I.

THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode:
The mountain path the Palmer showed,
By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not choose the lowland road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad,
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,
Had scarcely failed to bar their way.
Oft on the trampling band, from crown
Of some tall cliff, the deer looked down;
On wing of jet, from his repose
In the deep heath, the blackcock rose;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been passed before
They gained the height of Lammermoor;
Thence winding down the northern way,
Before them, at the close of day,
Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland’s camp the lord was gone;
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes,
    On through the hamlet as they paced,
    Before a porch, whose front was graced
    With bush and flagon trimly placed,
        Lord Marmion drew his rein:
    The village inn seemed large, though rude:
    Its cheerful fire and hearty food
        Might well relieve his train.
Down from their seats the horsemen sprung,
With jingling spurs the courtyard rung;
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamour fills the hall:
Weighing the labour with the cost,
Toils everywhere the bustling host.

III.

Soon by the chimney’s merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaze;
Might see, where, in dark nook aloof,
The rafters of the sooty roof
    Bore wealth of winter cheer;
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store
And gammons of the tusky boar,
    And savoury haunch of deer.
The chimney arch projected wide;
Above, around it, and beside,
    Were tools for housewives’ hand;
Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The implements of Scottish fray,
    The buckler, lance, and brand.
Beneath its shade, the place of state,
On oaken settle Marmion sate,
And viewed around the blazing hearth
His followers mix in noisy mirth;
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,
From ancient vessels ranged aside,
Full actively their host supplied.

IV.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast,
And laughter theirs at little jest;
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid,
And mingle in the mirth they made;
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art
To win the soldier’s hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;
With open hand, and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a lady’s bower:
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff,
    Right opposite the Palmer stood;
His thin dark visage seen but half,
    Half hidden by his hood.
Still fixed on Marmion was his look,
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,
    Strove by a frown to quell;
But not for that, though more than once
Full met their stern encountering glance,
    The Palmer’s visage fell.

VI.

By fits less frequent from the crowd
Was heard the burst of laughter loud
For still, as squire and archer stared
On that dark face and matted beard
    Their glee and game declined.
All gazed at length in silence drear,
Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,
    Thus whispered forth his mind:—
“Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight?
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,
Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light
    Glances beneath his cowl!
Full on our lord he sets his eye;
For his best palfrey, would not I
    Endure that sullen scowl.”

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe
Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw
The ever-varying firelight show
That figure stern and face of woe,
    Now called upon a squire:
“Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,
To speed the lingering night away?
    We slumber by the fire.”

VIII.

“So please you,” thus the youth rejoined,
“Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.
Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustomed Constant’s strains to hear.
The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover’s lute alike;
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,
No nightingale her lovelorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavished on rocks, and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture, as I may
To sing his favourite roundelay.”

IX.

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
The air he chose was wild and sad;
Such have I heard, in Scottish land,
Rise from the busy harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer,
On Lowland plains, the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song:
Oft have I listened, and stood still,
As it came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their native glen;
And thought how sad would be such sound
On Susquehana’s swampy ground,
Kentucky’s wood-encumbered brake,
Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recalled fair Scotland’s hills again!

X.
SONG.

Where shall the lover rest,
    Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden’s breast,
    Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,
    Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
    Under the willow.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
    Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
    Scarce are boughs waving;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,
    Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,
    Never, oh, never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, oh, never!

XI.

Where shall the traitor rest,
    He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden’s breast,
    Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,
    Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war’s rattle
    With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
    O’er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
    Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit
    By his grave ever:
Blessing shall hallow it,
    Never, oh, never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, oh, never!

XII.

It ceased, the melancholy sound;
And silence sunk on all around.
    The air was sad; but sadder still
        It fell on Marmion’s ear,
    And plained as if disgrace and ill,
        And shameful death, were near.
    He drew his mantle past his face,
        Between it and the band,
    And rested with his head a space
        Reclining on his hand.
His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,
That, could their import have been seen,
The meanest groom in all the hall,
That e’er tied courser to a stall,
Would scarce have wished to be their prey,
For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force,
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,
Thou art the torturer of the brave!
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,
Even while they writhe beneath the smart
Of civil conflict in the heart.
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said—
“Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister’s soul;
    Say, what may this portend?”
Then first the Palmer silence broke,
(The livelong day he had not spoke)
     “The death of a dear friend.”

XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye
Ne’er changed in worst extremity;
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,
Even from his king, a haughty look:
Whose accent of command controlled,
In camps, the boldest of the bold;
Thought, look, and utterance failed him now—
Fall’n was his glance, and flushed his brow:
    For either in the tone,
Or something in the Palmer’s look,
So full upon his conscience strook,
    That answer he found none.
Thus oft it haps, that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,
    A feather daunts the brave;
A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes veil their eyes
    Before their meanest slave.

XV.

