Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

As fancy-forms of midnight cloud,

When flings the moon upon her shroud

A wavering tinge of flame;

It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,

From midmost of the spectre crowd,

This awful summons came:-

XXVI

“Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,

Whose names I now shall call,

Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!

Subjects of him who sent me here,

At his tribunal to appear

I summon one and all:

I cite you by each deadly sin

That e’er hath soiled your hearts within;

I cite you by each brutal lust

That e’er defiled your earthly dust -

By wrath, by pride, by fear;

By each o’ermastering passion’s tone,

By the dark grave and dying groan!

When forty days are passed and gone,

I cite you, at your monarch’s throne,

To answer and appear.”

Then thundered forth a roll of names;

The first was thine, unhappy James!

Then all thy nobles came:-

Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,

Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle -

Why should I tell their separate style?

Each chief of birth and fame,

Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,

Foredoomed to Flodden’s carnage pile,

Was cited there by name;

And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,

Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye;

De Wilton, erst of Aberley,

The selfsame thundering voice did say.

But then another spoke:

“Thy fatal summons I deny,

And thine infernal lord defy,

Appealing me to Him on high,

Who burst the sinner’s yoke.”

At that dread accent, with a scream.

Parted the pageant like a dream,

The summoner was gone.

Prone on her face the Abbess fell,

And fast and fast her beads did tell;

Her nuns came, startled by the yell,

And found her there alone.

She marked not, at the scene aghast,

What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

XXVII

Shift we the scene. The camp doth move;

Dunedin’s streets are empty now,

Save when, for weal of those they love,

To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,

The tottering child, the anxious fair,

The grey-haired sire, with pious care,

To chapels and to shrines repair -

Where is the Palmer now? and where

The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?

Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair

They journey in thy charge.

Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,

The Palmer still was with the band;

Angus, like Lindesay, did command

That none should roam at large.

But in that Palmer’s altered mien

A wondrous change might now be seen;

Freely he spoke of war,

Of marvels wrought by single hand

When lifted for a native land;

And still looked high, as if he planned

Some desperate deed afar.

His courser would he feed and stroke,

And, tucking up his sable frock,

Would first his mettle bold provoke,

Then soothe or quell his pride.

Old Hubert said, that never one

He saw, except Lord Marmion,

A steed so fairly ride.

XXVIII

Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,

By Eustace governed fair,

A troop escorting Hilda’s dame,

With all her nuns and Clare.

No audience had Lord Marmion sought;

Ever he feared to aggravate

Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;

And safer ‘twas, he thought,

To wait till, from the nuns removed,

The influence of kinsmen loved,

And suit by Henry’s self approved,

Her slow consent had wrought.

His was no flickering flame, that dies

Unless when fanned by looks and sighs,

And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;

He longed to stretch his wide command

O’er luckless Clara’s ample land;

Besides, when Wilton with him vied,

Although the pang of humbled pride

The place of jealousy supplied,

Yet conquest, by that meanness won

He almost loathed to think upon,

Led him, at times, to hate the cause

Which made him burst through honour’s laws

If e’er he loved, ‘twas her alone

Who died within that vault of stone.

XXIX

And now when close at hand they saw

North Berwick’s town and lofty Law,

Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile

Before a venerable pile,

Whose turrets viewed, afar,

The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle,

The ocean’s peace or war.

At tolling of a bell, forth came

The convent’s venerable dame,

And prayed Saint Hilda’s Abbess rest

With her, a loved and honoured guest,

Till Douglas should a barque prepare

To waft her back to Whitby fair.

Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,

And thanked the Scottish Prioress;

And tedious were to tell, I ween,

The courteous speech that passed between.

O’erjoyed, the nuns their palfreys leave;

But when fair Clara did intend,

Like them, from horseback to descend,

Fitz-Eustace said, “I grieve,

Fair lady—grieve e’en from my heart -

Such gentle company to part;

Think not discourtesy,

But lords’ commands must be obeyed;

And Marmion and the Douglas said

That you must wend with me.

Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,

Which to the Scottish earl he showed,

Commanding that beneath his care

Without delay you shall repair

To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.”

XXX

The startled Abbess loud exclaimed;

But she at whom the blow was aimed

Grew pale as death, and cold as lead -

She deemed she heard her death-doom read.

“Cheer thee, my child,” the Abbess said;

“They dare not tear thee from my hand

To ride alone with armed band.”

“Nay, holy mother, nay,”

Fitz-Eustace said, “the lovely Clare

Will be in Lady Angus’ care,

In Scotland while we stay;

And when we move, an easy ride

Will bring us to the English side,

Female attendance to provide

Befitting Gloucester’s heir;

Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord,

By slightest look, or act, or word,

To harass Lady Clare.

Her faithful guardian he will be,

Nor sue for slightest courtesy

That e’en to stranger falls.

Till he shall place her, safe and free,

Within her kinsman’s halls.”

He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace;

His faith was painted on his face,

And Clare’s worst fear relieved.

The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed

On Henry, and the Douglas blamed,

Entreated, threatened, grieved;

To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed,

Against Lord Marmion inveighed,

And called the Prioress to aid,

To curse with candle, bell, and book.

Her head the grave Cistercian shook:

“The Douglas and the King,” she said,

“In their commands will be obeyed;

Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall

The maiden in Tantallon Hall.”

XXXI

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,

Assumed her wonted state again -

For much of state she had -

Composed her veil, and raised her head,

And—”Bid,” in solemn voice she said,

“Thy master, bold and bad,

The records of his house turn o’er,

And when he shall there written see,

That one of his own ancestry

Drove the monks forth of Coventry,

Bid him his fate explore.

Prancing in pride of earthly trust,

His charger hurled him to the dust,

And, by a base plebeian thrust,

He died his band before.

God judge ‘twixt Marmion and me;

He is a chief of high degree,

And I a poor recluse;

Yet oft, in Holy Writ, we see

Even such weak minister as me

May the oppressor bruise: