I.

THE train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
    (So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes as they rode through
    Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare.
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes;
Such length of shaft, such mighty bows,
So huge, that many simply thought,
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;
And little deemed their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of steel,
When rattling upon Flodden vale,
The clothyard arrows flew like hail.

II.

Nor less did Marmion’s skilful view
Glance every line and squadron through;
And much he marvelled one small land
Could marshal forth such various band:
    For men-at-arms were here,
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,
Like iron towers for strength and weight,
On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
    With battle-axe and spear.
Young knights and squires, a lighter train,
Practised their chargers on the plain,
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
    Each warlike feat to show,
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,
The high curvet, that not in vain
The sword sway might descend amain
    On foeman’s casque below.
He saw the hardy burghers there
March armed, on foot, with faces bare,
    For vizor they wore none,
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight;
But burnished were their corslets bright,
Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
    Like very silver shone.
Long pikes they had for standing fight,
    Two-handed swords they wore,
And many wielded mace of weight,
    And bucklers bright they bore.

III.

On foot the yeomen too, but dressed
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest,
    With iron quilted well;
Each at his back (a slender store)
His forty days’ provision bore,
    As feudal statutes tell.
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A crossbow there, a hagbut here,
    A dagger-knife, and brand.
Sober he seemed, and sad of cheer,
As loth to leave his cottage dear,
    And march to foreign strand;
Or musing who would guide his steer
    To till the fallow land.
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie;
    More dreadful far his ire
Than theirs, who, scorning danger’s name,
In eager mood to battle came,
Their valour like light straw on flame,
    A fierce but fading fire.

IV.

Not so the Borderer:—bred to war,
He knew the battle’s din afar,
    And joyed to hear it swell.
His peaceful day was slothful ease;
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please
    Like the loud slogan yell.
On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-armed pricker plied his trade—
    Let nobles fight for fame;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers to guard their townships bleed,
    But war’s the Borderer’s game.
Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night
    O’er mountain, moss, and moor;
Joyful to fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
    Their booty was secure.
These, as Lord Marmion’s train passed by,
Looked on at first with careless eye,
Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know
The form and force of English bow;
But when they saw the lord arrayed
In splendid arms and rich brocade,
Each Borderer to his kinsman said:—
    “Hist, Ringan! seest thou there!
Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride?
Oh! could we but on Border side,
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,
    Beset a prize so fair!
That fangless Lion, too, their guide,
Might chance to lose his glistering hide;
Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied
    Could make a kirtle rare.”

V.

Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race,
Of different language, form, and face—
    Avarious race of man;
Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed,
And wild and garish semblance made
The chequered trews and belted plaid,
And varying notes the war-pipes brayed
    To every varying clan;
Wild through their red or sable hair
Looked out their eyes with savage stare
    On Marmion as he passed;
Their legs above the knee were bare;
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
    And hardened to the blast;
Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle’s plumage known.
The hunted red-deer’s undressed hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied;
The graceful bonnet decked their head;
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid;
A broadsword of unwieldy length,
A dagger proved for edge and strength,
    A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts,—but, oh!
Short was the shaft and weak the bow
    To that which England bore.
The Islesmen carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe.
They raised a wild and wondering cry
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mixed,
Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt.

VI.

Thus through the Scottish camp they passed,
And reached the city gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Armed burghers kept their watch and ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear,
When lay encamped, in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.
As through the bustling streets they go,
All was alive with martial show;
At every turn, with dinning clang,
The armourer’s anvil clashed and rang;
Or toiled the swarthy smith, to wheel
The bar that arms the charger’s heel;
Or axe or falchion to the side
Of jarring grindstone was applied.
    Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace,
    Through street and lane and market-place
        Bore lance, or casque, or sword;
    While burghers, with important face,
        Described each new-come lord,
    Discussed his lineage, told his name,
    His following and his warlike fame.
The Lion led to lodging meet,
Which high o’erlooked the crowded street;
    There must the baron rest
Till past the hour of vesper tide,
And then to Holyrood must ride—
    Such was the king’s behest.
Meanwhile the Lion’s care assigns
A banquet rich, and costly wines,
    To Marmion and his train;
And when the appointed hour succeeds,
The baron dons his peaceful weeds,
And following Lindesay as he leads,
    The palace-halls they gain.

VII.

Old Holyrood rung merrily
That night with wassail, mirth, and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland’s power,
Summoned to spend the parting hour;
    For he had charged that his array
    Should southward march by break of day.
    Well loved that splendid monarch aye
        The banquet and the song,
    By day the tourney, and by night
    The merry dance, traced fast and light,
    The maskers quaint, the pageant bright,
        The revel loud and long.
    This feast outshone his banquets past:
    It was his blithest—and his last.
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,
Cast on the Court a dancing ray;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;
There ladies touched a softer string;
With long-eared cap and motley vest
The licensed fool retailed his jest;
His magic tricks the juggler plied;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;
    While some, in close recess apart,
    Courted the ladies of their heart,
        Nor courted them in vain;
    For often in the parting hour
    Victorious Love asserts his power
        O’er coldness and disdain;
    And flinty is her heart, can view
    To battle march a lover true—
    Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
        Nor own her share of pain.

VIII.

Through this mixed crowd of glee and game,
The King to greet Lord Marmion came,
    While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James’s manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doffed, to Marmion bending low,
    His broidered cap and plume.
For royal was his garb and mien:
    His cloak, of crimson velvet piled.
    Trimmed with the fur of martin wild;
His vest of changeful satin sheen
    The dazzled eye beguiled;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown;
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright:
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was buttoned with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deemed he ne’er had seen
A prince of such a noble mien.

IX.

The monarch’s form was middle size:
For feat of strength or exercise
    Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye
    His short curled beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance,
    And firm his stirrup in the lists:
And, oh! he had that merry glance
    That seldom lady’s heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue—
Suit lightly won and short-lived pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
    I said he joyed in banquet bower;
        But, ’mid his mirth, ’twas often strange
        How suddenly his cheer would change,
    His look o’ercast and lower,
        If, in a sudden turn, he felt
        The pressure of his iron belt,
    That bound his breast in penance pain,
        In memory of his father slain.
    Even so ’twas strange how, evermore,
    Soon as the passing pang was o’er
    Forward he rushed, with double glee,
    Into the stream of revelry:
    Thus dim-seen object of affright
    Startles the courser in his flight,
    And half he halts, half springs aside;
    But feels the quickening spur applied,
    And, straining on the tightened rein,
    Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.

X.

O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:
    To Scotland’s Court she came,
To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,
And with the king to make accord
    Had sent his lovely dame.
Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay king allegiance own;
    For the fair Queen of France
Sent him a turquoise ring and glove,
And charged him, as her knight and love,
    For her to break a lance;
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on Southron land,
And bid the banners of his band
    In English breezes dance.
And thus for France’s queen he drest
His manly limbs in mailèd vest;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share:
    And thus, for both, he madly planned
    The ruin of himself and land!
        And yet, the sooth to tell,
    Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen,
    Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen,
        From Margaret’s eyes that fell,
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI.

The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch’s risk in battle broil;
And in gay Holyrood the while
Dame Heron rises with a smile
    Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as o’er
    The strings her fingers flew;
And as she touched and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom’s rise and fall
    Was plainer given to view;
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
And then around the silent ring;
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, By yea and nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length upon the harp with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft yet lively air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung:—

XII.
LOCHINVAR.
Lady Heron’s Song

Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone;
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Esk river, where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
“Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume:
And the bride’s-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung.
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

XIII.

The monarch o’er the siren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer and more near,
He whispered praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied,
And ladies winked and spoke aside.
    The witching dame to Marmion threw
        A glance, where seemed to reign
    The pride that claims applauses due,
    And of her royal conquest too,
        A real or feigned disdain:
    Familiar was the look, and told
    Marmion and she were friends of old.
The king observed their meeting eyes
With something like displeased surprise:
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
E’en in a word or smile or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment broad
Which Marmion’s high commission showed:
“Our Borders sacked by many a raid,
Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said;
“On day of truce our warden slain,
Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en—
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance cry in vain;
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.”

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,
And with stern eye the pageant viewed—
    I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,
    Who coronet of Angus bore,
    And, when his blood and heart were high,
    Did the third James in camp defy,
    And all his minions led to die
    On Lauder’s dreary flat:
Princes and favourites long grew tame,
And trembled at the homely name
    Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;
The same who left the dusky vale
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,
    Its dungeons and its towers,
Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,
    To fix his princely bowers.
Though now in age he had laid down
His armour for the peaceful gown,
    And for a staff his brand,
Yet often would flash forth the fire
That could in youth a monarch’s ire
    And minion’s pride withstand;
And e’en that day, at council board,
    Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,
    Against the war had Angus stood,
And chafed his royal lord.

XV.

