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ARMSTRONG, M.A., tlfi., OF OgOOODE HALL, BARBISTER-AT-LAW^ LATB .A.TKK. co.L.ou;;v;s«mrH:;^^.^°""**'' TORONTO : CANADA PUBLISHING COMPANY- (limited). 188?, Entered according to Act of tJu Parliament of Canada in the Vfar One thousand Eight Hundred and Eighty- two^bytheCMUk-DK Publishing Company (limited), in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, PliEFACE. What method do you employ in teaching an author n your cla«es? is a question that has often been ask^ 'he editor; and perhaps he might be pardoned a few explan3«M-y words in answer to such enquiries Thl work ,equ,red in .eading an English classic Tn school will be found to embrace the following • nur^t ^ f''"™"*^'' knowledge of the work itself, for the .^T^? "".P'-«='"e on 'he mind of the pupil the thoughts, emotions, and expressions of the auAor and for the purpose of cultivating correct notionr°oric"d thought, and a refined imagination. ' ^ and. A knowledge of the principles of rhetoric and iterary criticism, their application to the study Tmem ture, and Uie proper estimation of literary merit correct' I^'r^T! ''*™'°r '"' "' » appreciation of correct art, refined taste, and pure style in literary pro- duction, and Uie fostering of those higher quSs "f mmd^and soul which are 'he true aimfof a polite tiu' reading the too numerous extracts in the ordinary read- :^nt meZ' °' "'T"' '" °" ^'=''<»'' = "en^ ^e present method was adopted of selecting a complete work of some representative author as a means of Xg p {y t>REFACE. a knowledge of literature and literary art. This knowl. edge will include an acquaintance with- i.t the work itself; and, the whole literary work of the auilu, ; and 3rd the p;riod in which he wrote, and its relation to other great periods of our literature. ... . The following « the method adopted, w.O. Rood r^ ,:t8, by the editor in his classes, and may be found "t r'fit puie, every Cassica, w»rU should be read over thoroughly at leas, .hree times, if the student wot^W derive the full benefit from the study, and each tm e he should strive to imbibe more ^'f.'^'ZttZatL the author., but, as it is not f "^"^le to f s «c. the attention by .00 many details, the work above a-luded might be subdivided and allotted as follows . FM Rcadi«9.-0» the first reading the P"P' *°"W ■SJl misterinK the full meaning of every sentence as a-.m at """""'"K t« ^ub-division, and, ultimately, 'of S^whd. w"k. ™s should be tested by written :l^tt:SpH.-of~^^^^ S::;ru^S^es should be com.»i.ted .0 "3 ie«.*«..-Having c-P'"*'' *:,f ;;::S »„e information ™f ' ^"fS:! g^erM nat« ^d rary productions of 'h' »"*°'-;*^5,f ^^ contemporary 'rr:^thr::^ss:^'nr».n':'rwle^^^^ of the chi^f X« of the period to which the author belongs, and the I'reface:. V hiain distinguishing characteristics of that period, as well as some general knowledge of the other great periods of our literature. During the second reading, besides reviv- ing what was acquired on the first reading, attention might be directed chiefly to the peculiarities of the various characters, the various subdivisions of the plot (if any), the derivation of classical and other peculiar or interesting words, and the grammatical explanation of difficult words and phrases. Third Reading.—Tht third reading should leave the pupil completely master of the author's work, its aim, its object, and its merit. The reading should be a review of previous work, while more attention should be devoted to the literary merits or demerits of the piec»i. The learner should be trained in pointing out the literary peculiarities of given passages, and in writing critiques on portions or on the whole, applying the canons of literary criticism, in the investigation and comparison of the characters, in tracing the working of the authoi-'s mind. Test examinations should be set, and the pupil's answers corrected where wrong. This method would involve great labour, but the train- «ng given by it would be conducive of much good. It will give the learner a fair insight into the principles on which literature is founded, provide him with positive information concerning the author read, and enable him to take a comprehensive and intelligent view of the great writers of literature ; and perhaps its most important result would be to create a reUsh for high art in litera- ture, along with the love of «« truth and right," and the "common love of good." mmm^^ HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH METRICAL ROMANCE. i!, > I i^ The history of the English metrical romance appears, shortly, to be- that at least the first examples of it were translations from the French ; that there is no evidence of any such having been produced before the close of the twelfth century ■ that in the thirteenth century were composed the earliest of those we now possess in their original form ; that in the fourteenth the English took the place of the French metrical romance with all classes, and that this was the era alike of Us highest ascendancy and ot its most abundant and felicitous production ; that in the fifteenth It was supplanted by another species of poetry among the non-educated classes, and had also to contend with another rival in the prose roma'hce, but that, nevertheless, it still continued to be produced, although in less quantity and of an Inferior fabric and that it did not cease to be|read and written till after the commencement of the sixteenth. F rom that time the taste for this earliest form of our poetical literature (at least counting from the Norman Conquest) lay asleep in the national heart till it was re-awakened in our own day by Scott after the lapse of three hundred years. But the metrical romance was then become quite another sort of thing than it had been in its proper era, throughout the whole extent of which, while the story was generally laid in a past age, the manners and state of society described were, notwithstanding, in most pespects, those of the poet's and of his readers' and hearers' own time. There had been very little of the mere antiquarianism in the interest it nad inspired for three centuries. It had pleased, principally, as a picture or reflection of manners, usages, and a general spirit Oi society still exist- ing, or supposed to exist; and this is perhaps the condition upon which any poetry ever expects to be extensively and permanently popular. We need not say that the temporary success of the metrical romance, as re- vived by Scott, was in great part owing to his appeal to quite a differenti almost an apposite, state of feeling.— Craik. CRITICISM. J pleated me so much-in parts It has d1«s^5 i. ^ " * JJ»°'*- ^' '>«'• not •ofindv conceived in yourformer poem al th^^T^^^^^^^ /.5*" » "O'hing ia nothfn^ finer in it» concept mi an?wTere Thi 1mr°5 H"'"''°".= """^ did not wwh away, because «« nn*rn. rif * introductory epistles I wished them at ?K; end o the v'oJume' o^'J.V^^^ir-^' ^''^'4 • ^"^^ ^ cept where they were, Mv taste is n^ihL. I ?««'pn"ng-any where ex- niptions in na^rativ^ -pSry"' wVe„ fe E leYJhU ' '^^ ,*" '"»"" talks in his own person it han to m« . - '^ ^^^ ""J ■*°''y »'eep, and that is produced at the erid of an act YouVr^1?L"°r* °J unpleasant effect when, lol down comes the curuin and th^ fiH^i'^^S to know what follows, nations. The general opinion hiweJerU^Sh"™''!^'".^''' their abomi: •tance."-HFB OF Sro-rr. ""^'^'r, is with me in this particular in- end'i.:tet^a?nCd"^^h';;-ir;rnt^'h'i'en^^ propose to yourself you will be will « war T**='' » should wish yoii to notions of composition" bmh as to matter IndT-^^"^^" ''u""^ °' '"y my acquaintance it seems as well liked^^i Vh- < r "*"""• Jn the circle of that in the world it is not so '^LiP^ op Sc^r."^' ^°"*'' ^ '"'^' '"'"*» aobye'q^aHtten-ihSiXih^co^^ ^,^, ^^ commented onat the time by the most ardent „?!,•' '''*,''°/? ="7^' "merely but though he admitted Uie^usticTof that cr.°t h" ^''^ t*"''^' ^-^^den j tree lie as it had fallen.' He was also sensihU k,T' '"' '=''°," ' *» '« the nateand connecting parts of the narrS ir. /A T''\°^ '•>« ""'^'-di. but would never maL any serious I[femnttr.H«**' ''*"'?. and obscure - fections ; and perhaps they after all h3»- 1?° "^^y ^"'' t*""* 'mj>er. passages of high-wro'St enthusiasm w^fcr-.o^ "I!'""' '^? ««"* ofth« day8,.with wtfsfactioa. As for tha"^ii»„ia °1f' '"' considered, in after tate it, be allowed tha they interLeTwhh 7h« flf "Vl^"''' ** ""««». ^ readers were turning the leaves wth the fi^io,^ * ^°^ °K *''.• *^^^y> when were not. in fact, orTginaly Imended to be in?Ir °"'" °' ^"'^ositv ; and they the romance of Marmion/^But «« there an^T"'"'" '" ""^ ^*«"°n with wrote, that one would be more sorr? he shouts STk' """""^ »" J'" «v" are among the most delicious j^^^rTitures that ^e^nJ^* «'"^t«n '^ They -buoyant, virtuous, happy geSus-exultin^ in ?»« « P"'"*'*' °' "««^'^ sessedand mastered by a clear calm mi^I^F* •"! "^"J .energies, yet p,.s. fusing happiness around itI"-LocKH^T. "' ' ""'^ ''^PP^ ^"'y >" ^if- intr^ducioJy'efe^^^^^^^ compWaed of the si. that the remarlc has weight Tv!l l«- " ^ • ''"^ ^}°^y' B«t I cannot see they would a novdlmeSy to^folC?he rnVere'st S .*!?"" ^''° "»<» *' " poem be written for such ?eader.riVdeser4s to ii^^^^ °- 'i ""^ ease and frankness of these confessions nftK !? , *' ^o my mind, the picture of his life and character Th^u^^''!?"'^^^^^^ greatly to its attraction asTpoenrYorhav"e^a"r.^r'"'°"' ^^hicf addt of the scenery, but of the mind in »hi A .k f ^ * picture at once not only brought backfkt fit interims from^h™f* T^'^l '" "mirrored, and^re adapted to help yo" to aoDreci^e th^ ,* f"*-*"*" °t''". '" the mode besi What can be more t?u y a Sarrof ' Marmfni'' ^ °' ^''* P*J«=^ »° t^e Poem. •tory. than that introdu^ioKUe'^firStoTi^. ^ to"tf elljfct^e; f" I 8 CRITICISM. «l. pM.lon»te .ympathy with »h* high "«'««»« '«"»«,,'>,!,;l»,eTZ'l! i" hi« tribute to Fftt .nd fox. «nd then «V;«»;^f " ^i?!"l^^^^^ oreat a ■ubiect, and return* to what ''«"''•"'•"?' iXi.°'/"',ion^ ?"'nce of wiich waH. however. a P»««'"' »'» fl'P"' ^ *^Vha« the d^^^^^^^ ;^jl!««a^n.^ •; What can be more aerman to the poem than tne oeiine* ronrte «tre.ythe poet hadirived from muting lo the bare and would b.JlkelhehUl.whkh border Yarrow, without the stream and lake l;r.a?Vofm. Th« . Battle or Floddenneld; touchy InUa wrewion of starn patriotic feeling, In Its passionate lovo of daring, inxiaMfto." ,», '!'-, movements, no leaa than In the bril- poem. .11 »« s-rreaalor „_ and in tne force and swiftness of its ...«,«.. -, — --—- -, . Hancy of Its romantic interest, the char.n o .ts fi\''}^'^^^^'>^^fh*Lt^^^ Llow of its scenic colouring."-HirrTON'8 " SeoH m the EnglUh Men aj XtXtert SfriM. SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD A THOlloaoH knowledge of a po., Involvw, « very nature of ; usSr„:Syres^oivt u:^r; ^^ "r""^" -'^^ clusters of poets havirwl^rLn n r ■^'"" '""'"'' " each other fn natura uf qTeir p'acSv b ' ""'' '""•?'"« initiative period of Chauar Ml„ • t '^ beginning with the hirm «f '""'"' ""-""Wf. following the stirring times of the F^ch and ft°af .r"™ """•"• """ "■"'""'O "fter the ia^y pnraTxr.r;:iT::::sr^^^^^^^^^ Pnarrr:e~:-f~^^^^ i"g, or associated with such event th*.r» «,;n i, Leiie^r^.;^^^^^^^ I lin^ th? !' " r""'^''' "•"""'"^ »»<> "ri'ers, So C" [fth.r ""i"""" "P-'.begin to associate art and criS r *=" O'oO-'i-'. »«'^'' ^; j .. u ..'. ^... »u. »nrl inve of nature in Cowper, put them SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. 3 in concord with nature. Soon follow the poets of the early years of the present century-a -alaxy only equalled by those of the beginning of the seventeenth. This great period of poetry was caused by many combined forces acting on the social world at the close of the last century ijome of which were the following :— 1st. The natural weariness following the excess of artistic productions. People became tired of the artificial form and forced sentiment of these foreign imitations and turned to the early native poetry. 2d. The awakened interest i.. this old poetry in its various forms tended greatly towards the formation of a more healthy and vigorous p0etic.1l taste. The first outburst of a poetical age .shkelyto be lyrical; in this respect the present period Te- sembles the Elizabethan in its love of the metrical romances of chivalry and the simple narrative ballads. This fancy for early poetry is well marked by the literary forgeries to which it gave occasion, viz. :— Macpherson's "Poems of Ossian" (1760) Chatterton's " Rowley Poems, etc.," Ireland's forgeries of Shakespeare, and by the publication and imitation of many old poets, especially Shakespeare and Spenser. But, perhaps, the most significant, and certainly the most influential work of that nature was Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (1765). Ballad poetry has at all ages had a firm hold on the imagination of the people ; at times, indeed, a song has been suflicient to rouse a nation to mighty deeds,-witness the Welsh bards, the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, Wharton's LiUihul- tero, and the Marsallaise. But in this period it had a great in- fluence on poetic taste, it gave the first impulse to the genius of Scott, who was passionately fond of it, and collected his Mtnstrelsy of the Scottish Border in imitation of the Religues • mdeed, it may be traced in most poets of the period. Words-' worth say^ :-" I do not think that there is an able writer in verse of the present day who would not be proud to acknowl- ■ge his obligauons to the Rr/igu „_:_•. j. li 111 ^ SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD Thos. Warton's History of English Poetry. This peculiarity of the age is of special importance to us, as it permeates Scott's poetry through and through, giving us his beautiful lyrics, and deciding the form and nature of his poems. 