Walter Scott - Marmion

For little did Fitz-Eustace know,
That passions, in contending flow,
Unfix the strongest mind;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,
Guide confident, though blind.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,
But, patient, waited till he heard,
At distance, prick’d to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed,
Come town-ward rushing on;
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
Then, clattering on the village road,-
In other pace than forth he yode,
Return’d Lord Marmion.

Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell;

To the squire’s hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But yet the moonlight did betray,
The falcon-crest was soil’d with clay;

And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger’s knee,
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.

Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines,
Broken and short; for still, between,
Would dreams of terror intervene:

Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.

An ancient Minstrel sagely said,
‘Where is the life which late we led?’
That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jacques with envy view’d,
Not even that clown could amplify,
On this trite text, so long as I.

Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand;

And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.

Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone;

And though deep mark’d, like all below,
With chequer’d shades of joy and woe;

Though thou o’er realms and seas hast ranged,
Mark’d cities lost, and empires changed,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;

Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fever’d the progress of these years,
Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem
The recollection of a dream,
So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day,
Since first I tuned this idle lay;

A task so often’ thrown aside,
When leisure graver cares denied,
That now, November’s dreary gale,
Whose voice inspired my opening tale,
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.

Their vex’d boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,
Have donn’d their wintry shrouds again:
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.

Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix’d with the rack, the snow mists fly;

The shepherd who, in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;-

He who, outstretch’d the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View’d the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumber’d o’er his tatter’d book,
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o’er the lessen’d tide;-
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun,
Through heavy vapours dark and dun;

When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,
Against the casement’s tinkling pane;

The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;

Till, dark above, and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.

Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;

Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid:

His flock he gathers, and he guides,
To open downs, and mountain-sides,
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.

The blast, that whistles o’er the fells,
Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back, while streaming far,
His cottage window seems a star,-
Loses its feeble gleam,-and then
Turns patient to the blast again,

And, facing to the tempest’s sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;

His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffen’d swain:

The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;

And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master’s breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree,
His rustic kirn’s loud revelry,
His native hill-notes, tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye;

His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia’s golden creed?

Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene?

Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage,
Against the winter of our age:

As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy;

But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Call’d ancient Priam forth to arms.

Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,-
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;

Whose lenient sorrows find relief,
Whose joys are chasten’d by their grief.

And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou, of late, wert doom’d to twine,―
Just when thy bridal hour was by,-
The cypress with the myrtle tie.

Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled,
And bless’d the union of his child,
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection’s filial tear.

Nor did the actions next his end,
Speak more the father than the friend:
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid
The tribute to his Minstrel’s shade;