Walter Scott - Marmion

Oft Austin for my reason fear’d,
When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,
Or wild mad schemes uprear’d.

My friend at length fell sick, and said,
God would remove him soon:
And, while upon his dying bed,
He begg’d of me a boon-
If e’er my deadliest enemy
Beneath my brand should conquer’d lie,
Even then my mercy should awake,
And spare his life for Austin’s sake.

‘Still restless as a second Cain,
To Scotland next my route was ta’en,
Full well the paths I knew.
Fame of my fate made various sound,
That death in pilgrimage I found,
That I had perish’d of my wound,-
None cared which tale was true:

And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer’s dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm’d my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass.

A chance most wondrous did provide,
That I should be that Baron’s guide-
I will not name his name!-
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think on all my wrongs,
My blood is liquid flame!

And ne’er the time shall I forget,
When in a Scottish hostel set,
Dark looks we did exchange:
What were his thoughts I cannot tell;
But in my bosom muster’d Hell
Its plans of dark revenge.

‘A word of vulgar augury,
That broke from me, I scarce knew why,
Brought on a village tale;
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth by night.
I borrow’d steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band;
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and ‘counter’d, hand to hand,-
He fell on Gifford-moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew,
(O then my helmed head he knew,
The Palmer’s cowl was gone,)
Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid,-
My hand the thought of Austin staid;
I left him there alone.-

O good old man! even from the grave,
Thy spirit could thy master save:

If I had slain my foeman, ne’er
Had Whitby’s Abbess, in her fear,
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton’s name.-

Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,
That broke our secret speech-
It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle play’d,
A tale of peace to teach.

Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,
When my name came among the rest.

‘Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom my house was known of old.

Won by my proofs, his falchion bright
This eve anew shall dub me knight.

These were the arms that once did turn
The tide of fight on Otterburne,
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the Dead Douglas won the field.

These Angus gave-his armourer’s care,
Ere morn, shall every breach repair;

For nought, he said, was in his halls,
But ancient armour on the walls,
And aged chargers in the stalls,
And women, priests, and grey-hair’d men;
The rest were all in Twisel glen.

And now I watch my armour here,
By law of arms, till midnight’s near;

Then, once again a belted knight,
Seek Surrey’s camp with dawn of light.

‘There soon again we meet, my Clare!
This Baron means to guide thee there:
Douglas reveres his King’s command,
Else would he take thee from his band.

And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too,
Will give De Wilton justice due.
Now meeter far for martial broil,
Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil,
Once more’-‘O Wilton! must we then
Risk new-found happiness again,
Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not an humble glen,
Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid
Thy task on dale and moor?-

That reddening brow!-too well I know,
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,
While falsehood stains thy name:
Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!
Clare can a warrior’s feelings know,
And weep a warrior’s shame;
Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel,
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,
And belt thee with thy brand of steel,
And send thee forth to fame!’

That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,
And pour’d its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,
Upon Tantallon tower and hall;
But chief where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel’s pride,
The sober glances fall.

Much was there need; though seam’d with scars,
Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars,
Though two grey priests were there,
And each a blazing torch held high,
You could not by their blaze descry
The chapel’s carving fair.

Amid that dim and smoky light,
Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright,
A bishop by the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet show’d his meek and thoughtful eye
But little pride of prelacy;
More pleased that, in a barbarous age,
He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.

Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doff’d his furr’d gown, and sable hood:
O’er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;

And lean’d his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman’s limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.

He seem’d as, from the tombs around
Rising at judgment-day,
Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old array;

So pale his face, so huge his limb,
So old his arms, his look so grim.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt,
At buckling of the falchion belt!

And judge how Clara changed her hue,
While fastening to her lover’s side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
He once had found untrue!

Then Douglas struck him with his blade:
‘Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,
I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir!
For King, for Church, for Lady fair,
See that thou fight.’-

And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said-‘Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace, and trouble;
For He, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.’-

De Wilton sobb’d, for sob he must-
‘Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother!’
‘Nay, nay,’ old Angus said, ‘not so;
To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.