3d. The influence of German literature began to be felt. European nations being intimately connected, their literatures must mutually affect one another; hence a great period in one reproduces its peculiarities to some extent in other nations. This foreign influence is entirely different from the classical lit- erature which is a perpetual spring of taste to all nations. Eng- lish literature, and, indeed, European literature, has been affected in turn by the Italian, the French and the German, and in each case the characteristics of the foreign literature have been re- produced in a modified form. The great Italian period gave us Chaucer, jShakespeare, Spenser and Milton ; the French Au- gustan period gave us Pope and Dryden, with the usual French qualities seen in the sparkle, the wit, the super-refinement, and the strict adherence to the formalities of art. The great German period of Goethe and Schiller was now beginning to captivate the world with its dreamy reflection and metaphysical analysis, and these Sturm und Drang sentiments of this Ger- man school were making their way into English literature when Scott began his literary life. The first great example of it was Henry Mackenzie's iWb« of Feeling, and Scott's first literary attempts were translations of Burger's Lenore and The Wild Huntsman, 4th. This age, like all great poetical ages, was the immediate rt suit of a great struggle among the people ; in this case the struggle was not confined to England, but was spread over all Europe. It was the gigantic struggle of the people against tyranny, which led in France to a revolt against all restraint England was powerfully affected by the sentiments that thus divided people, and when she herself was drawn into the con- test the effect was as great as in the time of the Armada. Her sluggish, conservative nature drove her into an attitude of firm lesistance to the efforts of liberty ; but poets all ardently sym- pathized with the patriots till they wont to the ex^treme oJ license, then some gave them up in despair, wnue otuers con- SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. tinued to dream of liberty and reformation. Scott never sym- pathized with these poets of liberty ; the whole struggle only confirmed him in his determined opposition to the demands of the "rabble." These, then, were the forces at work to pro, duce this remarkable activity in the literary world of England, and we can now point out the leading peculiarities of the period. 1st. We have the love of nature gradually increasing till in Wordsworth it became a vital principle. Now, for the first time, we have natural scenery introduced for aesthetic effect, and the art of description fully developed. A more healthy sen. timent permeated the poems of this age. Those great passion* and impulses that concern so intimately mankind in general, and not merely a section, formed the tbeme of poetry ; hence the poor and lowly were, at first apologetically, but finally boldly, taken as the subject of the finest poems. 2d. The language became less refined. As in the Elizabethan age, more stress was laid on the substance than on the outward form; the poets of both ages excel more in originality of genius than in perfection of execution. Much of this originated in this period from the reaction against the cold elaboration of the critical age, and in the irregularity of the ballads and romances. Many of the poets aimed at a studied simplicity of style and sentiment and a rugged versification. 3d. The popularity of old writers continued to some ex- tent. It was shown chiefly by Byron's imitation of Spenser in the first canto of Childe Harold, and by Scott in his metrical romances and the antiquarian lore so prof usely employed in his poems. 4th. It was perhaps in imitation of the old romances of chiv- airy and their offshoot, the narrative ballad, that Scott adopted a narrative form for his poems ; and so successfully did he employ It that It became the most popular and prevailing form of poem, and, mdeed, continues to this day to be the only kind favourably received by the public. From narrative in verse it was an easy transition to the prose narrative of the romance and the novel mto which Scott glided. The novel is less ambitious and less artificial '. but it simpiy an imeiiur sort of poem, aud requires il ■ 1^ 6 SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. much the same literary ability for its production as a poem does, especially a narrative poem, so that Scott's transition from poetry to prose was easy and natural. 5th. Another noted variety of poetry cultivated at this period most successfully was the lyrical poem or song. The songs of Burns, Scott, Moore, Byron, Campbell, etc., make this the chief lyrical age of our literature. 6th. The influence of German literature was chiefly fel| towards the end of this period, and at the present day continues to exert more or less influence on our literature, especially on the high class novel and the magazine literature, which are the two most popular and characteristic species of literary compp* sition of our time. Having given above the causes and peculiarities of the period, a few words about the chief writers are necessary. We have seen that the practical founder of the school was William Cowper ( The Task, 1785), who had the two leading qualities, the love of nature for herself, and large human sympathies. He was ably aided by Crabbe in England, ( The Village Parish Register, Tales of a Hall, etc.) and by Bvrns in Scotland { Cot er'*s Saturday Night, Songs, etc.). A new impetus was given by the French Revolution, which divided all poets into poets of liberty and poets of order, according as they adopted or rejected the revolutionary ideas. Robert Southey. ( Wat Tjyler, 1794, ThaJaba, Madoc, etc) was a prolific writer of considerable genius ; he adopted the nar- rative but chose foreign and fanciful subjects. He at first hailed the revolution, but abandoned it after the excesses in Paris. S. T. Coleridge. — {Odes to the Departing Year, To France, To Dejection, etc.) One of the greatest poetical geniuses that ever lived. His poetry is grand and metaphysical, — a poet of liberty. William Wordsworth is the great central figure of the period. He had the deep love for nature and the wide sympathy for man in the highest degree. He purposely adopted a plainness of sentiment and of expression that often laid him open to attack. [Descriptive Sketches, Lyrical Ballads, Excur' n K.J. J, rstauc. SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. Sir Walter Scott._A poet of order. The mighty events tran8p.r,ng around him could not command an encouraging smUe from his conservative mind. His work in the period was perfectmg the narrative poem and the historical romance. He nTrLf" v^'"*''^P"''' ""^ ^**"^ ^^'^^^^^'^^ the antiquarian I la ! 'T- u"'' '^''^ "**"^^' description, and his strong nationality make him very popular with his countrymen. Thomas Campbell {Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyo- mrng. Songs, etc. ) belongs partly to the old and partly to the new Samuel Rogers (Pleasures of Memory) is an isolated poet of the previous age. Thomas Moore {Songs, and Lalla Rookh) is scarcely a natu- ral poet. He resembles the previous age in his flash and glitter Lord Byron resembles the past in his ''English Bard^ and Scotch Peviewers," and the opening canto of Childe mrold; but his other poemj; belong to the new school, and in r•> Edinburgh Solicitor, was the first of his T«ce to adopt a town life and a sedentary profession." •' Sir Walter's father reminds one, in not a few of the formal and rather martinetish traits which are related of him, of the father of Goethe. *A formal man, with strong ideas of a straight-laced education, passionately orderly, and never so much excited as by a necessary deviation from household rules.* " Of this father, Alexander Fairford in RedgautttUt is a thinly disguised picture. Walter, the ninth of twelve children, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. An early fever resulted in a life- long lameness. HiJ early life was spent with his grandfather, at Sandy i^nowe, to which and his life there he refers in the introtluction to canto iii. of Martnion* " It wu a barren acene, and wild, . ' Where naked cliffs were rudfly piled ; • ••*•• For I was wayward, bold and wild, A self-willed imp, a grandame's child ; But half a plague and half a jest. Was still endured, beloved, caressed." Youth.—" As Scott grew up, entered the classes of the col- lege, and began his legal studies, first as an apprentice to his father, and then in the law classes of the University, he became noticeable for his gigantic memory, the rich stores of romantic material with which it was loaded, his giant feats of industry for any cherished purpose, and his delight in adventure and in all athletic enterprises." His youthful escapades often took the form of raids into Liddesdale, from which be derived much of his knowledge for after use in his literary works. Scott continued to practise at the bar — nominally at least — for fourteen years, but his impatience of solicitor's patronage, his well known dabblings in poetry, and his general repute for wild and unprofessional adventurousness, were all against him. In his eighth year at the bar he was made sheriff of Selkirkshire. In 1798 he married a lady of some means, a Miss Carpenter^ SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. ^ the daughter of a French royalist, within a year of his disap. po.ntment in his love for Miss Margaret Stuart Belcher Early PoETRY.~His first serious attempt in poetry' was a version of Biirger's Lenore, a spectre ballad. In r8o2 he pub- .shed \.x^ Minstrelsy of the Scottish i?^^.r, containing some ballads of h,s own of great merit ; to this early date belong also Glenfinlas, Cadyow Castle, The Eve of St. John etc Maturer Poems- r.4. Lay of the Last Minstrel appeared in i8os, when Scott was thirty-four years old. It grew out of a request of Lady Dalkeith to write a poem on the legend of the gobhn page, Clpin Horner; this Scott attempted to do. in- tendmg the poem to be included in th« Border Minstrelsy, but .t grew too long for that, and became so uncouth and irregular that the whole was put into the mouth of an aged harper. Scott says th? mtroduction of the harper was to avoid the im- putation offsetting up a new school of poetry," instead of imitatrng an old school; but it has been suggested that the harper may have typified himself in his devotion to the lady of bis chief," as he always called the head of the house of Scott. It became very popular; its rugged beauty and romantic sen- IZiTer''' '°'"**'''"^ """'"*'• '^^^ «^^ ^'P^' " generally In 1808 appeared Marmion, a Tale of Flodden Field, his greatest poem. It is superior to the Lay by having a complete, well told story, instead of a confused legend : but in a poem we !e^nir.^'"5r, "'*! *° '"^^ ^'^^^^'^^ ""^ '^^' '"«'«ht into the sleeper side of life and manners, in expressing which poetry has excfi?.?" t'^'^'T °"'' P''^'*' *^'« is wherein MarJnion excels the others. Its descriptions of war and of nature are Justly celebrated. Next in order comes the Lady of the Lake (1810). his most ^^:£li::,r''^'''' containing less poetry of a high au^httiT^^'^^r ^'^'"'^^ ^^^"^ ^^ '"t^^ded by the Jtsilu '■**'..*''' ^'^'^'^^^^'"•"ts of Wellington in Soain. « IS generally considered a failure. Hi 10 SCOTT AND HIS PERIOD. Xfikeby (i8ia), a Yorkshire story o£ a date immediately sub- sequent to the battle of Marston Moor, 1644. In this, Scott appears to be at home neither in the epoch nor the place, and the poem is at times insipid. The author says of the first three poems, that the interest of the Lay depends chiefly on the style ; that of MitrmioH, upon the descriptions ; and that of tKe Lady tftkt Lak« upon the incidents. But this was probably an after- thought ; they all seem to be modelled on the metrical romance, and to be framed from hints and suggestions gleaneU in his antiquarian studies. The Lordoftht Isles (1814), " A wild tale of Albyn's warrior day," a story of the return of Bruce in 1307. The stiuggle ot Bannockburn and the wild scenery of the Highlands pre well painted and harmonitcd, but the poem lacks interest. After this po^m Scott relinquished poetry for prose ; but to the list must be added, The Bridal of Triermain and Harold Me Daunt' less, which had been published anonymously, and in 1822 he again took up poetry, publishing Halidon Hill, a drama of chivalry, in which the author, to avoid Shakespeare's Hotspur, has transferred the events of Homildon Hill, 1402, to Halidon Hill, 1333. It was not intended for the stage, but " to illustrate military antiquities." His Homes.— "So completely was Scott an out-of-doors man that he oannot be adequately known, either through his poems or through his friends, without also knowing his external surroundings and occupations." His first country home was at Lasswood, on the Esk, a cottage which he took shortly after his marriage in 1798, and retained til! 1804, when he left it for Ashe- sticl, the beauties of which he has painted in Marmion^ Canto I. Here he remained, attending to his duties as Sheriff, writ- ing his poems and amusing himself looking after the landlord's woods, hunting, fishing, etc. In 1812 Scott bought a "moun- tain farm" at Abbotsford on the Tweed, and removed to it, changing its name from " Clarty Hole " to Abbotsford. To pay for this he wrote " Rokeby." Once here, a rage for building and for planting trees seized him, that finally led to his financial ruin. Mr. Lockhart admits that before the crash came he had invested A 29,000 in the purcha:ie of land aione -.« :t J SCOTT AND HIS PKRIOD. II speculation was his partnership with the Ballantynes, to estab- I»sh a large publishing house. But neither the liJ.l! ♦I,. , ^"dKcspeare. A discussion of the merits of iz^t::!^ '"'""""- ^"' -"- •» '-'." :r.t .J.U 'T/'*''" ^'■*'** "*''' '*"''^ "^^^ ^°""d himself saddled with a off On^.H'''T.' ?"' "' ''"^^^^ ^^«°'"^«'y ^° work t"i: on the 10 h he're ^""".T' ^'^ — ^^-"t was made, nd Pleted 'at?? \ T^ '^" composition of W^o^,,.,^. and com- Pleted about twenty printed pages." Adversity to him wTs •a tonic and bracer." but nar^ nt *ui. a j . . the result nf r..iA c J . *"'^ ^^^S^^^ resolution was teW B.^L "',"' ""^'-''i^^o "ft" showed itself in' ,8 J K l^ '' " ""^' ■" «™8gled on, and by January i SpaidlT, 'h?'' ?"""■" """^ ^io,ooo/and wo^d zTr^ !^ = ''"" '"' " ■''' '""'"' ^^ continued. His ^,./fl,^„ „„„ unpublished novel written at Naples l^sZZ If r ^ T''^ ""'"^' ■■" ">'y '- W '<- -tore ^health, and returning home he died at Abbotsford, Sep.. «° II iiilii "■ idl!! Hi' : m 4 MARMION. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO I. AsBssTnii, Etfbxos FoBam. To William Stewart Rose, Esq. NOVEMBER'S sVy is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sere : Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in. Low in its dark and narrow glen, 5 You scarce the rivulet might ken. So thick the tangled greenwood grew. So feeble trilled the streamlet through : Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, 10 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade. Brawls over rock and wild cascade. And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed. No longer Autumn's glowing red 1 5 Upon our Forest hills is shed ; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflec ts their purple gleam ; Away hath passed the heather-bell That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell ; 20 Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yair. