d with cross and spell,
Upon his breast a pentacle;

His zone, of virgin parchment thin,
Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,
Bore many a planetary sign,
Combust, and retrograde, and trine;

And in his hand he held prepared,
A naked sword without a guard.

‘Dire dealings with the fiendish race
Had mark’d strange lines upon his face;

Vigil and fast had worn him grim,
His eyesight dazzled seem’d and dim,
As one unused to upper day;
Even his own menials with dismay
Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,
In his unwonted wild attire;

Unwonted, for traditions run,
He seldom thus beheld the sun.-

“I know,” he said,-his voice was hoarse,
And broken seem’d its hollow force,-
“I know the cause, although untold,
Why the King seeks his vassal’s hold:

Vainly from me my liege would know
His kingdom’s future weal or woe;
But yet, if strong his arm and heart,
His courage may do more than art.

‘“Of middle air the demons proud,
Who ride upon the racking cloud,
Can read, in fix’d or wandering star,
The issue of events afar;

But still their sullen aid withhold,
Save when by mightier force controll’d.

Such late I summon’d to my hall;
And though so potent was the call,
That scarce the deepest nook of hell
I deem’d a refuge from the spell,
Yet, obstinate in silence still,
The haughty demon mocks my skill.

But thou,-who little know’st thy might,
As born upon that blessed night
When yawning graves, and dying groan,
Proclaim’d hell’s empire overthrown,-
With untaught valour shalt compel
Response denied to magic spell.”-

“Gramercy,” quoth our Monarch free,
“Place him but front to front with me,
And, by this good and honour’d brand,
The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,
The demon shall a buffet bide.”-

His bearing bold the wizard view’d,
And thus, well pleased, his speech renew’d:-