Well might he falter!—By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed.
Not that he augured of the doom,
Which on the living closed the tomb:
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid;
And wroth, because in wild despair
She practised on the life of Clare;
Its fugitive the Church he gave,
Though not a victim, but a slave;
And deemed restraint in convent strange
Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge.
Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear;
Secure his pardon he might hold,
For some slight mulct of penance-gold.
Thus judging, he gave secret way,
When the stern priests surprised their prey.
His train but deemed the favourite page
Was left behind, to spare his age
Or other if they deemed, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard;
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept, he deemed her well,
And safe secured in distant cell;
But, wakened by her favourite lay,
And that strange Palmer’s boding say,
That fell so ominous and drear
Full on the object of his fear,
To aid remorse’s venomed throes
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;
And Constance, late betrayed and scorned,
All lovely on his soul returned;
Lovely as when, at treacherous call,
She left her convent’s peaceful wall,
Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute,
Dreading alike, escape, pursuit,
Till love, victorious o’er alarms,
Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

XVII.

“Alas!” he thought, “how changed that mien!
How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt and of disguise
Have steeled her brow, and armed her eyes!
No more of virgin terror speaks
The blood that mantles in her cheeks:
Fierce and unfeminine, are there,
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair:
And I the cause—for whom were given
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!
Would,” thought he, as the picture grows,
“I on its stalk had left the rose!
Oh, why should man’s success remove
The very charms that wake his love!
Her convent’s peaceful solitude
Is now a prison harsh and rude;
And, pent within the narrow cell,
How will her spirit chafe and swell!
How brook the stern monastic laws!
The penance how—and I the cause!
Vigil and scourge—perchance even worse!”
And twice he rose to cry, “To horse!”
And twice his sovereign’s mandate came,
Like damp upon a kindling flame;
And twice he thought, “Gave I not charge
She should be safe, though not at large?
They durst not, for their island, shred
One golden ringlet from her head.”

XVIII.

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove
Repentance and reviving love,
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway
I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,
Their host the Palmer’s speech had heard,
And, talkative, took up the word:
    “Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray
From Scotland’s simple land away,
    To visit realms afar,
Full often learn the art to know
Of future weal, or future woe,
    By word, or sign, or star;
Yet might a knight his fortune hear,
If, knightlike, he despises fear,
Not far from hence; if fathers old
Aright our hamlet legend told.”
These broken words the menials move,
For marvels still the vulgar love,
And, Marmion giving license cold,
His tale the host thus gladly told:

XIX.
THE HOST’S TALE.

“A clerk could tell what years have flown
Since Alexander filled our throne,
Third monarch of that warlike name,
And eke the time when here he came
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord;
A braver never drew a sword;
A wiser never, at the hour
Of midnight, spoke the word of power:
The same, whom ancient records call
The founder of the Goblin Hall.
I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay
Gave you that cavern to survey.
Of lofty roof, and ample size,
Beneath the castle deep it lies:
To hew the living rock profound,
The floor to pave, the arch to round,
There never toiled a mortal arm—
It all was wrought by word and charm;
And I have heard my grandsire say,
That the wild clamour and affray
Of those dread artisans of hell,
Who laboured under Hugo’s spell,
Sounded as loud as ocean’s war
Among the caverns of Dunbar.

XX.

“The king Lord Gifford’s castle sought,
Deep labouring with uncertain thought:
Even then he mustered all his host,
To meet upon the western coast:
For Norse and Danish galleys plied
Their oars within the frith of Clyde.
There floated Haco’s banner trim,
Above Norwayan warriors grim,
Savage of heart, and large of limb;
Threatening both continent and isle,
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,
And tarried not his garb to change,
But, in his wizard habit strange,
Came forth—a quaint and fearful sight:
His mantle lined with fox-skins white;
His high and wrinkled forehead bore
A pointed cap, such as of yore
Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:
His shoes were marked with cross and spell,
Upon his breast a pentacle;
His zone, of virgin parchment thin,
Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,
Bore many a planetary sign,
Combust, and retrograde, and trine;
And in his hand he held prepared
A naked sword without a guard.

XXI.

“Dire dealings with the fiendish race
Had marked strange lines upon his face:
Vigil and fast had worn him grim,
His eyesight dazzled seemed and dim,
As one unused to upper day;
Even his own menials with dismay
Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire,
In his unwonted wild attire;
Unwonted, for traditions run,
He seldom thus beheld the sun.
‘I know,’ he said—his voice was hoarse,
And broken seemed its hollow force—
‘I know the cause, although untold,
Why the king seeks his vassal’s hold:
Vainly from me my liege would know
His kingdom’s future weal or woe
But yet, if strong his arm and heart,
His courage may do more than art.

XXII.

“‘Of middle air the demons proud,
Who ride upon the racking cloud,
Can read, in fixed or wandering star,
The issues of events afar;
But still their sullen aid withhold,
Save when by mightier force controlled.
Such late I summoned to my hall;
And though so potent was the call,
That scarce the deepest nook of hell
I deemed a refuge from the spell,
Yet, obstinate in silence still,
The haughty demon mocks my skill.
But thou—who little know’st thy might,
As born upon that blessèd night
When yawning graves, and dying groan,
Proclaimed hell’s empire overthrown—
With untaught valour shalt compel
Response denied to magic spell.’
‘Gramercy,’ quoth our monarch free,
‘Place him but front to front with me,
And by this good and honoured brand,
The gift of Cœur-de-Lion’s hand,
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,
The demon shall a buffet bide.’
His bearing bold the wizard viewed,
And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed:
‘There spoke the blood of Malcolm!—mark:
Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,
The rampart seek, whose circling crown
Crests the ascent of yonder down:
A southern entrance shalt thou find;
There halt, and there thy bugle wind,
And trust thine elfin foe to see,
In guise of thy worst enemy:
Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed—
Upon him! and Saint George to speed!
If he go down, thou soon shalt know
Whate’er these airy sprites can show;
If thy heart fail thee in the strife,
I am no warrant for thy life.’

XXIII.

“Soon as the midnight bell did ring,
Alone, and armed, forth rode the king
To that old camp’s deserted round:
Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound
Left-hand the town—the Pictish race,
The trench, long since, in blood did trace:
The moor around is brown and bare,
The space within is green and fair.
The spot our village children know,
For there the earliest wildflowers grow;
But woe betide the wandering wight
That treads its circle in the night!
The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career:
Opposed to the four points of heaven,
By four deep gaps are entrance given.
The southernmost our monarch passed,
Halted, and blew a gallant blast;
And on the north, within the ring,
Appeared the form of England’s king
Who then, a thousand leagues afar,
In Palestine waged holy war:
Yet arms like England’s did he wield,
Alike the leopards in the shield,
Alike his Syrian courser’s frame,
The rider’s length of limb the same:
Long afterwards did Scotland know,
Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

XXIV.

“The vision made our monarch start,
But soon he manned his noble heart,
And in the first career they ran,
The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man;
Yet did a splinter of his lance
Through Alexander’s visor glance,
And razed the skin—a puny wound.
The King, light leaping to the ground,
With naked blade his phantom foe
Compelled the future war to show.
    Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
    Where still gigantic bones remain,
        Memorial of the Danish war;
    Himself he saw, amid the field,
    On high his brandished war-axe wield,
        And strike proud Haco from his car,
    While all around the shadowy kings
    Denmark’s grim ravens cowered their wings.
’Tis said, that, in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight,
Foreshowing future conquests far,
When our son’s sons wage northern war;
A royal city, tower and spire,
Reddened the midnight sky with fire,
And shouting crews her navy bore,
Triumphant to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain—
They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

“The joyful King turned home again,
Headed his host, and quelled the Dane;
But yearly, when returned the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,
    His wound must bleed and smart;
Lord Gifford then would gibing say,
‘Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
    The penance of your start.’
Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave,
King Alexander fills his grave,
    Our Lady give him rest!
Yet still the knightly spear and shield
The Elfin Warrior doth wield,
    Upon the brown hill’s breast;
And many a knight hath proved his chance,
In the charmed ring to break a lance,
    But all have foully sped;
Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.
    Gentles, my tale is said.”

XXVI.

The quaighs were deep, the liquors strong,
And on the tale the yeoman-throng
Had made a comment sage and long,
    But Marmion gave a sign:
And, with their lord, the squires retire;
The rest around the hostel fire,
    Their drowsy limbs recline:
For pillow, underneath each head,
The quiver and the targe were laid.
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,
Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore:
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce by the pale moonlight, were seen
The foldings of his mantle green:
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream
Of sport by thicket, or by stream
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;
But ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

XXVIII.

“Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest;—
Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood;
The air must cool my feverish blood;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.”
Then softly down the steps they slid;
Eustace the stable door undid,
And darkling, Marmion’s steed arrayed,
While, whispering, thus the baron said:—

XXIX.

“Didst never, good my youth, hear tell,
    That on the hour when I was born,
Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,
    A weary wight forlorn?
The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen’s truth to show,
That I could meet this elfin foe!
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite;—
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea,
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.”
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

XXX.

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,
And marked him pace the village road,
    And listened to his horse’s tramp,
        Till by the lessening sound,
    He judged that of the Pictish camp
    Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seemed, in the squire’s eyes,
That one so wary held, and wise—
Of whom ’twas said, he scarce received
For gospel what the Church believed—
    Should, stirred by idle tale,
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
    Arrayed in plate and mail.
For little did Fitz-Eustace know,
That passions, in contending flow,
    Unfix the strongest mind;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,
    Guide confident, though blind.

XXXI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,
But, patient, waited till he heard,
    At distance, pricked to utmost speed,
    The foot-tramp of a flying steed,
        Come townward rushing on;
    First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
    Then, clattering on the village road—
    In other pace than forth he yode,
        Returned Lord Marmion.
Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, well-nigh he fell:
To the squire’s hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But yet the moonlight did betray
The falcon-crest was soiled with clay;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger’s knee,
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines,
Broken and short; for still, between,
Would dreams of terror intervene:
Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.