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To sheltered dale and down are driven. Where yet some faded herbage pines, 25 And yet a watery sunbeam shines : In meek despondency they eye . The withered sward and wintry sky, W .; \m W' I 30 35 MARMION. [canto I. And far beneath their summer hill, Stray sadly bv CIcnkinnon's rill : The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, And wraps him closer from the cold ; His dojrs, no merry circles wheel, But, shivering', follow at his heel ; A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. ' My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, And wail the daisy's vanished flower ; 40 Their summer gambols tell, and mourn. And anxious ask— Will spnng return. And birds and lambs again be gay. And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 45 Again shall paint your summer bower ; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie ; The lambs upon the lea shall bound. The wild birds carol to the round, And while you frolic light as they. Too short shall seem the summer day. To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings ; The genial call dead Nature hears. And m her glory reappears. But oh ! my country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate ? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike and the wise ; The mind that thought for Britain's w .;, The hand that grasped the victor ." j ' The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows ; But vainly, vainly may he shine, 6; Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom. That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb I SO 55 60 CANTO 1.) INTRODUCTION. 75 to 85 Deep LMjived in e^ cry British heart, O never let those names depart ! Sav to your sons - Lo, here his grave, \yho victor died on (iaditc wave ; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given. Where'er his country's foes were found, Wns heard the fatccl thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Rolled, blazed, destroyed— and was no more. Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, Who bade ho conqueror go forth, And launched that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ; Who, born to guide such high emprize. For Britain's weal was early wise ; Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave. For Britain's sins, an early grave ! His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of power, Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain « Strained at subjeci ion's bursting rein, O'er their wild mcjod full conquest gained The pride, he would not crush, restrained' Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause ' And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the free- man's laws. Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power, A watchman on the lonely tower. Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand • loo By thee, as by the beacon-light. Our pilots had kept course aright ; As some proud ctilumn, though alone Thy strength had propped the totteriAg throne : Now IS tlie stately column broke, jqc The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, 1 he tnunpet's silver sound is still, llie warder silent on the hill ! 70 90 95 MARMION. iiii itr t ' . : M [canto 1. Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, Because his rival slumbers nigh ; Nor be thy requicscat dumb, Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. For talents mourn, untimely lost, Wnen best employed, and wanted most ; Mourn genius high, and lore profound. And wit that loved to play, not wound ; And all the reasoning powers divine, To penetrate, resolve, combine ; And feelings keen, and fancy's glow— They sleep with him who sleeps below : And, if thou mourn'st they could not save From error him who owns this grave, Be every harsher thought suppressed, And sacred be the last long rest. Here, where the end of earthly things Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ; Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song. As jf some angel spoke agen, 'Ail peace on earth, good-will to men ;' "5 Oh think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey, i lo \Vith Palinure's unpltered mood, Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, 'x'ill, in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way ! Then, while on Britain's thousand plains. One unpolluted church remains, Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, But still, upon the hallowed day. Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; While faith and civil peace are dear, Grace this cold marble with a tear — Hej who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 1 20 125 130 135 140 145 CANTO I-l INTRODUCTION. If ever from an English heart, O, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside. Record, that Fox a Briton died ! When Europe crouched to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave. Was bartered by a timorous slave, Even then dishonour's peace he spurned. The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colours to the mast ! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honoured grave. And ne'er held marble in its trust Of two such wondrous men the dust. 5 150 155 160 165 With more than mortal powers endowed How high they soared above the crowd ! Theirs was no common party race, {ostling by dark intrigue for place ; .ike filled Gods, their mighty war 170 Shook realms and nations in its jar ; Beneath each banner proud to stand, Looked up the noblest of the l;ind, Till through the British world were known The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 175 Spells of such force no wizard grave E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, Though his could drain the ocean dry, And force the planets from the sky. These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 180 The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, Forever tombed beneath the stone. Where— tamin|f thought to human pride ! — The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 185 Drop upon Fox's grave the tear. Twill trickle \p his rival's bier ; O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound. *i!!iiii i miiii ■ ii 1! ; : 'j! Mil; ii,"i) MARMION. [CANTOI. 'A The solemn echo seems to cry — 190 * Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom, Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb ; But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like again ?' 195 Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise ; Not even your Britain's groans can pierc The leaden silence of your hearse ; Then, O, how impotent and vain 200 This grateful tributary strain ! Though not unmarked from northern clime, Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme : Hip Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The Bard you deigned to praise, your deathless names has sung. 205 Stay yet, illusion, stay a while. My wildered fancy still beguile ! From this high theme how can I part, Ere half unloaded is my heart ! For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 210 And all the raptures fancy knew, And all the keener rush of blood, That throbs through bard in bard-like mood, Were here a tribute mean and low, Though all their mingled streams could flow — 2 1 5 Woe, wonder, and sensation high, In one spring-tide of ecstasy 1 — It will not be — it may not last — The vision of enchantment's past : Like frostwork in the morning ray, 220 The fancied fabric melts away ; Each Gothic arch, memorial stone. And long, dmi, lofty aisle, are gone ; And, lingering last, deception dear. The choir's high sounds die*on rhe 2ar. 22 J Now slow return thv. ioncly down, iuc siicnt pastures bleak and brown, Irl.lil CAN TO 1.] INTRODUCTION. The farm begirt with copsewood wild, The gambols of each frolic child, Mixing their shrill cries with the tone Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 230 Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son : Meeter, she says, for me to stray. And waste the solitary day, 235 In plucking from yon fen the reed, And watch it floating down the Tweed ; Or idly list the shrilling lay. With which the milkmaid cheers her way, Marking its cadence rise and fail, 240 As from the field, beneath her pail. She trips it down the uneven dale : Meeter for me, by yonder cairn. The ancient shepherd's tale to learn ; Though oft he stop in rustic fear, 245 Lest his old legends tire the ear Of one, who, in his simple mind. May boast of book-learned taste refined. But thou, my friend, can'st fitly tell (For few have read romance so well), 250 How still the legendary lay O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; How on the ancient minstrel strain Time lays his palsied hand in vain ; And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 255 By warriors wrought in steely weeds, Slill throb for fear and pity's sake ; As when the Champion of the Lake Enters MorgaUva's fated house, Or in the Chapel Perilous, 260 Despising spells and demons' force. Holds converse with the unburied corse ; Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move (Alas, that lawless was their love !), He sought proud Tarqu .» in his den, 265 And freed full sixtv knights ; or when, li[ iiir iiri '' i i ii i ■ li I It) II I u< I' I li 8 MARMION. A sinful man, and unconfessed, He took the Sangrcal's holy quest, And, slumbering, saw the vision high, He might not view with waking eye. [canto I. 270 The mightiest chiefs of British song Scoraed not such legends to prolong : They gleam through Spenser^s elfin dream, And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; And Dryden, in immortal strain, 275 Had raised the Table Jlound again. But that a ribald King and Court Bade him toil on, to make them sport Demanded for their niggard pay. Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 280 Lidentious satire, song, and play ; The world defrauded of the nigh design. Profaned the God-given strength, and marred the lofty line. Warmed by such names, well may we then. Though dwindled sons of little men, 285 Essay to break a feeble lance In the fair fields of old romance ; Or seek the moated castle's cell. Where long through talfeman and spell. While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 290 Thy Genius, Chivalry^ hath slept : There sound the harpmgs of the North, Till he awake and sally forth, On venturous quest to prick again. In all his arms, with ail his train, 295 Shield, lai.ce, and brand, and plume, and scarf. Fay, gtant, dVagon, squire, and dwarf, And wizard with his wand of might. And errant maid on palfrey white. Around the Genius weave their spells, 300 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells ; Mystery, half veiled and half revealed ; And Honour, with his snotless shield '- mmm$m wmmm CANTO I.] INTRODUCTION. Attention, with fixed eye ; and Fear, That loves the tale ohe shrinks to hear ; And gentle Courtesy ; and Faith, Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death ; And Valour, lion-mettled lord. Leaning upon his own good sword. ■" Well has thy fair achievement shewn, A worthy meed may thus be won ; Ytene's oaks — beneath whose shade Their theme the meny minstrels made. Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold. And that Red King, who, while of old, Through Boldrewood the chase he led, By his loved huntsman's arrow bled— Ytene's oaks have heard again Renewed such legendary strain ; For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, That Amadis so famed in hall, For Oriana, foiled in fight The Necromancer's felon might ; And well in modem verse hast wove Partenopex''3 mystic love : Hear, then, attentive to my lay, A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 9 305 310 315 320 325 io MARMION [canto I. Ill i! CANTO FIRST. I. DAY set on Norham's castled ^teep, A j^J?,^ Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone : Thp battled towers, the Donjon keep, The loophole grates, where captives weep The flanking walls that round it sweep, ' In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high. Moving athwart the evening sky. Seemed forms of giant height ; Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze In lines of dazzling light. ' V. II. Saint George's banner, broad and gay. Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and fess, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the pov/er To-wavq it on the Donjon Tower, So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The Castle gates were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch. Timing his footsteps to a march. The Warder kept his guard ; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering -son^. IO 15 20 25 CANTO I.] THE CASTLE. II I III. A distant trampling sound he hears- He looks abroad, and soon appears O'er Hornclifif Hill a plump of spears, Beneath a pennon gay ; A horseman, darting from the crowd, Like lightning from a summer cloud. Spurs on his mettled courser proud. Before the dark array. Beneath the sable palisade. That closed the Castle barricade. His bugle-horn he blew ; The Warder hasted from the wall. And warned the Captain in the hall. For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call. To sewer, squire, and seneschal : — IV. " Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, Bring pasties of the doe. And quickly make the entrance free. And bid my heralds ready be. And every minstrel sound his glee, And all our trumpets t>low ; And, from the platform, spare ye not To fire a noble salvo-shot : Lord Marmion waits below." — Then to the Castle's lower ward Sped forty yeomen tall. The iron -studded gates unbarred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard. The lofty palisade unsparred. And let the drawbridge fall. V. Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, Proudly his red-roan charger trode. His helm hung at the saddlebow ; Well, by his visage, you might know 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 12 MARMION. [canto I. ill P! I'll ' • S I. !f' II' * He was a stalworth knight, and keen, And had in many a battle been ; The scar on his brown cheek revealed A token true of Bosworth field ; His eyebrow dark, and eve of fire, Shewed spirit proud, and prompt to ire ; Yet lines of thought upon his cheek. Did deep design and counsel speak. His forehead, by his casoue worn bare. His thick moustache, and curly hair, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, But more through toil than age ; Hia square-turned joints, and strength of limb. Shewed him no carpet knight so t-Tm, But, in close fight, a champion grim ; In camps, a leader sage. 6S 70 75 VI. Well armed was he from head to heel, In mail and plate of Milan steel ; But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 80 Was all with burnished gold embossed j Amid the plumage of the crest, A falcon hovered on her nest. With wings outspread, and forward breast ; E'en such a falcon, on his shield, gc Soared sable in an azure field : The golden legend bore aripfht, * Who checks at me, to death is dight.' Blue was the charger's broidered rein ; Blue ribbons decked his arching mane ; go The knightly housing's ample fold Was velvet blue, and trapped with gold. VII. Behind him rode two gallant squires. Of noble name and knightly sires ; They burned the gilded spurs to claim ; 95 For well could each a war-horse tame. Could draw the bow, the sword could sway, And lightly bear the ring away j CANTO I.] THE CASTLE. Nor less with courteous precepts stored, Could dance in hall, and carve at board ; And frame love ditties passing rare, And sing them to a lady fair VIII. Four men-at-arms came at their backs, With halbert, bill, and battle-axe : They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, And led his sumpter-mules along, And ambling paffrey, when at need Him listed ease his battle-steed. The last, and trustiest of the four, On high his forkj^ pennon bore ; Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, Fluttered the streamer glossy blue. Where, blazoned sable, as before, The towering falcon seemed to soar. Last, twenty yeomenj two and two, , In hosen black, and jerkins blue. With falcons broidered on each breast, Attended on their lord's behest. Each, chosen for an archer good. Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ; Jttach one a six foot bow could bend. And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ; Each held a boar-spear, tough and strong, '-ad at their belts their auivers rung, heir dusty palfreys, and array, , wed they had marched a weary way. IX. >Tis meet that I should tell you now. How fairly armed, and ordered how, The soldiers oi the guard. With musket, pike, and morion, To welcome noble Marmion, Stood in the Castle-yard ; Minstrels and trumpeters were there, The gunner held his linstock yare, For welcome-shot prepared ; n ICO 105 no "5 120 125 130 I3S M Marmion. Entered the train, and sucli a clfing, As then through all his turrets rang, Old Norham never heard. [canto t X. The guards their morrice-pikes advanced. The trumpets flourishecl brave. 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 crossed the court. He scattered angels round. •Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! Stout heart, and open hand ! Well' dost thou brook thy gallant roan. Thou flower of English land ! ' XI. 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. They hailed Lord Marmion : They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, Of Tam worth tower and town ; And he, their courtesy to requite, 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 blazoned shield, in battle won. Ne'er guarded heart so bold.' 140 145 ISO 15s 160 16S XIL They marshalled him to the Castle-hall, Where the guests stood all aside, CANTO i.l THE CASTLE. i5 And loudly flourished the trumpet-call, And the heralds loudly cried— 170 • Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion With the crest and helm of gold ! Full well wc know the trophies won In the lists at Cottiswold : There, vainly R.alph de Winton strove i75 '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 conquered in the right, Marmion of Fontenaye !' 190 xin. Then stepped to meet that noble Lord, Sir HuA the Heron Bold, Baron of Twiscll, 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 higl- : The whiles a Northern harper rude Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 200 *How thefiev£c Thirhmlls, and Ridley s all, Stout IVillimondsmck, And Uardriding Dick, And Ihighie of Ilawdon, and Will 0' the Wall, Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhatigh, 205 And taken his life at the Deadman's-shaw.' 1 'I i id M ARM ION. [canto I. I, 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 i;iinsticrs strain, By knight should ne'er bo heard in vain. XIV. " 'Now. good Lord MarmJon,' 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 ; Seldbm hath passed a week but giust Or feat of arms befell : 220 The Scots can rein a mettled steed ; And love to couch a spcnr ; — Saint George ! a stirring life they lead They 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 stem I r i XV. The Captain marked his altered look And gave the sauire a sign ; A mighty wassail-Dowl he took. And crowned it high in wine. 'Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion : But first I pray thee fair, Where hast thou left that page of thine, 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 marked his cheeks were wet. With tears he fain would hide : 130 235 240 CANTO 1.] THE CASTLE. 17 His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, To burnish shield or sharpen brand, Or saddle battle-steed ; But mccter seemed for lady fair, 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 sighed, 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. A gentle paramour ?' XVI. Lord Marmion ill could brooK such jest ; He rolled his kindling eye. With pain his rising wrath suppressed. Yet made a calm reply : ' That boy thou thought's! 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, 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 Whispered light tales of Heron's dame. XVII. Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt. Careless the Knight replied, * No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt. Delights in cage to bide ; Norhami3 grim imi grated close, Hemmed m by battlement and fosse. And many a darksonle tower j 245 250 255 260 205 270 275 i8 js' MARMION. [CANTO I. 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, V 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 XVIII. ' Nay, if with Royal James's bride The lovely Lady Heron bide, Behold me here a messenger. Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; For, to the Scottish court addressed, 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 backed the cause of (hat 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.' — 290 XIX. * For sucn like need, my lord, I trow, Norham can find you guides enow ; For here be some have pricked as far. On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 305 Have drunk the monks of St Bothan's ale. And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods. And given them light to set their hoods.' — XX. * Now, in good sooth,' Lord Marmion cried, 310 ' Were I in warlike wise to ride. CANTO 1.] THE CASTLE. 19 A better guard I would not lack, Than your stout forayers at my back . But, as in form of peace I go, A friendly messenger, to kiv)w, 31 5 Why through all Scotland, near and far, Their King is mustering troops for war, The sight of plundering Border spears. Might justify suspicious fears, And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 320 Break out m some unseemly broil : A herald were my fitting guide ; Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; Or pardoner, or travelling priest. Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.' 325 XXI. The Captain mused a little space. And passed his hand across his face. — * Fain would I find the guide you want, But ill may spare a pursuivant, The only men that safe can ride, 330 Mine errand^ on the Scottish side : Then, though a bishop built this fort. Few holy brethren here resort ; Even our good chaplain, as I ween, Since our last siege we have not seen : 335 The mass he might not sing or say. Upon one stinted meal a day ; So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, And prayed for our success the while. Our Norham vicar woe betide, 340 Is all too well in case to ride ; The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein ^The wildest war-horse in your train ; But then, no spearman in the hall. Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 345 Friar lohn of Tillmouth were the man ; A blitnesoms brother at the can, A welcome guest in hall and bower. He knuw!) tach castle, town, and tower. i' iVi W , MARMION. [canto i. In which the wine and ale is good, 350 *Twixt Newcastle and Holy- Rood. But that good man, as ill befalls, H.ith seldom left our castle walls, Since on the vigil of St Bede, In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed, 355 To teach Dame Alison her creed. Old Bughtrig found him with his wife ; And John, an enemy to strife, Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 360 That, if again he venture o'er. He shall shrieve penitent no more. Little he loves such risks I know ; Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.* XXII. Young Selby, at the fair hall-bor I, 365 Carved to his uncle and that loro. And reverently took up the word. * Kind uncle, woe were we each one, If harm should hap to brother John. He is a man of mirthful speech, 370 Can many a game and gambol teach : Full well at tables can he play. And *weep at bowls the stake away. None can a lustier carol bawl, The needfuUest among us all, 375 When time hangs heavy in the hall. And snow comes thick at Christmas-tide And we can neither hunt, nor ride A foray on the Scottish side. The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude, 380 May end in worse than loss of hood. Lei Friar John, in safety still In chimney corner snore his fill, Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill : Last night, to Norham there came one, 385 Will better guide Lord Marmion.'— * Nephew,' quoth Heron, ' by my fay,' Weil hast tfiou spoke ; say forth thy say.'-— Canto i.] THE CASTLE. 2t XXIII ' Heie is a holy Palmer coniC, Fiom Salem first, and last from Rome ; 390 One, that hath kissed the blessed tomb, And visited each holy shrine, In Araby and Palestine ; On hills of Armenie hath been, Where Noah s ark may yet be seen • 305 By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, Which parted ai the prophet s rod ; In Sinai's wilderness he saw The Mount where Israel heard the law, *Mid thunder dint, and flashing levm, 400 And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. He shews Saint James's cockle-'shell, Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; And of that Grot where Olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, 40; From all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God. XXIV. 'To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410 For his sins' pardon hath he prayed. He knows the passes of the North, And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ; Little he eats, and long will wake. And drinks but of the stream or lake. 415 This were a guide o'er moor and dale ; But, when our John hath quaffed his ale, As little as the wind that blows, And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.' — 420 XXV. *Gramercy !' quoth Lord Marmion, * Full loth were I, that Friar John, That venerable man, for ae, V ^iav\.u ill xtai \ji .v|/cuuy. WT-. „ m hi . I ! N M MARMtON. [Canto i. If this same Palmer wi)l me lead From hence to Holy- lood, Like his good saint. I'll pay his meed, Instead ol cockle-sneU, or bead, With angels fair and good. I love such .^ci;- cccibiers ; still They know to clicrm n. weary hill, With song romance, or lay : So Tie lovial tale, or glee, or jest, Some lyin^ legend, at the least, They brmg to cheer the way.'— 435 430 43S XXVI. * Ah ! noble sir,' young Selby said. And fii^ger on his lip he laid, •This man knows much, perchance e'en more Than he could learn by holy lore Still to himself he's muttering, 440 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. Last night we listened at his cell ; Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, He murmured on till morn howe'er No living mortal could be near. 445 Sometimes I thought I heard it plain. As other voices spoke again. I cannot tell— I like it not— Friar John haih told us it is wrote, No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 450 Can rest awake, and pray so long. Himself stkU sleeps before his beads Have marked ten aves, and two creeds.— XXVI L * Let pass,' quoth Marmion ; ' by my fay This man shall guide me on my way. Although the great arch-fiend and he Had sworn themselves of company. So please you, gentle youth, to call This Palmer to the Castie hall.' 455 CANIO I.J THE CASTLE. The summoned Palmer came in place : His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; In his black mantle was he clad, With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, On his broad shoulders wrought ; The scallop shell his cap did deck • The crucifix around his neck Was from Loretto brought ; His sandals were with travel tore, Staflf, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; The faded palm-branch in his hand Shewed pilgrim from the Holy Land. xxvin. When as the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier steo withal. Or looked more high and keen , For no saluting did he wait. But strode across the hall of state. And fronted Marmion where he sate, As he his peer had been. But his gaunt frame was worn with toll • His cheek was sunk, alas the while' And when he struggled at a smile, His eye lot .^ed haggard wild : Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there. In his wan face and sun-burned hair She had not known her child. Danger, long travel, want, or woe, Soon change the fotm that best we know- For deadly fear can time outgo, And blanch at once the hair; Hard toil can roughen form and face. And want can quench the eye's bright grace. Nor does old age a wrinkle trace More deeply than despair. Happy whom none of these befall. But this poor Palmer knew them all. 23 460 465 470 f|f 47b 480 85 490 495 M ARM ION. XXIX. Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ; The Palmer took on him the task, So he would march with morning tide, To Scottish court to be his guide. ' But I have solemn vows •"" r>^y, And may not linger by th To fair Saint Andrews bv , Within the ocean-cave to pray, Where good Saint Rule his holy lay From midnight to the dawn of day, Sung to the billows' sound ; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, And the crazed brain restore : Saint Marv grant, that cave or spring Could back to peace my bosom bring. Or bid it throb no more !' XXX. And now the m.dnight draught of sleep, Where wine and spices richly steep, In massive bowl of silver deep. The page presents on knee. Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest. The Captain pledged his noble guest. The cup |Went through among the rest, Who drained it merrily ; Alone the Palmer passed it by. Though Selby pressed him courteously. This was the sign the feast was o'er ; It hushed the merry wassail roar, The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard. But the slow footstep of the guard. Pacing his sober round. XXXI. Witheariy dawn Lord Marmion rose: And first the chapel doors unclose ; [CANIO T. 500 505 510 515 520 525 530 CANTO. l] THE CASTLE. Then, after morning riles were done (A liasty mass from Friar John), And knight and squire had broke their fast, On rich substantial repast, Lord Mansion's bugles blew to horse : Then came the stirrup-cup in course • Between the Baron and his host. No point of courtesy was lost ; High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid Solemn excuse the Captain made. Till, filing from the gate, had passed That noble train, their Lord the last. Then loudly rung the tnunpet call ; Thundered the cannon from the wall, And shook the Scottish shore ; Around the castle eddied slow, Vclumcs of smoke as white as snow, And hid its turrets hoar ; Till they mlled forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there. Which gave again the prospect fair. 25 535 40 45 550 MARM ION. