Вальтер Скотт - Marmion

Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe:
They bore Lord Marmion’s lance so strong, 105
And led his sumpter-mules along,
And ambling palfrey, when at need
Him listed ease his battle-steed.
The last and trustiest of the four,
On high his forky pennon bore; 110
Like swallow’s tail, in shape and hue,
Flutter’d the streamer glossy blue,
Where, blazon’d sable, as before,
The towering falcon seem’d to soar.
Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 115
In hosen black, and jerkins blue,
With falcons broider’d on each breast,
Attended on their lord’s behest.
Each, chosen for an archer good,
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 120
Each one a six-foot bow could bend,
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send;
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong,
And at their belts their quivers rung.
Their dusty palfreys, and array, 125
Show’d they had march’d a weary way.

‘Tis meet that I should tell you now,
How fairly arm’d, and order’d how,
The soldiers of the guard,
With musket, pike, and morion, 130
To welcome noble Marmion,
Stood in the Castle-yard;
Minstrels and trumpeters were there,
The gunner held his linstock yare,
For welcome-shot prepared: 135
Enter’d the train, and such a clang,
As then through all his turrets rang,
Old Norham never heard.

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced,
The trumpets flourish’d brave, 140
The cannon from the ramparts glanced,
And thundering welcome gave.
A blithe salute, in martial sort,
The minstrels well might sound,
For, as Lord Marmion cross’d the court, 145
He scatter’d angels round.
‘Welcome to Norham, Marmion!
Stout heart, and open hand!
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,
Thou flower of English land!’ 150

Two pursuivants, whom tabarts deck,
With silver scutcheon round their neck,
Stood on the steps of stone,
By which you reach the donjon gate,
And there, with herald pomp and state, 155
They hail’d Lord Marmion:
They hail’d him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
Of Tamworth tower and town;
And he, their courtesy to requite, 160
Gave them a chain of twelve marks’ weight,
All as he lighted down.
‘Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,
Knight of the crest of gold!
A blazon’d shield, in battle won, 165
Ne’er guarded heart so bold.’

They marshall’d him to the Castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside,
And loudly nourish’d the trumpet-call,
And the heralds loudly cried, 170
-‘Room, lordings, room for Lord Marmion,
With the crest and helm of gold!
Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold:
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 175
‘Gainst Marmion’s force to stand;
To him he lost his lady-love,
And to the King his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,
A sight both sad and fair; 180
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare;
We saw the victor win the crest,
He wears with worthy pride;
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 185
His foeman’s scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquer’d in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye!’ 190

Then stepp’d, to meet that noble Lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.
He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 195
Raised o’er the pavement high,
And placed him in the upper place
They feasted full and high;
The whiles a Northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 200
‘ How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all, Stout Willimondswick, And Hardriding Dick, And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o’ the Wall, Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, 205
And taken his life at the Deadman’s-shaw .’
Scantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook
The harper’s barbarous lay;
Yet much he praised the pains he took,
And well those pains did pay 210
For lady’s suit, and minstrel’s strain,
By knight should ne’er be heard in vain,

‘Now, good Lord Marmion,’ Heron says,
‘Of your fair courtesy,
I pray you bide some little space 215
In this poor tower with me.
Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath pass’d a week but giust
Or feat of arms befell: 220
The Scots can rein a mettled steed;
And love to couch a spear: -
Saint George! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space, 225
Our northern wars to learn;
I pray you, for your lady’s grace!’-
Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

The Captain mark’d his alter’d look,
And gave a squire the sign; 230
A mighty wassell-bowl he took,
And crown’d it high with wine.
‘Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:
But first I pray thee fair,
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 235
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare?
When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed,
And often mark’d his cheeks were wet, 240
With tears he fain would hide:
His was no rugged horse-boy’s hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed;
But meeter seem’d for lady fair, 245
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead:
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom-when he sigh’d, 250
The russet doublet’s rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride!
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady’s bower?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 255
A gentle paramour?’

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;
He roll’d his kindling eye,
With pain his rising wrath suppress’d,
Yet made a calm reply: 260
‘That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,
He might not brook the northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarn:
Enough of him. – But, Heron, say, 265
Why does thy lovely lady gay
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage?’-
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 270
Whisper’d light tales of Heron’s dame.

Unmark’d, at least unreck’d, the taunt,
Careless the Knight replied,
‘No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt,
Delights in cage to bide: 275
Norham is grim and grated close,
Hemm’d in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower;
And better loves my lady bright
To sit in liberty and light, 280
In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove;
But where shall we find leash or band,
For dame that loves to rove? 285
Let the wild falcon soar her swing,
She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.’-

‘Nay, if with Royal James’s bride
The lovely Lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger, 290
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;
For, to the Scottish court address’d,
I journey at our King’s behest,
And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 295
I have not ridden in Scotland since
James back’d the cause of that mock prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey’s power, 300
What time we razed old Ayton tower.’-