Walter Scott - Marmion

My dazzled eyes I upward cast,-
Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight, like what I saw!
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!-
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.

I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead,-
I well believe the last;
For ne’er, from vizor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
So grimly and so ghast.

Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade;
But when to good Saint George I pray’d,
(The first time e’er I ask’d his aid),
He plunged it in the sheath;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem’d to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam droop’d, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.-

‘Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me there,
Call’d by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air:
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.’

Marvell’d Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learn’d in story, ‘gan recount
Such chance had happ’d of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,
With Brian Bulmer bold,
And train’d him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.

‘And such a phantom, too, ‘tis said,
With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid
And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pine-tree shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.

And yet, whate’er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,
On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold
These midnight terrors vain;

For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin.’-

Lord Marmion turn’d him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then press’d Sir David’s hand,-
But nought, at length, in answer said;
And here their farther converse staid,
Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland’s camp to take their way,
Such was the King’s command.

Early they took Dun-Edin’s road,
And I could trace each step they trode:
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.

Much might if boast of storied lore;
But, passing such digression o’er,
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.

They pass’d the glen and scanty rill,
And climb’d the opposing bank, until
They gain’d the top of Blackford Hill.

Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,
A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,
Saint Giles’s mingling din.

Now, from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
And o’er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.

To me they make a heavy moan,
Of early friendships past and gone.

But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down:-
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen
That chequer’d all the heath between
The streamlet and the town;

In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed the glaring white with green:

In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom’s vast array.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse’s rocky ledge:

From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;

The horses’ tramp, and tingling clank,
Where chiefs review’d their vassal rank,
And charger’s shrilling neigh;
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flash’d, from shield and lance,
The sun’s reflected ray.

Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of failing smoke declare
To embers now the brands decay’d,
Where the night-watch their fires had made.

They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery’s clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugg’d to war;

And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omen’d gift! the guns remain
The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.

Nor mark’d they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail’d, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
O’er the pavilions flew.

Highest, and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;
The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
Pitch’d deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard’s weight

Whene’er the western wind unroll’d,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,
The ruddy lion ramp’d in gold.

Lord Marmion view’d the landscape bright,-
He view’d it with a chiefs delight,-
Until within him burn’d his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.

‘Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay:
For, by St. George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm’d their armour’s shine
In glorious battle-fray!’

Answer’d the Bard, of milder mood:
‘Fair is the sight,-and yet ‘twere good,
That Kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land has bless’d,
‘Tis better to sit still at rest,
Than rise, perchance to fall.’

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay’d,
For fairer scene he ne’er survey’d.