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO II ASHESTIBL, ETTKICK F0BE8T. 10 To THE Rev. John Marriott, a.m. THE scenes are desert now and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste elens with coi)se were lined, And peopled with tne hart and hind. Yon Thorn— perchance whose prickly spears 5 Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeers- Yon lonely Thorn^ would he could tell The changes of his parent deU, Since he, so gray and stubborn now Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; Would he could tell how deep the shade A thousand mingled branches made ; How broad the shadows of the oak, How clung the rowan to the rock, And through the (bliage shewed his head, With narrow leaves and berries red ; What pines on every mountain sprung, O'er every dell what birches hung, la every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook ! * Here, in my shade,* methinks he 'd say, * The mighty stag at noon-tide lay : The wolf I 've seen, a fiercer game (The neighbouring dingle bears his name), With lurching step around me prowl, And stop, against the moon to howl ; [•6] '5 20 «5 CANTO II.] INTRODUCTION. The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet , Whilst doe, and roe, and red-deer good. Have bounded by, through gay green -wood. Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power : A thousand vassals mustered round. With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound ; And I might see the youth intent. Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; And foresters, in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim. Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain. As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ; Whistles the arrow from the bow. Answers the harauebuss below ; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter's cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely.' a7 ^ l\ 40 45 50 Of such proud huntings, many tales Yet linger m our lonely dales, Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. But not more blithe that sylvan court. Than we have been at humbler sport ; Though small our pomp, and mean our game, Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. Remember'st thou my greyhounds true ? O'er holt or hill there never flew, From slip or leash thiere never sprang, More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. Nor dull, between each merry chase, Passed by the intermitted space ; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic and in Gothic Inre • 55 60 65 2S MARMION. [canto 11. We marked each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between ; Nor hill, nor brook, we p.iced along, 70 But had its legend or its song. All silent now — for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun. 75 And while his honest heart glows warm, At thought of his paternal farm. Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks, 'The Chieftain of the Hills !' No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 80 Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flower s^ Fair as the elves whom Janet saw By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ; No youthful Baron 's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 85 And ape, in manly step and tone. The majesty of Oberon : And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace ; Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 90 To shew our earth the charms of Heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. No mort the widow's deafened ear Grows quick that lady's step to hear : 95 At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot ; Pensive she turns her humming wheel, Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100 The gentle hand by which they 're fed. From Yair — which hills so closely bind. Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil — Her long-descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. 105 CANTO II.] INTRODUCTION. 29 "5 And much I jniss those sportive boys Companions of my mountain joys, ' Just at the age 'tvvixt boy and youth, i ,0 When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Uose to my side, with what delight They pressed to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy m.ound, I called his ramparts holy ground ! Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years. Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure, They will not, cannot, long endure; Condemned to stem the world's rude tide You may not linger by the side ; * For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, And Passion ply the sail and oar. Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain, and the rill; For trust, dear boys, the * me will come. When fiercer transport shall be dumb. And you will think right frequently, But, well I hope, without a sigh. On the free hours that we have spent Together, on the brown hill's bent. 120 I2S J 30 When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain : I here is a pleasure in this pain : It soothes the love of lonely rest, ,-S?^P.I" each gentler heart impressed. 1 is silent amid worldly toils, And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, rwixt resignation and content. Oft m my mind such thoughts awake, »y lone Saint Mary's silent lak" • 135 140 145 30 MARMION. [Canto i. Thou knowest it well — nor fen, nor sedge. Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 1 50 At once upon the level brink ; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the nurror, bright and blue. Each bilPs huge dutUnos you may view; 155 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. Nor tree, nor bush, nor brakc^. is there. Save where of land yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the shattered pine. Yet even this naktdness has ppwer, 160 And aids the feeling of the hour : Nor thicket, dell, nor copse, you spy. Where living thing concealed might lie ; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell ; 165 There's nothing left to fancy's guess. You see that all is loneliness : And silence aids — though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills ; In summer tide, so soft they weep, 170 The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude; So stilly is the solitude. Nought living meets the eye or ear, " But well I ween the dead are near; 175 For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 180 Where erst his simple fathers prayed. If age had tamed the passions' strife, And Fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I chought. 'twere sweet to dwell, And rear again the cnaplain's cell, 18; Like thai same peaceful hermitage, Where Milton longed to spend his age. Hi CAN i\) II.] INTRODUCTION. Twere sweet to mark the setting day, On Bourhope's lonely top decay ; And, as it faint and feeble died On the broad lake, and mountain's side, To say ; 'Thus pleasures fade away; Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray ;' Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower, And think on Yarrow's faded Flower : And when that mountain-sound I heard, Whu bids us be for storm prepared. The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave. To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust From company of holy dust ; On which no sunbeam ever shines— (So superstition's creed divines)— Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, Heave her broad billows to the shore; And mark the wild-swans mount the gale Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, And ever stoop again, to lave Their bosoms on the surging wave : Then, when against the driving hail No longer might my plaid avail, Back to my lonely home retire, And light my lamp, and trim my fire ; There ponder o'er some mystic lay. Till the wild tale had all its sway. And, in the bittern's distant shriek, I heard unearthly voices speak, And thought the Wizard Priest was come To claim again his ancient home ! ' And bade my busy fancy range, To frame him fitting shape and strange, Till from the task my brow I cleared And smiled to think that I had feared. J"t chief, 'twere sweet to think such life (Though but escape from fortune's strife), 31 190 195 200 205 210 215 220 -725 3i MAKMION. [CAHTO II SomethinK r.iost matchless, good, aiul wise, A K«"eat and grateful sacrirue ; And dccni each hour lo n\using given, A step upon the road to heaven. Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, Such peaceful solitudes displease : He loves to drown his bosom's jar Amid the elemental war : And my black Palmer's choice had been Some ruder and more savage scene, Like that which frowns round dark I.och skenc There eagles scream from isle to shore ; Down all the rocks the torrents roar; O'er the black waves incessant driven, Dark mis^ infect the summer heaven ; Through the rude barriers of the lake, Away Us hurrying waters break, Faster and whiter, dash and curl, Till down yon dark aV)yss they hurl. Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, Thunders the viewless stream below. Diving, as if condemned to lave Some demon's subterranean cave, Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell. Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. And well that Palmer's form and mein Had suited with the stormy scene, lust on the edge, straining his ken To view the bottom of the den, Where, deep deep down, and far within, Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; Then, issuing forth one foamy wave. And wheeling:: round the Giant's grave, White as the snowy charger's tail, Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. Marriott, tliy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung : Then list to me, and thou sh;\lt know Of this mysterious M.-m of Woe. 230 235 !49 245 550 555 260 26 s II 30 CANTO SECOND. 35 ffilj^ €anbent 49 !45 250 255 t6o 26 s I. THE breeze, which swept away the smoke. Round Norhani Castle rolled, When ail the loud artillery spoke. With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke. As M arm ion left the Hold. It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze, For, far upon Northumbrian seas, It freshly blew, and strong. Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile. Bound to Saint Cuthbcrt's Holy Isle, It bore a bark along. Upon the gale she stooped her side, And bounded o'er the swelling tide, As she were dancing home ; The merry seamen laughed, to see Their gallant ship so lustily Furrow the green sea-foam. Much joyed they in their honoured freight ; For, on the deck, in chair of state, The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. With five fair nuns, the galley graced. II. 'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, Their first fli-jht from the cage. How timid, and how curious too, For all to them was strange and new, And all the common siglits they view, Their wonderment engage, [33] 10 IS 20 as 34 MAR M ION. [canto 11. One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, With many a bcncdicilc , 30 One at the rippling surge grew pale, And would for tenor pray ; Then shrieked, because the sea-dog, nigh, His round black head, and sparkling eye. Reared o'er the foaming spray ; 35 And one would still adjust lier veil. Disordered by the sununcr gale, Perchance lest some more worldly eye Her dedicated charms might spy ; Perchance, because such action graced 40 Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. Light was each simjile bosom there. Save two, who ill might pleasure share — The Ablicss, and the Novice Clare. III. The Abbess was of noble blood, 45 l)Ut early took the veil and hood. Ere upon life she cast a look. Or knew the world that she forsook. Fair too she was, and kind had been As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 50 For her a timid lover sigh, Nor knew the influence of her eye. Love, to her ear, was but a name. Combined with vanity and shame ; Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 55 Bounded within the cloister wall : The deadliest sin her mind could reach, Was of monastic rule the breach ; And her ambition's highest aim To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 60 For this she gave her ample dower. To raise the Convent's eastern tower ; For this, with carxing rare and quaint. She decked the chapel of the saint. And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 65 With ivory and gems embossed. The poor her Convent's bounty blest. The pilgrim ill its hulls founu rest II. 30 35 4o 45 CAM TO. It.] THE CONVENT. IV. Black was her garb her rigid rule Reformed on Benedictine school ; ^Inf f ^''^'^^^''» ^*^' ^""" ^^s spare; Vigils, and penitence austere, R,f. .!nH^ quenched the light of youth, But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; Though vam other religious sway, She loved to see her maids obey, Yet nothing stern was she in cell And the nuns loved their Abbess well t>ad was this voyage to the dame: Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came, There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold A chapter of Saint Benedict, For inquisition stern and strict, On two apostates from the faith, And, If need were, to doom to death S$ 70 75 8o 8S 50 55 6c V. Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair • As yet a novice unprofessed. Lovely and gentle, but distressed. She was betrothed to one now dead, Ur worse, who had dishonoured fled Her kinsman bade her give her hand Jo one, who loved her for her land : Herself, almost heart-broken now. Was bent to take the vestal vow H^rW.'c?1' ,''''''•" ^T^ Hilda's gloom. Her blasted hopes and withered bloom 90 95 65 VI. She sate ..pon the galley's prow, And seemed to mark the waves below- Nay, seemed, so fixed Iier look and eye -•^ >.^v.ii. inciu as incy giiacd by 100 36 #* MARMION. [canto 11. She saw them not— 'twas seeming all- Far other scene her thoughts recall— A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, Nor waves, nor breezes, murmured there ; There saw she, where some careless hand O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand, To hide it till the jackals come, To tear it from the scanty tomb. See what a woful look was given, As she raised up her eyes to heaven 1 105 no VII. Lovely, and gentle, and distressed— These charms might tame the fiercest breast : Harpers have sung, and poets told, 1 1 5 That he, in fury uncontrolled, The shaggy monarch of the wood. Before a virgin, fair and good, Hath pacified his savage mood. But passions in the human frame, 1 20 Oft put the lion's rage to shame : And jealousy, by dark intrigue, With sordid avarice in league, Had practised with their bowl and knife, Against the mourner's harmless life. 125 This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray VIII. And now the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland ; Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise. And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay. And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; They marked, amid her trees, the hall Oflofty Seaton-Delaval; , ,^ . They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods T3..-.V, t^rx ♦v.o c*»Q tVirnncrh soundinsT woods ; 130 135 >Ii. 105 CANTO II.] THE CONVENT. 37 no 115 120 125 They passed the tower of Widderington, Mother of many a valiant son ; At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140 To the good Saint who owned the cell ; Then did the Alne attention claim, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name ; And next, they crossed themselves, to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, 145 Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar. On Dunstanborough's caverned shore ; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, 1 50 And on the swelling ocean frown ; Then from the coast they bore away. And reach the Holy Island's bay. IX. The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the Saint's domain : For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle ; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The Castle with its battled walls, The ancient Monastery's halls, A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle. 155 160 165 130 135 X. In Saxon strength that Abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row. On ponderous columns, short and low, Built ere the art was known, 170 38 MARMION. [canto It. CAN! By pointed aisle, and shaft( d stalk, The arcades of an alleyed walk To emulate in stone. On the deep walls, the heathen Dane Had poured his impious rage in vain ; And needful was such strength to these Exposed to the tempestuous seas, Scourged by the wind's eternal sway, Open to rovers fierce as they, Which could twelve hundred years withstand Winds, waves, and northern pirate's hand. Not but that portions of the pile, Rebuilded in a later style. Shewed where the spoiler's hand had been Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, And mouldered in his niche the saint, And rounded, with consuming power. The pointed angles of each tower ; Yet still entire the Abbey stood, Like vetenin, worn, but unsubdued. 175 i8o 185 190 XI. Soon as they neared his turrets strong. The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 195 And with the sea-wave and the wind. Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, And made harmonious close ; Then, answering from the sandy shore. Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar, 200 According chorus rose : Down to the haven of the Isle, The monks and nuns in order file, From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ; Banner, and cross, and relics there, 205 To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare ; And, as they caught the sounds on air. They echoed back the hymn. The islanders, in joyous mood, Rushed emulously through the floou, 210 To hale the bark to land ; \ 1\ I A A V CANTO 11.] THE CONVENT. Conspicuous by her veil and hood Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, And blessed them with her band. XII. Suppose we now the welcome said Suppose the Convent banquet made All through the holy dome, Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Wherever vestal maid might pr^' Noirrisk to meet unhallowed eye ^.,{'2^, stranger sisters roam : ' i'lAfl u ^^«="'"g damp with dew, And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew ^ or there, even summer night is chill' Then, haying strayed and gazed their fill They closed around the fire ; And all, m turn, essayed to paint Ihe rival merits of their saint, A theme that ne'er can tire A holy maid; for, be it known, 1 hat their saint's honour is their own. XIII. Then Whitby's nuns exuliing told How to their house three Rarons bold -, Must menial service do ; While horns blow out a note of shame And monks cry : ' Fye upon your name' In wrath for loss of sylvin game, baint Hilda's priest ye slew.'— Whul on Ascension-day, each year, While labouring on our harbour-pieV, rh'lv fu^^''^ ?'""f"'. ^"^ Percy Lar.'- 1 hey told how m their convent-cell A baxon princess once did dwell. The lovely Edelfled ; And how, of thousand snakes, each one Was changed into a coil of stone, When holy Hilda prayed J 39 CIS 220 225 2;;o =35 240 245 40 MARMION. [can 10 IL CAI Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found. They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, As over Whitby's towers they sail. And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint. 250 XIV. Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail To vie with these in holy tale ; 2$^ His body's resting-place, of old. How oft their patron changed, they told ; How, when the rude Dane burned their pile The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor. 260 From sea to sea, from shore to shore. Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. They rested them in fair Melrose ; Bui mough, alive, he loved it well Not there his relics might repose ; 265 For, wondrous tale to tell ! In his stone-coiifin orth he rides, A ponderous bark for river tides- Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 Nor long was his abiding there. For southward did the saint repair ; Chester-le-street, and Rippon, saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hailed him with joy and fear ; 275 And, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last. Where his cathedral, huge and vast. Looks down upon the Wear : There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 280 His relics are in secret laid ; But none may know the place. Save of his holiest servants three, Deep sworn to solemn secrecy. Who share that wondrous grace. 285 I II. 50 CANTO II.] $3 THE CONVENT XV. 41 Who may his miracles declare ! Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, (Although with them they led Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail And the bold men of Teviotdale), Before his standard fled. 'Twas ho, to vindicate his reign, Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane^ And turned the Conqueror back agam. When, with his Norman bowyer band. He came to waste Northumberland. 290 295 60 65 70 75 :8o 285 XVI. But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne, Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300 The sea-bom beads that bear his name : Such tales had Whitby's fishers told. And said they might his shape behold, And hear his anvil sound ; A deadened clang — a huge dim form, 305 Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm, And night were closing round. But this, as tale of idle fame, The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. XVII. While round the fire such legends go, 310 Far different was the scene of woe. Where, in a secret aisle beneath. Council was held of life and death. It was more dark and lone that vault, Than the worst dungeon cell : 315 Old Colwulf built it, for Ris fault, In penitence to dwell, 43 MARMION. [canto II. CA^ Wheii he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon kattle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling eveiy sense Of feeling, hearing, sight, Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light, Was, by the prelate Scxhelm, made A place of burial for such dead As, having died in mortal sin, Might not be laid the church within. 'Twas now a place of punishment ; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent. As reached the upper air, The hearers blessed themselves, .ind said, The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoaned their torments there. 320 325 330 XVIII. But though, in the monastic pile, Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go. Few only, save the Abbot, knew Where the pla> e lay ; and still more few Were those, whi had from him the clue To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were bUndfold when transported there. In low dark rounds the arches hung. From the rude rock the side-walls sprung; The grrtve-stones rudely sculptured o'er, Half sunk in earth, by time half wore. Were all the pavement of the floor ; The mildew-drops fell one by one, With tinkling plash, upon the stone. A cresset, in an iron chain. Which served to light this drear domain. With damp and darkness seemed to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive; And vet it dimly served to shew Tht ..wful conclave met below. 33: 340 345 350 355 CAN-^O. 11.] THE CONVENT. XIX. 43 There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three • All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay ; In long black dress, on seats of stone, liehind were these three juciges shewn By the pale cresset's ray : The Abbess of Saint Hilda, there. Sat for a space with visage bare, Until, to hide her bosom's swell, And tear-drops that for pity fell. She closely di cw her veil : Yon shrouded figure, as I guess. By her proud mien and flowing dress. Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, And she with awe looks pale ; And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quenched by age's night Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, ' Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shewn. Whose look is hard and stern- Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ; For sanctity called, through the isle, The Saint of Lindisfarne. XX. Before them stood a guilty pair ; But, though an equal fate they share. Yet one alone deserves our care. Her sex, a page's dress belied ; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, Obscured her charms, but could not Jiide. Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; And, on her doublet breast. She tried to hide the badge of blue. Lord Mansion's falcon crest. But, at the Prioress' command, A monk undid the silken band, That tied her tresses fair, 360 365 370 375 380 385 390 44 MARMION. [canto II, :ai And raised the bonnet from her head, And down her slender form they sjjrcad, 395 In ringlets rich and rare. Constance de Beverley they know, Sister professed of Fontevraud, Whom the church numbered with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. 400 XXI. When thus her face was given to view (Although so pallid was her hue, It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistening fair). Her look composed, and steady eye, 405 Bespoke » matchless constancy ; And there she stood so calm and pale. That, but her breathing did not fail. And motion, slight of eye and head, And of her bosom, warranted 4'o That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, You might have thought a form of wax. Wrought to the very life, was there ; So still she was, so pale, so fair. XXII. Her comrade was a sordid soul, 41 5 Such as does miuder for a meed ; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, seared and foul, Feels not the import of his deed ; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 Beyond ^lis own more brute desires. Such tools the Tempter ever needs, To do the savagest of deeds ; For them no visioned terrors daunt, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 425 One fear with them, of all most base. The fear of death— alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl. And shamed not loud to moan and howl, I. )S :anit) II 1 THE CONVENT » to 15 20 25 His body on the rioor to dash, And crouch, like hound, Deneath tlie lash; \V hile his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear. XXIII. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Well might her paleness terror speak! For there were seen in that dark wall. Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ; Who enters at such grisly door. Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid, Of roots, of water, and of bread ; By each, in Benedictine dress, Two haggard monks stood motionless ; Who, holding high a blazing torch. Shewed the grim entrance of the porch. Reflecting back the smoky beam. The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were displayed And buildmg tools m order laid. XXIV. These executioners were chose, As men who were with mankind foes, And with despite and envy fired, Into the cloister had retired : Or who, in desperate doubt of grace. Strove, by deep penance, to emice Of some foul crime the stain ; For. as the vassals of her will. Such men the Church selected still As either joyed In doing ill. Or thought more grace to gain, If, m her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there. They knew not how, and knew not where 4i 430 435 440 4-43 450 455 460 46 MARMION. XXV. [canto 11 CA And now that blind old Abbot rose, To speak the Chapter's doom, On those the wall was to enclose. Alive, within ihe iomb ; But stopped, because thai wotul maid, Gathermg her powers, lo speak essayed. Twice she essayed, and twice in vain ; Her accents might no utterance gain ; Nought but mipcrlect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip : 'Twixt each attempt all was so stil^ You seemed to hear a distant rill -- 'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hear, So massive were the walls. 465 470 475 480 XXVI. At length, an effort sent apart The blood that curdled lo her heart, And light came to her eye, And colour dawned upon her cheek, 481; A hectic ana a fluttered streak. Like that left on the Cheviot peak, By Autumn's stormy sky ; And when her silence broke at length. Still as she spoke she gathered strength, 490 And armed htrsel* to bear, it was a ieartul sight to see Such high resoH-e and constancy, Jn form so soft and fair, XXVII. ' I speak not to implore your grace ; 495 Well know I, for one minute's space Successless might I sue : Nor do 1 sprak your prayers to gain ; For if a dc;uh of lingering pain, CANTO II.] THE CONVENT. To cleanse my sms, dc penance vain. \ rnn nre your masses too.— 1 listened to a traitor^^ tale, Ileft the convent and the veil: i-or three long years I bowed my pride ^ An/'^n'^^y >" his train to ride; ^ And well my folly s meed he gave VVho forfeited, to be his slave? ' AH here, and all beyond the grave — He saw young Clara's face, nTore fiiir, Pn ^Tu- ^^^ °^ '''•^''^d '^"^^'^ the heir? Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, And Constance was beloved nomore.- lis an old tale, and often told ; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betrayed for gold Ihat loved, or was avenged like me ! XXVIII. 'The King approved his favourite's aim- ^"xj;?" ^5'^'^^ ^^"-ed his claim, * Whose fate with Clare's was plight For he attaints that rival's fame ^ ' With treason's charge-and on they came In mortal lists to fight. ' Their oaths are said, Their prayers are prayed, Iheir lances in the rest are laid, Iney meet in mortal shock; qhn.,??"^ '^^- ^^'T.