Walter Scott - Marmion

Even so ‘twas strange how, evermore,
Soon as the passing pang was o’er,
Forward he rush’d, with double glee,
Into the stream of revelry:

Thus, dim-seen object of affright
Startles the courser in his flight,
And half he halts, half springs aside;
But feels the quickening spur applied,
And, straining on the tighten’d rein,
Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.

O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:
To Scotland’s Court she came,
To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,
And with the King to make accord,
Had sent his lovely dame.

Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay King allegiance own;
For the fair Queen of France
Sent him a turquois ring and glove,
And charged him, as her knight and love,
For her to break a lance;
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on Southron land,
And bid the banners of his band
In English breezes dance.

And thus, for France’s Queen he drest
His manly limbs in mailed vest;

And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share;
And thus, for both, he madly plann’d
The ruin of himself and land!
And yet, the sooth to tell,
Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen,
From Margaret’s eyes that fell,-

His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch’s risk in battle broil:-
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er
The strings her fingers flew;
And as she touch’d and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom’s rise and fall
Was plainer given to view;

For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.

And first she pitch’d her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;

And laugh’d, and blush’d, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!

At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively, air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung:-

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
‘O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’-

‘I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’

The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper’d, ‘‘Twere better by far,
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

The Monarch o’er the siren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper’d praises in her ear.

In loud applause the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink’d, and spoke aside.

The witching dame to Marmion threw
A glance, where seem’d to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest too,
A real or feign’d disdain:

Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.
The King observed their meeting eyes,
With something like displeased surprise;
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.

Straight took he forth the parchment broad,
Which Marmion’s high commission show’d:

‘Our Borders sack’d by many a raid,
Our peaceful liege-men robb’d,’ he said;

‘On day of truce our Warden slain,
Stout Barton kill’d, his vessels ta’en-
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance cry in vain;

Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.’

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,
And with stern eye the pageant view’d:

I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,
Who coronet of Angus bore,
And, when his blood and heart were high,
Did the third James in camp defy,
And all his minions led to die
On Lauder’s dreary flat:
Princes and favourites long grew tame,
And trembled at the homely name
Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;

The same who left the dusky vale
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,
Its dungeons, and its towers,
Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,
To fix his princely bowers.