Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

What were his thoughts I cannot tell;

But in my bosom mustered Hell

Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII

“A word of vulgar augury,

That broke from me, I scarce knew why,

Brought on a village tale;

Which wrought upon his moody sprite,

And sent him armed forth by night.

I borrowed steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band;

And, passing from a postern door,

We met, and countered hand to hand -

He fell on Gifford Moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew -

Oh, then my helmdd head he knew,

The palmer’s cowl was gone -

Then had three inches of my blade

The heavy debt of vengeance paid -

My hand the thought of Austin stayed;

I left him there alone.

O good old man! even from the grave,

Thy spirit could thy master save:

If I had slain my foeman, ne’er

Had Whitby’s Abbess, in her fear,

Given to my hand this packet dear,

Of power to clear my injured fame,

And vindicate De Wilton’s name.

Perchance you heard the Abbess tell

Of the strange pageantry of Hell,

That broke our secret speech -

It rose from the infernal shade,

Or featly was some juggle played,

A tale of peace to teach.

Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,

When my name came among the rest.

IX

“Now here, within Tantallon Hold,

To Douglas late my tale I told,

To whom my house was known of old.

Won by my proofs, his falchion bright

This eve anew shall dub me knight.

These were the arms that once did turn

The tide of fight on Otterburne,

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,

When the dead Douglas won the field.

These Angus gave—his armourer’s care,

Ere morn, shall every breach repair;

For naught, he said, was in his halls,

But ancient armour on the walls,

And aged chargers in the stalls,

And women, priests, and grey-haired men;

The rest were all in Twisel Glen.

And now I watch my armour here,

By law of arms, till midnight’s near;

Then, once again a belted knight,

Seek Surrey’s camp with dawn of light.

X

“There soon again we meet, my Clare!

This baron means to guide thee there;

Douglas reveres his king’s command,

Else would he take thee from his band

And there thy kinsman Surrey, too,

Will give De Wilton justice due.

Now meeter far for martial broil,

Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil,

Once more”—”O Wilton! must we then

Risk new-found happiness again,

Trust fate of arms once more?

And is there not an humble glen,

Where we, content and poor,

Might build a cottage in the shade,

A shepherd thou, and I to aid

Thy task on dale and moor? -

That reddening brow!—too well I know,

Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,

While falsehood stains thy name:

Go, then, to fight! Clare bids thee go!

Clare can a warrior’s feelings know,

And weep a warrior’s shame;

Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel,

Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,

And belt thee with thy brand of steel,

And send thee forth to fame!”

XI

That night, upon the rocks and bay,

The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay,

And poured its silver light, and pure,

Through loophole, and through embrazure,

Upon Tantallon’s tower and hall;

But chief where arched windows wide

Illuminate the chapel’s pride,

The sober glances fall.

Much was there need; though, seamed with scars,

Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars,

Though two grey priests were there,

And each a blazing torch held high,

You could not by their blaze descry

The chapel’s carving fair.

Amid that dim and smoky light,

Chequering the silvery moonshine bright,

A bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas blood,

With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.

Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye

But little pride of prelacy;

More pleased that, in a barbarous age,

He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,

Than that beneath his rule he held

The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.

Beside him ancient Angus stood,

Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood:

O’er his huge form and visage pale

He wore a cap and shirt of mail;

And leaned his large and wrinkled hand

Upon the huge and sweeping brand

Which wont of yore, in battle fray,

His foeman’s limbs to shred away,

As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.

He seemed as, from the tombs around

Rising at Judgment-Day,

Some giant Douglas may be found

In all his old array;

So pale his face, so huge his limb,

So old his arms, his look so grim.

XII

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,

And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;

And think what next he must have felt

At buckling of the falchion belt!

And judge how Clara changed her hue,

While fastening to her lover’s side

A friend, which, though in danger tried,

He once had found untrue!

Then Douglas struck him with his blade:

“Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid,

I dub thee knight.

Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir!

For king, for church, for lady fair,

See that thou fight.”

And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,

Said—”Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,

Disgrace, and trouble;

For he, who honour best bestows,

May give thee double.”

De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must -

“Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust

That Douglas is my brother!”

“Nay, nay,” old Douglas said, “not so;

To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,

Thy wrongs no longer smother.

I have two sons in yonder field;

And, if thou meet’st them under shield

Upon them bravely—do thy worst;

And foul fall him that blenches first!”

XIII

Not far advanced was morning day,

When Marmion did his troop array,

To Surrey’s camp to ride;

He had safeconduct for his band,

Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide:

The ancient earl, with stately grace,

Would Clara on her palfrey place,

And whispered in an undertone,

“Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.”

The train from out the castle drew,

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:-

“Though something I might plain,” he said,

“Of cold respect to stranger guest,

Sent hither by your king’s behest,

While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed;

Part we in friendship from your land,

And, noble earl, receive my hand.”

But Douglas round him drew his cloak,

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:

“My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still

Be open, at my sovereign’s will,

To each one whom he lists, howe’er

Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.

My castles are my king’s alone,

From turret to foundation-stone -

The hand of Douglas is his own;

And never shall in friendly grasp

The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”

XIV

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,

And shook his very frame for ire,

And—”This to me!” he said;

“‘An ‘twere not for thy hoary head,

Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared

To cleave the Douglas’ head!

And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,

He who does England’s message here,

Although the meanest in her state,

May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:

And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,

Even in thy pitch of pride,