Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

“Dire dealings with the fiendish race

Had marked strange lines upon his face:

Vigil and fast had worn him grim,

His eyesight dazzled seemed and dim,

As one unused to upper day;

Even his own menials with dismay

Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire,

In his unwonted wild attire;

Unwonted, for traditions run,

He seldom thus beheld the sun.

‘I know,’ he said—his voice was hoarse,

And broken seemed its hollow force -

‘I know the cause, although untold,

Why the king seeks his vassal’s hold:

Vainly from me my liege would know

His kingdom’s future weal or woe

But yet, if strong his arm and heart,

His courage may do more than art.

XXII

“‘Of middle air the demons proud,

Who ride upon the racking cloud,

Can read, in fixed or wandering star,

The issues of events afar;

But still their sullen aid withhold,

Save when by mightier force controlled.

Such late I summoned to my hall;

And though so potent was the call,

That scarce the deepest nook of hell

I deemed a refuge from the spell,

Yet, obstinate in silence still,

The haughty demon mocks my skill.

But thou—who little know’st thy might,

As born upon that blessed night

When yawning graves, and dying groan,

Proclaimed hell’s empire overthrown -

With untaught valour shalt compel

Response denied to magic spell.’

‘Gramercy,’ quoth our monarch free,

Place him but front to front with me,

And by this good and honoured brand,

The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,

Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,

The demon shall a buffet bide.’

His bearing bold the wizard viewed,

And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed:

‘There spoke the blood of Malcolm!—mark:

Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,

The rampart seek, whose circling crown

Crests the ascent of yonder down:

A southern entrance shalt thou find;

There halt, and there thy bugle wind,

And trust thine elfin foe to see,

In guise of thy worst enemy:

Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed -

Upon him! and Saint George to speed!

If he go down, thou soon shalt know

Whate’er these airy sprites can show;

If thy heart fail thee in the strife,

I am no warrant for thy life.’

XXIII

“Soon as the midnight bell did ring,

Alone, and armed, forth rode the king

To that old camp’s deserted round:

Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound

Lefthand the town—the Pictish race,

The trench, long since, in blood did trace:

The moor around is brown and bare,

The space within is green and fair.

The spot our village children know,

For there the earliest wildflowers grow;

But woe betide the wandering wight

That treads its circle in the night!

The breadth across, a bowshot clear,

Gives ample space for full career:

Opposed to the four points of heaven,

By four deep gaps are entrance given.

The southernmost our monarch passed,

Halted, and blew a gallant blast;

And on the north, within the ring,

Appeared the form of England’s king

Who then, a thousand leagues afar,

In Palestine waged holy war:

Yet arms like England’s did he wield,

Alike the leopards in the shield,

Alike his Syrian courser’s frame,

The rider’s length of limb the same:

Long afterwards did Scotland know,

Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

XXIV

“The vision made our monarch start,

But soon he manned his noble heart,

And in the first career they ran,

The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man;

Yet did a splinter of his lance

Through Alexander’s visor glance,

And razed the skin—a puny wound.

The King, light leaping to the ground,

With naked blade his phantom foe

Compelled the future war to show.

Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,

Where still gigantic bones remain,

Memorial of the Danish war;

Himself he saw, amid the field,

On high his brandished war-axe wield,

And strike proud Haco from his car,

While all around the shadowy kings

Denmark’s grim ravens cowered their wings.

‘Tis said, that, in that awful night,

Remoter visions met his sight,

Foreshowing future conquests far,

When our son’s sons wage northern war;

A royal city, tower and spire,

Reddened the midnight sky with fire,

And shouting crews her navy bore,

Triumphant to the victor shore.

Such signs may learned clerks explain -

They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV

“The joyful King turned home again,

Headed his host, and quelled the Dane;

But yearly, when returned the night

Of his strange combat with the sprite,

His wound must bleed and smart;

Lord Gifford then would gibing say,

‘Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay

The penance of your start.’

Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave,

King Alexander fills his grave,

Our Lady give him rest!

Yet still the knightly spear and shield

The Elfin Warrior doth wield,

Upon the brown hill’s breast;

And many a knight hath proved his chance,

In the charmed ring to break a lance,

But all have foully sped;

Save two, as legends tell, and they

Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.

Gentles, my tale is said.”

XXVI

The quaighs were deep, the liquors strong,

And on the tale the yeoman-throng

Had made a comment sage and long,

But Marmion gave a sign:

And, with their lord, the squires retire;

The rest around the hostel fire,

Their drowsy limbs recline:

For pillow, underneath each head,

The quiver and the targe were laid.

Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,

Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore:

The dying flame, in fitful change,

Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII

Apart, and nestling in the hay

Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;

Scarce by the pale moonlight, were seen

The foldings of his mantle green:

Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream

Of sport by thicket, or by stream

Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,

Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love.

A cautious tread his slumber broke,

And close beside him, when he woke,

In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,

Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;

But ere his dagger Eustace drew,

His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

XXVIII

“Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest; -

Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,

And graver thoughts have chafed my mood;

The air must cool my feverish blood;

And fain would I ride forth, to see

The scene of elfin chivalry.

Arise, and saddle me my steed;

And, gentle Eustace, take good heed

Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;

I would not, that the prating knaves

Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,

That I could credit such a tale.”

Then softly down the steps they slid;

Eustace the stable door undid,

And darkling, Marmion’s steed arrayed,

While, whispering, thus the baron said: -

XXIX

“Didst never, good my youth, hear tell,

That on the hour when I was born,

Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,

Down from his steed of marble fell,

A weary wight forlorn?

The flattering chaplains all agree,

The champion left his steed to me.

I would, the omen’s truth to show,