Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

The tribute to his minstrel’s shade;

The tale of friendship scarce was told,

Ere the narrator’s heart was cold -

Far may we search before we find

A heart so manly and so kind!

But not around his honoured urn

Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;

The thousand eyes his care had dried,

Pour at his name a bitter tide;

And frequent falls the grateful dew,

For benefits the world ne’er knew.

If mortal charity dare claim

The Almighty’s attributed name,

Inscribe above his mouldering clay,

“The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.”

Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem

My verse intrudes on this sad theme;

For sacred was the pen that wrote,

“Thy father’s friend forget thou not:”

And grateful title may I plead,

For many a kindly word and deed,

To bring my tribute to his grave:-

‘Tis little—but ‘tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain

Recalls our summer walks again;

When, doing naught—and, to speak true,

Not anxious to find aught to do -

The wild unbounded hills we ranged,

While oft our talk its topic changed,

And, desultory as our way,

Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,

No effort made to break its trance,

We could right pleasantly pursue

Our sports in social silence too;

Thou gravely labouring to portray

The blighted oak’s fantastic spray;

I spelling o’er, with much delight,

The legend of that antique knight,

Tirante by name, ycleped the White.

At either’s feet a trusty squire,

Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

Jealous, each other’s motions viewed,

And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.

The laverock whistled from the cloud;

The stream was lively, but not loud;

From the white thorn the Mayflower shed

Its dewy fragrance round our head:

Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossomed bough than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,

When winter stript the summer’s bowers.

Careless we heard, what now I hear,

The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay,

And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul,

Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.

Then he, whose absence we deplore,

Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,

The longer missed, bewailed the more;

And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae,

And one whose name I may not say -

For not Mimosa’s tender tree

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he -

In merry chorus well combined,

With laughter drowned the whistling wind.

Mirth was within; and Care without

Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

Not but amid the buxom scene

Some grave discourse might intervene -

Of the good horse that bore him best,

His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:

For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,

Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game

Of manhood be more sober tame,

And though the field-day, or the drill,

Seem less important now—yet still

Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain!

And mark how, like a horseman true,

Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew.

Table of Contents

The Camp

I

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark

The first notes of the merry lark.

The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,

And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,

And with their light and lively call,

Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

Whistling they came, and free of heart,

But soon their mood was changed;

Complaint was heard on every part,

Of something disarranged.

Some clamoured loud for armour lost;

Some brawled and wrangled with the host;

“By Becket’s bones,” cried one, “I fear

That some false Scot has stol’n my spear!”

Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;

Although the rated horseboy sware,

Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.

While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,

“Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!

Bevis lies dying in his stall:

To Marmion who the plight dare tell,

Of the good steed he loves so well?”

Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw

The charger panting on his straw;

Till one who would seem wisest, cried,

“What else but evil could betide,

With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

Better we had through mire and bush

Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.”

II

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,

Nor wholly understood,

His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppressed;

He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.

Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,

And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,

And did his tale display

Simply, as if he knew of nought

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,

Nor marvelled at the wonders told -

Passed them as accidents of course,

And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost

Had reckoned with their Scottish host;

And, as the charge he cast and paid,

“Ill thou deserv’st thy hire,” he said;

“Dost see, thou knave, my horse’s plight?

Fairies have ridden him all the night,

And left him in a foam!

I trust that soon a conjuring band,

With English cross, and blazing brand,

Shall drive the devils from this land,

To their infernal home:

For in this haunted den, I trow,

All night they trampled to and fro.”

The laughing host looked on the hire -

“Gramercy, gentle southern squire,

And if thou com’st among the rest,

With Scottish broadsword to be blest,

Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,

And short the pang to undergo.”

Here stayed their talk; for Marmion

Gave now the signal to set on.

The Palmer showing forth the way,

They journeyed all the morning day.

IV

The greensward way was smooth and good,

Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood;

A forest glade, which, varying still,

Here gave a view of dale and hill,

There narrower closed, till overhead

A vaulted screen the branches made.

“A pleasant path,” Fitz-Eustace said,

“Such as where errant-knights might see

Adventures of high chivalry;

Might meet some damsel flying fast,

With hair unbound, and looks aghast;

And smooth and level course were here,

In her defence to break a spear.

Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;

And oft, in such, the story tells,

The damsel kind, from danger freed,

Did grateful pay her champion’s meed.”

He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion’s mind;

Perchance to show his lore designed;

For Eustace much had pored

Upon a huge romantic tome,

In the hall-window of his home,

Imprinted at the antique dome

Of Caxton, or De Worde,

Therefore he spoke—but spoke in vain,

For Marmion answered nought again.

V

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,

In notes prolonged by wood and hill,

Were heard to echo far:

Each ready archer grasped his bow,

But by the flourish soon they know,

They breathed no point of war.

Yet cautious, as in foeman’s land,