Walter Scott - Marmion

Though now, in age, he had laid down
His armour for the peaceful gown,
And for a staff his brand,
Yet often would flash forth the fire,
That could, in youth, a monarch’s ire
And minion’s pride withstand;

And even that day, at council board,
Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,
Against the war had Angus stood,
And chafed his royal Lord.

His giant-form, like ruin’d tower,
Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,
Seem’d o’er the gaudy scene to lower:

His locks and beard in silver grew;
His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
Near Douglas when the Monarch stood,
His bitter speech he thus pursued :

‘Lord Marmion, since these letters say
That in the North you needs must stay,

While slightest hopes of peace remain,
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
To say-Return to Lindisfarne,
Until my herald come again.-

Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,-
A chief unlike his sires of old.

He wears their motto on his blade,
Their blazon o’er his towers display’d;

Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country’s foes.

And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,
But e’en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first fruits of the war,
Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,
A bevy of the maids of Heaven.

Under your guard, these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades,
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochran’s soul may say.’

And, with the slaughter’d favourite’s name,
Across the Monarch’s brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

In answer nought could Angus speak;
His proud heart swell’d wellnigh to break:
He turn’d aside, and down his cheek
A burning tear there stole.
His hand the Monarch sudden took,
That sight his kind heart could not brook:
‘Now, by the Bruce’s soul,

Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live,
As he said of the Douglas old,
I well may say of you,-
That never King did subject hold,
In speech more free, in war more bold,
More tender and more true:

Forgive me, Douglas, once again.’-
And, while the King his hand did strain,
The old man’s tears fell down like rain.
To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whisper’d to the King aside:

‘Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed!
A child will weep a bramble’s smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,
A stripling for a woman’s heart:

But woe awaits a country, when
She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye!’

Displeased was James, that stranger view’d
And tamper’d with his changing mood.

‘Laugh those that can, weep those that may,’
Thus did the fiery Monarch say,
‘Southward I march by break of day;

And if within Tantallon strong,
The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
Perchance our meeting next may fall
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.’-

The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,
And answer’d, grave, the royal vaunt:

‘Much honour’d were my humble home,
If in its halls King James should come;
But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stem of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.

On Derby Hills the paths are steep;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;
And many a banner will be torn,
And many a knight to earth be borne,
And many a sheaf of arrows spent,
Ere Scotland’s King shall cross the Trent:

Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you may!’-
The Monarch lightly turn’d away,
And to his nobles loud did call,-
‘Lords, to the dance,-a hall! a hall!’
Himself his cloak and sword flung by,
And led Dame Heron gallantly;

And Minstrels, at the royal order,
Rung out-‘Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.’

Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,
Whose galley, as they sail’d again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.

Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide;
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summon’d to prepare
To journey under Marmion’s care,
As escort honour’d, safe, and fair,
Again to English land.

The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,
Nor knew which Saint she should implore;
For, when she thought of Constance, sore
She fear’d Lord Marmion’s mood.
And judge what Clara must have felt!
The sword, that hung in Marmion’s belt,
Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.

Unwittingly, King James had given,
As guard to Whitby’s shades,
The man most dreaded under heaven
By these defenceless maids:

Yet what petition could avail,
Or who would listen to the tale
Of woman, prisoner, and nun,
Mid bustle of a war begun?

They deem’d it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.

Their lodging, so the King assign’d,
To Marmion’s, as their guardian, join’d;

And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye,
Who warn’d him by a scroll,
She had a secret to reveal,
That much concern’d the Church’s weal,
And health of sinner’s soul;

And, with deep charge of secrecy,
She named a place to meet,
Within an open balcony,
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,
Above the stately street;

To which, as common to each home,
At night they might in secret come.

At night, in secret, there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.
The moon among the clouds rose high,
And all the city hum was by.

Upon the street, where late before
Did din of war and warriors roar,
You might have heard a pebble fall,
A beetle hum, a cricket sing,
An owlet flap his boding wing
On Giles’s steeple tall.

The antique buildings, climbing high,
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,
Were here wrapt deep in shade;
There on their brows the moon-beam broke,
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,
And on the casements play’d.

And other light was none to see,
Save torches gliding far,
Before some chieftain of degree,
Who left the royal revelry
To bowne him for the war.-

A solemn scene the Abbess chose;
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.