Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung.

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

XIII

The monarch o’er the siren hung,

And beat the measure as she sung;

And, pressing closer and more near,

He whispered praises in her ear.

In loud applause the courtiers vied,

And ladies winked and spoke aside.

The witching dame to Marmion threw

A glance, where seemed to reign

The pride that claims applauses due,

And of her royal conquest too,

A real or feigned disdain:

Familiar was the look, and told

Marmion and she were friends of old.

The king observed their meeting eyes

With something like displeased surprise:

For monarchs ill can rivals brook,

E’en in a word or smile or look.

Straight took he forth the parchment broad

Which Marmion’s high commission showed:

“Our Borders sacked by many a raid,

Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said;

“On day of truce our warden slain,

Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en -

Unworthy were we here to reign,

Should these for vengeance cry in vain;

Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,

Our herald has to Henry borne.”

XIV

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,

And with stern eye the pageant viewed -

I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,

Who coronet of Angus bore,

And, when his blood and heart were high,

Did the third James in camp defy,

And all his minions led to die

On Lauder’s dreary flat:

Princes and favourites long grew tame,

And trembled at the homely name

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;

The same who left the dusky vale

Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,

Its dungeons and its towers,

Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,

And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,

To fix his princely bowers.

Though now in age he had laid down

His armour for the peaceful gown,

And for a staff his brand,

Yet often would flash forth the fire

That could in youth a monarch’s ire

And minion’s pride withstand;

And e’en that day, at council board,

Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,

Against the war had Angus stood,

And chafed his royal lord.

XV

His giant form like ruined tower,

Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,

Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,

Seemed o’er the gaudy scene to lower:

His locks and beard in silver grew;

His eyebrows kept their sable hue.

Near Douglas when the monarch stood,

His bitter speech he thus pursued:

“Lord Marmion, since these letters say

That in the north you needs must stay

While slightest hopes of peace remain,

Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,

To say—return to Lindisfarne

Until my herald come again.

Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;

Your host shall be the Douglas bold -

A chief unlike his sires of old.

He wears their motto on his blade,

Their blazon o’er his towers displayed;

Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,

More than to face his country’s foes.

And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,

But e’en this morn to me was given

A prize, the first-fruits of the war,

Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,

A bevy of the maids of Heaven.

Under your guard these holy maids

Shall safe return to cloister shades;

And, while they at Tantallon stay,

Requiem for Cochrane’s soul may say.”

And with the slaughtered favourite’s name

Across the monarch’s brow there came

A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI

In answer nought could Angus speak;

His proud heart swelled wellnigh to break:

He turned aside, and down his cheek

A burning tear there stole.

His hand the monarch sudden took;

That sight his kind heart could not brook:

“Now, by the Bruce’s soul,

Angus, my hasty speech forgive!

For sure as doth his spirit live,

As he said of the Douglas old,

I well may say of you -

That never king did subject hold

In speech more free, in war more bold,

More tender and more true:

Forgive me, Douglas, once again.”

And while the king his hand did strain,

The old man’s tears fell down like rain.

To seize the moment Marmion tried,

And whispered to the king aside:

“Oh! let such tears unwonted plead

For respite short from dubious deed!

A child will weep a bramble’s smart,

A maid to see her sparrow part,

A stripling for a woman’s heart:

But woe awaits a country when

She sees the tears of bearded men.

Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,

When Douglas wets his manly eye!”

XVII

Displeased was James, that stranger viewed

And tampered with his changing mood.

“Laugh those that can, weep those that may,”

Thus did the fiery monarch say,

“Southward I march by break of day;

And if within Tantallon strong,

The good Lord Marmion tarries long,

Perchance our meeting next may fall

At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.”

The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,

And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:-

“Much honoured were my humble home

If in its halls King James should come;

But Nottingham has archers good,

And Yorkshire-men are stern of mood;

Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.

On Derby hills the paths are steep;

In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;

And many a banner will be torn,

And many a knight to earth be borne,

And many a sheaf of arrows spent,

Ere Scotland’s king shall cross the Trent:

Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.”

The monarch lightly turned away,

And to his nobles loud did call,

“Lords, to the dance—a hall! a hall!”

Himself his cloak and sword flung by,

And led Dame Heron gallantly;

And minstrels, at the royal order,

Rung out “Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.”

XVIII

Leave we these revels now, to tell

What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,

Whose galley, as they sailed again

To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.

Now at Dunedin did they bide,

Till James should of their fate decide;

And soon, by his command,

Were gently summoned to prepare

To journey under Marmion’s care,

As escort honoured, safe, and fair,

Again to English land.

The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,

Nor knew which saint she should implore;

For when she thought of Constance, sore

She feared Lord Marmion’s mood.

And judge what Clara must have felt!

The sword that hung in Marmion’s belt

Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.

Unwittingly, King James had given,

As guard to Whitby’s shades,

The man most dreaded under heaven

By these defenceless maids:

Yet what petition could avail,

Or who would listen to the tale

Of woman, prisoner, and nun,

‘Mid bustle of a war begun?

They deemed it hopeless to avoid