Walter Scott - Marmion

The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator’s heart was cold-
Far may we search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!

But not around his honour’d urn,
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;

The thousand eyes his care had dried,
Pour at his name a bitter tide;

And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne’er knew.

If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty’s attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
‘The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.’

Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme;
for sacred was the pen that wrote,
‘Thy father’s friend forget thou not:’

And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:-
‘Tis little-but ‘tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;

When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,-
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;

Thou gravely labouring to pourtray
The blighted oak’s fantastic spray;

I spelling o’er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, yclep’d the White.

At either’s feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other’s motions view’d,
And scarce suppress’d their ancient feud.

The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;

From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossom’d bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,
When Winter stript the summer’s bowers.

Careless we heard, what now I hear,
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps beam’d gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunn’d to quaff the sparkling bowl.
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,
The longer miss’d, bewail’d the more;

And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-,
And one whose name I may not say,-
For not Mimosa’s tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-
In merry chorus well combined,
With laughter drown’d the whistling wind.

Mirth was within; and care without
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene-
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:

For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day, or the drill,
Seem less important now-yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!

And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew.

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.

The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

Whistling they came, and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarranged.

Some clamour’d loud for armour lost;
Some brawl’d and wrangled with the host;
‘By Becket’s bones,’ cried one, ‘I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!’-

Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress’d him sleek and fair.

While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,-
‘Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:
To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he loves so well?’-

Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;

Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,-
‘What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.’

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess’d,
Nor wholly understood,
His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppress’d;
He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.

Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
And did his tale display
Simply, as if he knew of nought
To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvell’d at the wonders told,-
Pass’d them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckon’d with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
‘Ill thou deservest thy hire,’ he said;

‘Dost see, thou knave, my horse’s plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night,
And left him in a foam!
I trust, that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross, and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home:

For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.’-
The laughing host look’d on the hire,-
‘Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.’

Here stay’d their talk,-for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journey’d all the morning day.

The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood;

A forest-glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches made.
‘A pleasant path,’ Fitz-Eustace said;
‘Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry;

Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;