^^ ^'^^ thundering cry. Shout "Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, ^ De Wilton to the block ! "' ^' Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide VV hen in the lists two champions ride, bay, was Heaven's justice here ? When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death Beneath a traitor's spear ? * How false the charge, how true he fell. IniS euiltv nnrlrf^t Koe* ^-11 47 Soo SOS 510 515 520 52s 530 53S I i MARMION [CAlrfT6 li CAl Then drew a packet froiv. her Dicast, Paused, gathered voice, aticl spoke the rest. 540 XXIX. *StUl was false ManTiM)n's bridal staid; To Whitby's convent tied the maid, The hated match to shun, "Ho! shifts she thus?" King Henry cried; "Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bnde, 545 If she were swore a nun.' One way remainecl the King's command Sent Marmion to tiio Scottish land : I lingered here, and rescue planned For Clara and for me : 55° This caitiff monk, for gold, did swear, He would to Whitby's shrine repair, And, by his drui s, my rival fair A samt in heavon should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath, 555 Whose cowardice has undone us both. XXX. *And now my tongue the secret tells, Not that remorse my bosom swells, But to assure my soul that none Shall ever wed with Marn\ion. Had fortune, my last hope betrayed, This packet, to the King conveyed, Had given him to tlie headsman's stroke. Although my heart that insiant broke. — Now, men of death, work forth your will, For I can suffer, and be still ; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last. 560 565 I I XXXL *Yet drsad me, from my living toinb, Ye "assal slaves of bloody Rome ! 570 CANTO ri.J THE CONVENT. If Marm.on's late remorse should wake, F ull soon such vengeance shall he take That you shall wish the fiery Dane Beh nd' ''h ^f" T"^ Suest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends ' . 1 he altars quake, the crosier bends The ,re of a despotic King ' Tu u 'I ' f P""" destruction's winjr • Then shall these vaults, so strong and deen Burst open to the sea-winds' swef p ^' We traveller then shall find my ine. Whitenmg amid disjointed stones And, Ignorant of priests' cruelty ' Marvel such relics here should be ' 49 575 580 XXXII. fii'il^/''' u^' '?*'^' *'^"^ stern her air • cfi r Back from her shoulders streamed her hair • ^ ^ The locks, that wont her browTo shade ' Stared up erectly from her head : ' Her figure seemed to rise more hieh • Her voice, despair's wild energy. ^ Had given a tone of prophecy Appalled, the astcnished conclave sate • With stupid eyes, the men of fote ' Gazed on the light inspired form, And listened for the avenging storm • The judges felt the victim's dread ' No hand was moved, no word was said Till thus , he Abbot s doom was given ' Raismg his sightless balls to heaven >- hibter, let thy sorrows cease ; binful brother, part in peace ' ' From that dire dungeon, place of doom Of execution, too. and tomb ' Paced forth the judges three; Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell wif ''"ifher-^T'' that there befell, When they had glided from the ceil VI sin and misery. S90 SOS 600 X 605 50 M ARM ION. [canto 11, 620 XXXIII. An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day ; 610 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, They heard the shrickings of despair, I And many a stifled groan : With speed their upward way they take (Such speed as age and fear can make), 615 And crossed themselves for terror's sake, » As hurrying, tottering on : Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, They seemed to hear c dying groan. And bade the passing knell to toll For welfare of a partmg soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocl:s in answer rung ; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, His beads the wakeful hermit told, 625 The Bamborough peasant raised his head, But slept ere half a prayer he said ; So far was heard the mighty knell, The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630 List .4 before, aside, behind. Then couched him down beside the hind, And quaked among the mountain fern, To hear that sound so dull and stern. To^ p M ARM I ON. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO lU. A8HB9T1EL, KtTRICK FoREST. To William Erskink, Esq. LP.u P"' P^o'"'"g c'ouds, that pass, , With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow, Life's chequered scene of joy and sorrow: Like otreanilet of the mountain north Now in a torrent racing forth. Now winding slow its silver train^ And almost slumbering on the plain • Like breezes of the autumn day, Whose voice inconstant dies away And ever swells again as fast, ' When the ear deems its murmur past • i hus various, my romantic theme Hits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. J>et pleased, our eye pursues the trace, Of Light and Shade's inconstant race : t leased, views the rivulet afar, Weaving its maze irregular ; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autunm trees : 1 len, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale * low on, flow unconfined, my Tale ! Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 1 love the license all too well, 111 sounds now lowly, and now stron ; 75 Ever the fust to scale a tower, As venturous m 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, 80 Right opposite the Pab^^or stood ; His thin dark visuge seen but half, Half hidden by his hood. Still fixed on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brock, 85 Stiove Ijy 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 fre(|uent from the crowd 90 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 m silence drear, « 95 Unhroke, save when in comrade's ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, Thus whispered forth his mind : CAN 10 111, J THE HOSTEL. 6i loo loS S.unt Mary! saw'st thou e'er such fiehi? Hour pale ins cheek, his eye how br gfat Whene'er the fire-brand s fickl- li-riVr ' dances beneath his cowl * Full on our Lord he sets his eye ; I'or his best palfrey, would not I i'Jidure that sullen scowl.' VI L But Marmion, a- to chase the awe Which thus had q.^elled (heir hearts, who saw The ever-varyn.g fire-light shew ' That figure stern and face of woe Now called upon a squire : Fitz-Eustace know'st thou not some lay. o sP«ed the lingering n-ght away ? We slumber by the fire.' VI I L So please you,' thus the youth rejoined, Our choicest mmstrel's left behind III 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 kite alike ; ' 10 dear Saint Valentine, no thrush hings livelier from a spring- tide bush, No nightingale her love-lorn tune More sweetly warbles to the moon. VVoe to the cause, whate'er it be Detains from us his melody Lavished on rocks, and billows stern, Ot duller monks of Lindisfarnc. Now must I venture, as I may, To sing his favourite roundelay.' IX. A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 1 he air he chose was wild and sad • Such have I heard, in Scottish land! Kise from the busy harvest band, IIS 120 12! 130 62 M ARM ION. [canto 111. CA] When falls before the mountaineer, ^ On Lowland plains, the ripened ear. 135 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song : Oft have I listened, and stood still, As it came softend up the hiil. And deemed it the lament of men 140 Who languished for their native glen ; And thought how sad would be such sound On Susquehannas swampy ground, Kentucky's wood encumbered brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 145 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 fcr ever.? Where, through groves deep and high. Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. CHORUS. Ehu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving ; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are bows waving ; There, thy rest shalt thou lake. Parted for ever, Never again to wake. Never, O never ! 150 ^55 160 Bleu loro, &c. CHORUS. Never, O never ! |6«; CANTa laj THE HOSTEL. XI. 63 Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, VVlio codd win maiden's breast. Rum and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying Where mingles war's rattle ' With groans of the dying. CHORim Bleu ioroy &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, O never ! CHORUS, Bleu loro, &c Never, O never ! XII. It ceased, the melancholy sound j 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 Lis mantle past his face. Between it and the band, And rested with his head a pace Reclining on his hand. ' His thoughts I scan not ; out I ween, rhat, could their import have been seen The meanest groom m all the hall, ' That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prev For Lutterward and Fontenaye. ^ ^' 170 175 180 185 190 195 64 MARMION. [canto in. CaI XIII. High minds, of native pride and force, 2ort Most deeply feel thy pan;;s, 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, 205 Even while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil CQnflK:t in the heart. For soon Lord MarmiOn raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said : ' Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 210 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 215 (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 ex»;remity ; Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 220 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, Fallen was his glance, and flushed his brow : 22 ; 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 230 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 the meanest slave. 235 CA^JTO III.] THE HOSTEL XV. <5 Well might he falter I-By his aid NoTfW k'^"*'^ ^^l^'^^y betrayed. U'm5 * he augured of the doom, B„t .l*!?.^*"! ^''''''^ ^'^^^^ the tomb : But, tired to hear tlie desperate maia Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ; And wroth, because in wild despair. bhe practised on the life of Clare - Its fugitive the church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave ; w"!. ,^^t'?ie<*/estraint in convent strange Wou d hide her wrongs, and her revenfl Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer,^ Held Romish thunders idle fear, ' Secure his pardon he might hold. For some slight mulct of penanceVld, Ix^u^ J"^g^'"&» he gave secret way. When the stern priests surprised their prey wL^Tul^'^r'''^^ '^^ f^^ourite 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 dursr pry Into Lord Marmion's privacy 1 XVI. His conscience slept-he deemed her well And safe secured in distant cell ; ' But, wakened by her favourite lav And tiiat strange Palmer's boding say. That fell so ominous and drear. Full on the object of his fear. To aid remorse's venomed throes, i^'ark tales of convent-vengeance rose • All lm.^?f ^" K^-' ^^^^''^trayed and sco;ned. All lovely on his soul returned • Lovely £• v .?n, at treacherous'call, bhe left ^er invent's peaceful wall DrS"^"^ v7'^ '^'*"'^' ^'^^ terror mute, IJreading alike escape, pursuit, 240 ?45 250 255 260 265 270 66 ^ MARMION. Till love, victorious o'er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms. XVII. * Alasl' he thought, * how changed that mien How changed these timid looks have been, Smce yeas- of guilt, and of disguise. Have steeled her brow, and armed her eyes ! ISO more of virgin terror speaks The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; ■ Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, Frenzy for j.>y, for grief despair ; And I the cau^se— for whom were given vJf ^ f f^^® °" ^^'^^^» ^e"" ^opes 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 harms that wake his love I— Her convent's peacful 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 swav I ve seen Loch Vennachar obey, Their H( .t the Palmer's speech had heard. And, talkative, took up the word : XANTO III. 275 280 285 290 295 300 305 CANTO III.j THE HOSTEL. To visit realms afar, ^' Full often learn the art to know Of future weal, or future woe. Ye? m^??' «-" s'gn, or star ; Yet might a knight his fortune hear If, knight-hke, he despises fear ' Arthf/''T^?^^''^f^therToId ThS K "'i ^^'"^^t ^^^end told.'- These broken words the menials move An? 7r^-' '^'V the vulgar We)r ms'tlTl"" ^'T^ ^'^^"se cold His tale the host thus gladly told : XIX. ^o seek bir 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 cln ' Ilo^ri-'Z^'^t Goblin-Hall '^" gZ Ion .h ^"'^^^' y°"^ ^'^nrer stay Jjaye you that cavern to suney. ^ Of lofty roof, and ample size Beneath the castle deep it lies- The'flTor't' J^^''"S T^k profound. There never fnT^i'^" ^''^ ^° ^oind, iV oil ^ foiled a mortal arm And rh? T"^^* ^y ^«rd anTcharm • That the ^^M^^,""* ""y grandsire say ' i hat the wild clamour and affray ' Of those dread artisans of hell^ Who laboured under Hugo's soell Sounded aloud as ocean"f wa^ ' Among the caverns of Dunbar 67 310 315 320 32s 330 335 34c 34i 68 MARMION. XX. [canto IlL ' The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, Deep labouring with uncertain thought ; Even then he mustered all his host, 350 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 Norweyan warriors grim, 335 Savage of heart, and large of limb ; Threatening botn continent and isle, Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. Lord Gi'fTord deep beneath the ground. Heard Alexanders bugle sound, 360 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 365 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 pcntacle ; His zone, ot virgin parchment thin, 370 Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, Bore many a planetan^ sign, Combust^ and retrograde, and trine ; And in his hand he held prepared, A naked sword without a guard. 375 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 ; 380 Even his own menials with dismay Beheld, Sir Kni|;ht, the grisly sire, In his unwcntea wild attire ; Unwonted, for traditions run. He sddom thus beheld the sun. — 385 CANTO III.] THE HOSTEL. 390 I kno\v," he said— his voice was hoarse And broken seemed its hollow force— «ru -!i^^ l!?.® ^*"^^» although untold, Why the Knig 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. "2^n^'«ldle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, mc Can read, in fixed or wandering star The issue of events afar ; But still their sullen aid withhold, bave when by mightier force controlled, buch late I summoned to my hall : 400 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. 401; But thou— who little know'st thy might, As bom upon that blessed night . When yawiing graves, and dying groan, Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown— With untaught valour shalt compel 410 Response denied to magic spell.'^— « ^y^^^^pyy" quoth our Monarch free, 1 lace him but front to front with me, And, by this good . ':d honoured biand. The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 415 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 : ITiere spoke the blood of Malcolm !— mark : 420 t orth 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, 425 70 MAKMION. [canto ITI. And trust thine elfin foe to see, In guide of thy worst enemy : Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed— Upon him ! and Saint Cicorge to speed ! If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 Whate'er these airy sprites can shew ; If thy heart fail thee m the strife, I am no warrant for thy life." XXIII. 'Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and armed, forth rode the King 435 To that old camp's deserted rout\d : 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 baie, 441 The space within is green and fair. The spot our village children know, For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ; But woe betide the wandering wig).t. That treads its circle in the night ! 