Walter Scott - Marmion

And here two days did Marmion rest,
With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the King’s own guest;-
Such the command of Royal James,
Who marshall’d then his land’s array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.

Perchance he would not foeman’s eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.

Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit
Oft cheer the Baron’s moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion’s powerful mind, and wise,-
Train’d in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace.

It chanced, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walk’d,
And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talk’d;

And, unaware, the Herald-bard
Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war:

And, closer question’d, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enroll’d:

Sir David Lindsey’s Tale.
‘Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;

And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,
How blithe the blackbird’s lay!
The wild buck bells from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father’s overthrow.

Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.

In offices as strict as Lent,
King James’s June is ever spent.

‘When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow’s holy dome
The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father’s soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying-

For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless King was slain-
In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him in their stalls of state,
The Thistle’s Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o’er them beaming.

I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen’d with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stain’d casement gleaming;
But, while I mark’d what next befell,
It seem’d as I were dreaming.

Stepp’d from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.-

Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,-
Seem’d to me ne’er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint,
Who propp’d the Virgin in her faint,-
The loved Apostle John!

‘He stepp’d before the Monarch’s chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made;
Nor head, nor body, bow’d nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
And words like these he said,
In a low voice,-but never tone
So thrill’d through vein, and nerve, and bone:-

“My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-
Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warn’d, beware:
God keep thee as He may!”-

The wondering monarch seem’d to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.

The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward pass’d;

But, lighter than the whirlwind’s blast,
He vanish’d from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.’

While Lindesay told his marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,
He mark’d not Marmion’s colour change,
While listening to the tale:

But, after a suspended pause,
The Baron spoke:-‘Of Nature’s laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause
Could e’er control their course;

And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game.

But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught.’-He staid,
And seem’d to wish his words unsaid:

But, by that strong emotion press’d,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery’s pain,
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford, to his train.

Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance, or of Clare;
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

‘In vain,’ said he, ‘to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch’d my head:
Fantastic thoughts return’d;
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burn’d.

So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach’d the camp upon the wold.

The southern entrance I pass’d through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.

Methought an answer met my ear,-
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

‘Thus judging, for a little space
I listen’d, ere I left the place;
But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they serve me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.-

I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,
In single fight, and mix’d affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
Seem’d starting from the gulf below,-
I care not though the truth I show,-
I trembled with affright;

And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
I scarce could couch it right.

‘Why need my tongue the issue tell?
We ran our course,-my charger fell;-
What could he ‘gainst the shock of hell?
I roll’d upon the plain.
High o’er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand,-
Yet did the worst remain: