Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near -

Nay, never look upon your lord,

And lay your hands upon your sword -

I tell thee, thou’rt defied!

And if thou said’st, I am not peer

To any lord in Scotland here,

Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”

On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage

O’ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth—”And dar’st thou then

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop’st thou thence unscathed to go:

No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho

Let the portcullis fall.”

Lord Marmion turned—well was his need,

And dashed the rowels in his steed,

Like arrow through the archway sprung,

The ponderous gate behind him rung:

To pass there was such scanty room,

The bars descending razed his plume.

XV

The steed along the drawbridge flies,

Just as it trembled on the rise;

Nor lighter does the swallow skim

Along the smooth lake’s level brim:

And when Lord Marmion reached his band,

He halts, and turns with clenched hand,

And shout of loud defiance pours,

And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

“Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!”

But soon he reined his fury’s pace:

“A royal messenger he came,

Though most unworthy of the name.

A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!

Did ever knight so foul a deed!

At first in heart it liked me ill,

When the King praised his clerkly skill.

Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine,

Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line:

So swore I, and I swear it still,

Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!

Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood,

I thought to slay him where he stood.

‘Tis pity of him, too,” he cried:

“Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,

I warrant him a warrior tried.”

With this his mandate he recalls,

And slowly seeks his castle halls.

XVI

The day in Marmion’s journey wore;

Yet, ere his passion’s gust was o’er,

They crossed the heights of Stanrig Moor.

His troop more closely there he scanned,

And missed the Palmer from the band.

“Palmer or not,” young Blount did say,

“He parted at the peep of day;

Good sooth it was in strange array.”

“In what array?” said Marmion, quick.

“My lord, I ill can spell the trick;

But all night long, with clink and bang,

Close to my couch did hammers clang;

At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,

And from a loophole while I peep,

Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep,

Wrapped in a gown of sables fair,

As fearful of the morning air;

Beneath, when that was blown aside,

A rusty shirt of mail I spied,

By Archibald won in bloody work

Against the Saracen and Turk:

Last night it hung not in the hall;

I thought some marvel would befall.

And next I saw them saddled lead

Old Cheviot forth, the earl’s best steed;

A matchless horse, though something old,

Prompt in his paces, cool, and bold.

I heard the sheriff Sholto say,

The earl did much the master pray

To use him on the battle-day;

But he preferred”—”Nay, Henry, cease

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.

Eustace, thou bear’st a brain—I pray

What did Blount see at break of day?”

XVII

“In brief, my lord, we both descried

(For then I stood by Henry’s side)

The Palmer mount, and outwards ride,

Upon the earl’s own favourite steed:

All sheathed he was in armour bright,

And much resembled that same knight,

Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:

Lord Angus wished him speed.”

The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,

A sudden light on Marmion broke:

“Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!”

He muttered; “‘Twas nor fay nor ghost

I met upon the moonlight wold,

But living man of earthly mould.

O dotage blind and gross!

Had I but fought as wont, one thrust

Had laid De Wilton in the dust,

My path no more to cross.

How stand we now?—he told his tale

To Douglas; and with some avail;

‘Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.

Will Surrey dare to entertain,

‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?

Small risk of that, I trow.

Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun;

Must separate Constance from the nun -

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!

A Palmer too!—no wonder why

I felt rebuked beneath his eye:

I might have known there was but one

Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.”

XVIII

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed

His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed,

Where Lennel’s convent closed their march;

(There now is left but one frail arch,

Yet mourn thou not its cells:

Our time a fair exchange has made;

Hard by, in hospitable shade,

A reverend pilgrim dwells,

Well worth the whole Bernardine brood

That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.)

Yet did Saint Bernard’s Abbot there

Give Marmion entertainment fair,

And lodging for his train and Clare.

Next morn the baron climbed the tower,

To view afar the Scottish power,

Encamped on Flodden edge:

The white pavilions made a show,

Like remnants of the winter snow,

Along the dusky ridge.

Long Marmion looked: at length his eye

Unusual movement might descry

Amid the shifting lines:

The Scottish host drawn out appears,

For, flashing on the edge of spears

The eastern sunbeam shines.

Their front now deepening, now extending

Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,

Now drawing back, and now descending,

The skilful Marmion well could know,

They watched the motions of some foe,

Who traversed on the plain below.

XIX

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge

The Scots beheld the English host

Leave Barmore Wood, their evening post,

And heedful watched them as they crossed

The Till by Twisel Bridge.

High sight it is, and haughty, while

They dive into the deep defile;

Beneath the caverned cliff they fall,

Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree,

Troop after troop are disappearing;

Troop after troop their banners rearing;

Upon the eastern bank you see.

Still pouring down the rocky den,

Where flows the sullen Till,

And rising from the dim-wood glen,

Standards on stardards, men on men,

In slow succession still,

And, sweeping o’er the Gothic arch,

And pressing on, in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill.

That morn, to many a trumpet clang,

Twisel! thy rocks deep echo rang;

And many a chief of birth and rank,

Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.

Thy hawthorn glade which now we see

In springtide bloom so lavishly,

Had then from many an axe its doom,

To give the marching columns room.

XX

And why stands Scotland idly now,

Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,

Since England gains the pass the while,

And struggles through the deep defile?

What checks the fiery soul of James?

Why sits that champion of the dames

Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land,

Between him and Tweed’s southern strand,

His host Lord Surrey lead?

What ‘vails the vain knight-errant’s brand?