445 The breadth across, a bowshot clear. Gives ample space for full career ; Opposed to the four points of heaven, By four deep gaps is entrance given. Tlie southernmost our Monarch past, 450 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 : 455 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, 460 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe. XXIV. The vision made our Monarch start, But soQH he manned his noble heart, r CANTO III.] THE HOSTEL. ,^"d in the fii St career they ran, rhc EJfin Knight fell, horse anr! man • Yet did a snlintp of his lance Through xander'"? visor glance, And razcci tise skin— a puny wound. The King, li-ht leaping to the ground With naked blade his phantom foe { mipellcd the future war to shew. 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 1 andished war-axe wield «r^., ^m"''^ ^"^ "^^o ^'^^ his car. While all around the shadowy Kings Denmark's grim ravens cowerc*' *heir wines Tis said, that in that awful night, Remoter visions met his sight, Foreshewing future conouest far, When our sons' sons wi.,,e 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 spirite, His wound must bleed and smart ; Lord Gififord 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 ; J^l 465 470 75 4B0 485 490 495 500 II ■f^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) / O 1.0 I.I B50 IM 1.^ 1^ If: 140 2.5 12.2 2.0 1.8 125 1.4 11 = *• ^ 6" - ► FhotograpMc Sciences Corporation ^v <• M m ■"•K \ %^;.^ "^.^""^^ '^O OS ^J^~ ^^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 (716) 872-4503 i/.A 72 MARMION. [canto III. And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charmed ring to break a lance, 505 But all have foully sped ; Save two, as legends tel!, and they Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.- • Gentles, my tale is said.' XXVI. The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, 510 And on the tale the yeomen-throng Had made a comment sage anf' long, But Marmion gave a sign : And, with their lord, the squires retire ; The rest, around the hostel fire, 515 Their drowsy limbs recline ; For pillow, underneath each head, The quivier and the targe were laid. Deep slumbering on the hostel floor. Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore : 520 The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange. XXVII. Apart, ai.a nestling in the hay Of a wast,e loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ; Scarce, by thejpale moonlight, were seen 525 The foldings of his mantle green : Lijp;litly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Ofsport by thicket, or by stream. Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 530 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, 535 His master Marmion's voice he knew. XXVIII. — *Fitz-Eustace ! rise — I cannot rest ; Yon churl'? wild legend haunts my breast, ' sxasascaBR I. CANTO III.] THE HOSTEL. 73 S\o 545 550 And graver thoughts have chafed my mood : The air must cool my feverish blood ; And fein 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 slic* 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 chapehe, %^^ Down from his steed of marble fell, A weary wight forjom? The flattering chaplain's all agree, The champion left his steed to me. I would, the omen's truth to shew, efio 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, 565 To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the g^reen oak wheel their ring.' Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode. And from the hostel slowly rode. XXX. Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, 570 And marked him pace the village road, And listened to his horse's tramp, Till, by iht lessening sound, He judged that of Pictish camp, (Jord Mamaon sought the round. ^5 74 MARMION [canto 111. Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, That one, so war)r 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 FitzEustace 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. 580 5«5 XXXI. Little for this Fitr-Eustace cared, But, patient, waited till he heard, At distance, pricked to utmost speed, The foot-tramp of a flying steed, Come town-ward 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, m 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. 590 595 600 605 610 1 III. \ ., ;8o ARM ION. «5 INTRODUCTION TO CANTO IV. AflHESTIBL, EtTBICK PoREST. To James Sxenk, Esq. 50 ?5 X) '5 [O AN ancient minstrel sagely said, Where is the life which late we led ?' \{5f* »no"ey clown in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jacques with envy viewed. Not even that clown could amplify On this trite text, so long as I. * Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well ; Since, ridmg side by side, our J.and A 2' "^ "*® voluntary brand ; And sure, through many a varied scene, Unkmdness never came between. Away these winged years have flown, To lom the mass of ages gone j And though deep marked, like all below, With chequered shades of joy and woe • Ma 11^5 ^^?" ""[^^ ""^^^^^ ^'^^ seas hast ranged, Marked cities lost, and empires changed, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men • Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fevered the progress of these years. Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem 1 he recollection of a dream, So still we glide down to the sea Of fathomless eternity. Even now it scarcely seems a day Since first I tuned this idle lay ; r75j 10 15 20 25 76 MARMION. [CAMIOI?. A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, fp That now, November's dreary gale. Whose voice inspired my openmg tale, That same November gale once more Whurls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore ; Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, 35 Once more our naked birches sigh. And Blackhouse heights, anH Ettrick Pen, Have doomed their wintxy shrouds again ; And mountain dark, and flooded mead. Bid us forsake the banks vt Tweed. 40 Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack^ the snow mists fly ; The shepherd who, m summer sun, Had something of our envy won. As thdu with pencil, I with pen, 45 The features traced of hill and glen ; He who, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumlbered o'er his tattered book, 50 Or idly busied him to guide His an'jel o'er the lessened tide ; At mianight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain. When red hath set the beamless sun, Thsough heavy vapors dank and dun ; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm. Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain. Against the casement's tinkling pane ; The sounds that drive wild deer and fox To shelter in the brake and rocks. Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dism^ and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain ; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. 55 6a 65 CANIO IV.) INTRODUCTION. long mth dejected look and whine, ^ cave the hearth his dogs repine ; ^^f: ^"^ Jhcering them to aid,' I«?^,5u K ^"""^H.^^ ^^'"^^thes the plaid : lo^n downs and mountain-cidcs, Kdfenfv r '^?i'^V?i^ ^'^•"Pest blow, tS w f?[y ''*^ *^^ «^"ft below. Sflff.«fi!-*^.^* .'^'"^''^^^^ <''<^^ tl»« fells, ^ ni K *. ^'f ^^^ 'o icicles ; S?.5Sil°°^® back, while, strcaminF tar His cottage window seems a star-? ' Loses Its feeble gleam-and then Turns patients to the blast aga n. And, fcang to the tempest's fweep. Bcnmnbing death is in the gale ; cK?fl^? ^«"^">arks, all unknown, Close to the hui, no more his own. Close to the aid he sought in vain The mom may find the stiffened swain : The widow sees, at dawning pale. His orphans raise their feeble wail ; Arjd cW beside him. in the snow,' i^oor Yarrow, partner of their woe. A^ hS "P?" 5'^ I"^^*e^s breast. And licks his cheek to break his Jest. MJo envies now the shepherd's lot His healthy fare^ his rural cot, * hS ^2^?"^ ''?"?'» ^y SP-eenwcod tree. His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes, tuned on high, To Marion ofthe blithesome eye! A^t^h ^'j.^f P' bis oaten /eed, And all Arcadia's golden creed ? Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene ? Uur youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, 77 TO 75 8o 90 95 100 105 76 MARMION. [canto IV. While the dark storm reserves its rage i lo Against the winter of our age : As he, the ancient Chief of Troy. His manhood spent in peace ana jcy ; But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Called ancient Priam forth to arms. . 115 Then happy those, since each must drain His share of » 'easure, share of pain- Then happy vse beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given : Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 120 Whose joys are chastened by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou of late wert doomed to twine — Just when thy bridal hour was by — The cypress with the myrtle tic. 125 Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And blessed the union of his child. When love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe affection's filial tear. Nor dia the actions next his end 130 Speak more the father than the friend : Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade ; The tale of friendship scarce was told. Ere the narrator's heart was cold— 135 Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind ! But not around his honored urn Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ; The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140 Pour at his name a bitter tide ; And frequent falls the grateful dew, For benefits the world ne'er knew. If mortal charity dare claim The Almighty's attributed name, i45 Inscribe above his mouldering clay : * The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.' Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem My verse intrudes on this sad theme ; For sacred was the pen that 'vrote : 1 50 * Thy father's friend forget thou not :' CANTO iv.l INTRODUCTION And grateful title may I plead, For many a kindly word and deed, £? °""g ^y tribute to his grave : 'Tis little—but 'tis all I have. To thee, perchance, this rambling strain -Recalls our summer walks again : When, doing nought-and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do-- The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our tafk its topic changed. And, desultory as our way, Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. Even w^en it flagged, as o?t will chlnce, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too : Thou gravely labouring to portray , The blighted oak's fantastic spray ; I speUing o'er, with much delight, The legend of that antique knight, rirante by name, ycleped the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions viewed And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud : The stream was lively, but not loud ; f^«T *^%^^'^e thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head : Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossomed bough, than we. \x;^"^«r^^^^°"^? "'Shts, too, have been ours When Winter stript the summer's bowers ' Careless we heard what now I hear, rg. 7x^ "^i^ ^^^'^ ''?^'"ff ^eep and drear, ^ When fires were bright, and lamps beamed eav And ladies tuned the lovely lav • ^ ^' 79 ns f6o i6s 170 175 180 And he was held a laggard soul! Who shunned to quaff the spark sparkling bowl. 190 r H 60 MARMION. [canto iV. Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more ; And thou, and I, and dear- loved R , And one whose name I may not say, 195 For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he — It» merry chorus well combined^ With laughter drowned the whistling wind. Mirth was within ; and Care without 200 Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene — Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest ; 205 For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care, Wag horse to ride, and weapon wear. Such nights we've had ; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day or the drill, 210 Seem less important now~yct still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! And mark, how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 21 5 195 CANTO FOURTH. 200 ^ht damp. 205 210 215 10 I. EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark rru , , ® ^"' °o*«s of the merry lark. The lark san§ shrill, the cock he crew, And loudly Marmion's bugles blew. And with their light and lively call Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. vVhistlmg they came, and free of heart ; But soon their mood was changed : Coniplaint was heard on every part Of something disarranged. Some clamoured loud for armour lost • Some brawled and wrangled with the host ; By Becket's bones,' cried one, * I fear That some false Scot has stolen my spear '' Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second stiuire i c Found his steed wet with sweat and mire ; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder. Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder : Help,jgentle Blount ! help, comrades all ' Bevis lies dying in his stall : To Marmion who the plight dare tell, Of the good steed he loves so well ? Gapin? for fear and ruth, they saw The charger panting on his straw ; r«!t®"*' ^^^ would seem wisest, cried ; What else but evil could betide, With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? [SO 5 20 25 r mmmm ai MARMION. [canto IV. Better we had through mire and bush 3ff^ Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.' II. Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, Nor wholly understood, His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed ; He knew Lord Marinion's mood, 35 Him, ere he issued forth, he souffht, And found deep plunged in glO())ny thought, And iid his talc display Simply, as if he knew of nought To cause such disarray. 4© Lord Marmfon gave attention cold, Nor marvelled at the wonders told— Passed them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse. IIL Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 45 Had reckoned with their Scottish host : And, as the charge he cast and paid, * 111 thou deserv'st thy hire ' he said ; * Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight ? Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50 And left him in a foam ! I trust that soon a conjuring band. With English cross, and blazing brand, Shall drive the devils from this land^ To their infernal home : For in this haiinted den, I trow. All night they trampled to and fro.' The laughing host looked on the hire : * Gramercy, gentle southern squire. And if thou com's: among the rest. With Scottish broadsword to be blest, Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, And short the pang to undergo.' Here stayed their talk, for Marmion, Gave now the signal to set on. 05 The Palmer shewing forth the way, They journeyed all thi morning day. 55 60 CANTO IV.] THE CAMP. IV. «S Th« greensward way was smooth and poo