Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

And rested with his head a space

Reclining on his hand.

His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,

That, could their import have been seen,

The meanest groom in all the hall,

That e’er tied courser to a stall,

Would scarce have wished to be their prey,

For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII

High minds, of native pride and force,

Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,

Thou art the torturer of the brave!

Yet fatal strength they boast to steel

Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,

Even while they writhe beneath the smart

Of civil conflict in the heart.

For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,

And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said -

“Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,

Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,

Such as in nunneries they toll

For some departing sister’s soul;

Say, what may this portend?”

Then first the Palmer silence broke,

(The livelong day he had not spoke)

“The death of a dear friend.”

XIV

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,

Even from his king, a haughty look:

Whose accent of command controlled,

In camps, the boldest of the bold;

Thought, look, and utterance failed him now -

Fall’n was his glance, and flushed his brow:

For either in the tone,

Or something in the Palmer’s look,

So full upon his conscience strook,

That answer he found none.

Thus oft it haps, that when within

They shrink at sense of secret sin,

A feather daunts the brave;

A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,

And proudest princes veil their eyes

Before their meanest slave.

XV

Well might he falter!—By his aid

Was Constance Beverley betrayed.

Not that he augured of the doom,

Which on the living closed the tomb:

But, tired to hear the desperate maid

Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid;

And wroth, because in wild despair

She practised on the life of Clare;

Its fugitive the Church he gave,

Though not a victim, but a slave;

And deemed restraint in convent strange

Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge.

Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,

Held Romish thunders idle fear;

Secure his pardon he might hold,

For some slight mulct of penance-gold.

Thus judging, he gave secret way,

When the stern priests surprised their prey.

His train but deemed the favourite page

Was left behind, to spare his age

Or other if they deemed, none dared

To mutter what he thought and heard;

Woe to the vassal, who durst pry

Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

XVI

His conscience slept, he deemed her well,

And safe secured in distant cell;

But, wakened by her favourite lay,

And that strange Palmer’s boding say,

That fell so ominous and drear

Full on the object of his fear,

To aid remorse’s venomed throes

Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

And Constance, late betrayed and scorned,

All lovely on his soul returned;

Lovely as when, at treacherous call,

She left her convent’s peaceful wall,

Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute,

Dreading alike, escape, pursuit,

Till love, victorious o’er alarms,

Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

XVII

“Alas!” he thought, “how changed that mien!

How changed these timid looks have been,

Since years of guilt and of disguise

Have steeled her brow, and armed her eyes!

No more of virgin terror speaks

The blood that mantles in her cheeks:

Fierce and unfeminine, are there,

Frenzy for joy, for grief despair:

And I the cause—for whom were given

Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!

Would,” thought he, as the picture grows,

“I on its stalk had left the rose!

Oh, why should man’s success remove

The very charms that wake his love!

Her convent’s peaceful solitude

Is now a prison harsh and rude;

And, pent within the narrow cell,

How will her spirit chafe and swell!

How brook the stern monastic laws!

The penance how—and I the cause!

Vigil and scourge—perchance even worse!”

And twice he rose to cry, “To horse!”

And twice his sovereign’s mandate came,

Like damp upon a kindling flame;

And twice he thought, “Gave I not charge

She should be safe, though not at large?

They durst not, for their island, shred

One golden ringlet from her head.”

XVIII

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove

Repentance and reviving love,

Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway

I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,

Their host the Palmer’s speech had heard,

And, talkative, took up the word:

“Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray

From Scotland’s simple land away,

To visit realms afar,

Full often learn the art to know

Of future weal, or future woe,

By word, or sign, or star;

Yet might a knight his fortune hear,

If, knightlike, he despises fear,

Not far from hence; if fathers old

Aright our hamlet legend told.”

These broken words the menials move,

For marvels still the vulgar love,

And, Marmion giving license cold,

His tale the host thus gladly told:

XIX

The Host’s Tale

“A clerk could tell what years have flown

Since Alexander filled our throne,

Third monarch of that warlike name,

And eke the time when here he came

To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord;

A braver never drew a sword;

A wiser never, at the hour

Of midnight, spoke the word of power:

The same, whom ancient records call

The founder of the Goblin Hall.

I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay

Gave you that cavern to survey.

Of lofty roof, and ample size,

Beneath the castle deep it lies:

To hew the living rock profound,

The floor to pave, the arch to round,

There never toiled a mortal arm -

It all was wrought by word and charm;

And I have heard my grandsire say,

That the wild clamour and affray

Of those dread artisans of hell,

Who laboured under Hugo’s spell,

Sounded as loud as ocean’s war

Among the caverns of Dunbar.

XX

“The king Lord Gifford’s castle sought,

Deep labouring with uncertain thought:

Even then he mustered all his host,

To meet upon the western coast:

For Norse and Danish galleys plied

Their oars within the frith of Clyde.

There floated Haco’s banner trim,

Above Norwayan warriors grim,

Savage of heart, and large of limb;

Threatening both continent and isle,

Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.

Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,

Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,

And tarried not his garb to change,

But, in his wizard habit strange,

Came forth—a quaint and fearful sight:

His mantle lined with fox-skins white;

His high and wrinkled forehead bore

A pointed cap, such as of yore

Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:

His shoes were marked with cross and spell,

Upon his breast a pentacle;

His zone, of virgin parchment thin,

Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,

Bore many a planetary sign,

Combust, and retrograde, and trine;

And in his hand he held prepared

A naked sword without a guard.

XXI