Walter Scott - Marmion

Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady’s bower?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour?’

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;
He roll’d his kindling eye,
With pain his rising wrath suppress’d,
Yet made a calm reply:

‘That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,
He might not brook the northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarn:

Enough of him.-But, Heron, say,
Why does thy lovely lady gay
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage?’-

He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whisper’d light tales of Heron’s dame.

Unmark’d, at least unreck’d, the taunt,
Careless the Knight replied,
‘No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt,
Delights in cage to bide:

Norham is grim and grated close,
Hemm’d in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower;

And better loves my lady bright
To sit in liberty and light,
In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.

We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove;
But where shall we find leash or band,
For dame that loves to rove?

Let the wild falcon soar her swing,
She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.’―

‘Nay, if with Royal James’s bride
The lovely Lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger,
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;

For, to the Scottish court address’d,
I journey at our King’s behest,
And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me, and mine, a trusty guide.

I have not ridden in Scotland since
James back’d the cause of that mock prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.

Then did I march with Surrey’s power,
What time we razed old Ayton tower.’-

‘For such-like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow;
For here be some have prick’d as far,
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;

Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,
And given them light to set their hoods.’-

‘Now, in good sooth,’ Lord Marmion cried,
‘Were I in warlike wise to ride,
A better guard I would not lack,
Than your stout forayers at my back;

But as in form of peace I go,
A friendly messenger, to know,
Why through all Scotland, near and far,
Their King is mustering troops for war,

The sight of plundering Border spears
Might justify suspicious fears,
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,
Break out in some unseemly broil:

A herald were my fitting guide;
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;
Or pardoner, or travelling priest,
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.’

The Captain mused a little space,
And pass’d his hand across his face.
-’Fain would I find the guide you want,
But ill may spare a pursuivant,

The only men that safe can ride
Mine errands on the Scottish side:
And though a bishop built this fort,
Few holy brethren here resort;

Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege, we have not seen:
The mass he might not sing or say,
Upon one stinted meal a-day;

So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,
And pray’d for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, woe betide,
Is all too well in case to ride;

The priest of Shoreswood-he could rein
The wildest war-horse in your train;
But then, no spearman in the hall
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.

Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:
A blithesome brother at the can,
A welcome guest in hall and bower,
He knows each castle, town, and tower,

In which the wine and ale is good,
‘Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.
But that good man, as ill befalls,
Hath seldom left our castle walls,

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,
In evil hour, he cross’d the Tweed,
To teach Dame Alison her creed.
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;
And John, an enemy to strife,
Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.

The jealous churl hath deeply swore,
That, if again he venture o’er,
He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know;
Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.’

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carved to his uncle and that lord,
And reverently took up the word.

‘Kind uncle, woe were we each one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach;

Full well at tables can he play,
And sweep at bowls the stake away.

None can a lustier carol bawl,
The needfullest among us all,
When time hangs heavy in the hall,

And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,
And we can neither hunt, nor ride
A foray on the Scottish side.

The vow’d revenge of Bughtrig rude,
May end in worse than loss of hood.

Let Friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:

Last night, to Norham there came one,
Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-

‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,
Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-

‘Here is a holy Palmer come,
From Salem first, and last from Rome;
One, that hath kiss’d the blessed tomb,

And visited each holy shrine,
In Araby and Palestine;
On hills of Armenie hath been,
Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen;

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,
Which parted at the Prophet’s rod;
In Sinai’s wilderness he saw
The Mount, where Israel heard the law,

‘Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.
He shows Saint James’s cockle-shell,
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

And of that Grot where Olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.

‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins’ pardon hath he pray’d.

He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;
Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the stream or lake.