Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,

And Constance was beloved no more.

‘Tis an old tale, and often told;

But did my fate and wish agree,

Ne’er had been read, in story old,

Of maiden true betrayed for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me.

XXVIII

“The king approved his favourite’s aim;

In vain a rival barred his claim,

Whose fate with Clare’s was plight,

For he attaints that rival’s fame

With treason’s charge—and on they came,

In mortal lists to fight.

Their oaths are said,

Their prayers are prayed,

Their lances in the rest are laid,

They meet in mortal shock;

And, hark! the throng, with thundering cry,

Shout ‘Marmion! Marmion!’ to the sky,

‘De Wilton to the block!’

Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide

When in the lists two champions ride,

Say, was Heaven’s justice here?

When, loyal in his love and faith,

Wilton found overthrow or death,

Beneath a traitor’s spear?

How false the charge, how true he fell,

This guilty packet best can tell.”

Then drew a packet from her breast,

Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest.

XXIX

“Still was false Marmion’s bridal stayed:

To Whitby’s convent fled the maid,

The hated match to shun.

‘Ho! shifts she thus?’ King Henry cried;

‘Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,

If she were sworn a nun.’

One way remained—the King’s command

Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:

I lingered here, and rescue planned

For Clara and for me:

This caitiff monk, for gold, did swear,

He would to Whitby’s shrine repair,

And, by his drugs, my rival fair

A saint in heaven should be.

But ill the dastard kept his oath,

Whose cowardice has undone us both.

XXX

“And now my tongue the secret tells,

Not that remorse my bosom swells,

But to assure my soul that none

Shall ever wed with Marmion.

Had fortune my last hope betrayed,

This packet, to the King conveyed,

Had given him to the headsman’s stroke,

Although my heart that instant broke.

Now, men of death, work forth your will,

For I can suffer, and be still;

And come he slow, or come he fast,

It is but Death who comes at last.

XXXI

“Yet dread me, from my living tomb,

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome!

If Marmion’s late remorse should wake,

Full soon such vengeance will he take,

That you shall wish the fiery Dane

Had rather been your guest again.

Behind, a darker hour ascends!

The altars quake, the crosier bends,

The ire of a despotic king

Rides forth upon destruction’s wing;

Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep,

Burst open to the sea-winds’ sweep;

Some traveller then shall find my bones

Whitening amid disjointed stones,

And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

Marvel such relics here should be.”

XXXII

Fixed was her look, and stern her air:

Back from her shoulders streamed her hair;

The locks, that wont her brow to shade,

Stared up erectly from her head;

Her figure seemed to rise more high;

Her voice, despair’s wild energy

Had given a tone of prophecy.

Appalled the astonished conclave sate:

With stupid eyes, the men of fate

Gazed on the light inspired form,

And listened for the avenging storm;

The judges felt the victim’s dread;

No hand was moved, no word was said,

Till thus the Abbot’s doom was given,

Raising his sightless balls to heaven:-

“Sister, let thy sorrows cease;

Sinful brother, part in peace!”

From that dire dungeon, place of doom,

Of execution too, and tomb,

Paced forth the judges three,

Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell

The butcher-work that there befell,

When they had glided from the cell

Of sin and misery.

XXXIII

A hundred winding steps convey

That conclave to the upper day;

But, ere they breathed the fresher air,

They heard the shriekings of despair,

And many a stifled groan:

With speed their upward way they take,

Such speed as age and fear can make,

And crossed themselves for terror’s sake,

As hurrying, tottering on:

Even in the vesper’s heavenly tone,

They seemed to hear a dying groan,

And bade the passing knell to toll

For welfare of a parting soul.

Slow o’er the midnight wave it swung,

Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;

To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled,

His beads the wakeful hermit told,

The Bamborough peasant raised his head,

But slept ere half a prayer he said;

So far was heard the mighty knell,

The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,

Spread his broad nostril to the wind,

Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couched him down beside the hind,

And quaked among the mountain fern,

To hear that sound so dull and stern.

To WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

Table of Contents

Like April morning clouds, that pass,

With varying shadow, o’er the grass,

And imitate, on field and furrow,

Life’s chequered scene of joy and sorrow;

Like streamlet of the mountain North,

Now in a torrent racing forth,

Now winding slow its silver train,

And almost slumbering on the plain;

Like breezes of the Autumn day,

Whose voice inconstant dies away,

And ever swells again as fast,

When the ear deems its murmur past;

Thus various, my romantic theme

Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.

Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace

Of light and shade’s inconstant race;

Pleased, views the rivulet afar,

Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze

Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;

Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,

Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale!

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell

I love the license all too well,

In sounds now lowly, and now strong,

To raise the desultory song?

Oft, when mid such capricious chime,

Some transient fit of lofty rhyme

To thy kind judgment seemed excuse

For many an error of the muse,

Oft hast thou said, “If, still misspent,

Thine hours to poetry are lent,

Go, and to tame thy wandering course,

Quaff from the fountain at the source;

Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb

Immortal laurels ever bloom:

Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard;

From them, and from the paths they showed,

Choose honoured guide and practised road:

Nor ramble on through brake and maze,

With harpers rude, of barbarous days.

“Or deem’st thou not our later time

Yields topic meet for classic rhyme?

Hast thou no elegiac verse

For Brunswick’s venerable hearse?

What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,

When valour bleeds for liberty?

Oh, hero of that glorious time,

When, with unrivalled light sublime -

Though martial Austria, and though all

The might of Russia, and the Gaul,

Though banded Europe stood her foes -

The star of Brandenburg arose!

Thou couldst not live to see her beam

For ever quenched in Jena’s stream.

Lamented chief!—it was not given

To thee to change the doom of Heaven,

And crush that dragon in its birth,

Predestined scourge of guilty earth.