His giant form like ruined tower,
    Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,
    Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,
Seemed o’er the gaudy scene to lower:
    His locks and beard in silver grew;
    His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
    Near Douglas when the monarch stood,
    His bitter speech he thus pursued:
    “Lord Marmion, since these letters say
    That in the north you needs must stay
        While slightest hopes of peace remain,
    Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
    To say—return to Lindisfarne
        Until my herald come again.
    Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
    Your host shall be the Douglas bold—
    A chief unlike his sires of old.
    He wears their motto on his blade,
    Their blazon o’er his towers displayed;
    Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
    More than to face his country’s foes.
And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,
    But e’en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first-fruits of the war,
Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,
    A bevy of the maids of Heaven.
Under your guard these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades;
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochrane’s soul may say.”
And with the slaughtered favourite’s name
Across the monarch’s brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI.

In answer nought could Angus speak;
His proud heart swelled well-nigh to break:
He turned aside, and down his cheek
    A burning tear there stole.
His hand the monarch sudden took;
That sight his kind heart could not brook:
    “Now, by the Bruce’s soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live,
As he said of the Douglas old,
    I well may say of you—
That never king did subject hold
In speech more free, in war more bold,
    More tender and more true:
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.”
And while the king his hand did strain,
The old man’s tears fell down like rain.
To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whispered to the king aside:
“Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed!
A child will weep a bramble’s smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,
A stripling for a woman’s heart:
But woe awaits a country when
She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye!”

XVII.

Displeased was James, that stranger viewed
And tampered with his changing mood.
“Laugh those that can, weep those that may,”
Thus did the fiery monarch say,
“Southward I march by break of day;
And if within Tantallon strong,
The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
Perchance our meeting next may fall
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.”
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,
And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:—
“Much honoured were my humble home
If in its halls King James should come;
But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire-men are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Derby hills the paths are steep;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;
And many a banner will be torn,
And many a knight to earth be borne,
And many a sheaf of arrows spent,
Ere Scotland’s king shall cross the Trent:
Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.”
The monarch lightly turned away,
And to his nobles loud did call,
“Lords, to the dance—a hall! a hall!”
Himself his cloak and sword flung by,
And led Dame Heron gallantly;
And minstrels, at the royal order,
Rung out “Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.”

XVIII.

Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,
Whose galley, as they sailed again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.
Now at Dunedin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide;
    And soon, by his command,
Were gently summoned to prepare
To journey under Marmion’s care,
As escort honoured, safe, and fair,
    Again to English land.
The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,
Nor knew which saint she should implore;
For when she thought of Constance, sore
    She feared Lord Marmion’s mood.
And judge what Clara must have felt!
The sword that hung in Marmion’s belt
    Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.
Unwittingly, King James had given,
    As guard to Whitby’s shades,
The man most dreaded under heaven
    By these defenceless maids:
Yet what petition could avail,
Or who would listen to the tale
Of woman, prisoner, and nun,
’Mid bustle of a war begun?
They deemed it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.

XIX.

Their lodging, so the king assigned,
To Marmion’s, as their guardian, joined;
And thus it fell that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye,
    Who warned him by a scroll
She had a secret to reveal
That much concerned the Church’s weal
    And health of sinner’s soul;
And with deep charge of secrecy
    She named a place to meet,
Within an open balcony
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high
    Above the stately street;
To which, as common to each home,
At night they might in secret come.

XX.

At night, in secret, there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.
The moon among the clouds rose high,
And all the city hum was by.
    Upon the street, where late before
    Did din of war and warriors roar,
        You might have heard a pebble fall,
    A beetle hum, a cricket sing,
    An owlet flap his boding wing
        On Giles’s steeple tall.
The antique buildings, climbing high,
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,
    Were here wrapt deep in shade;
There on their brows the moonbeam broke
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,
    And on the casements played.
    And other light was none to see,
        Save torches gliding far,
    Before some chieftain of degree,
    Who left the royal revelry
        To bowne him for the war.
    A solemn scene the Abbess chose;
    A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

XXI.

“O holy Palmer!” she began—
“For sure he must be sainted man
Whose blessèd feet have trod the ground
Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found—
For His dear Church’s sake my tale
Attend, nor deem of light avail,
Though I must speak of worldly love—
How vain to those who wed above!
De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed
Clara de Clare, of Gloucester’s blood;
Idle it were of Whitby’s dame,
To say of that same blood I came;
And once, when jealous rage was high,
Lord Marmion said despiteously,
Wilton was traitor in his heart,
And had made league with Martin Swart,
When he came here on Simnel’s part
And only cowardice did restrain
His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain,
And down he threw his glove: the thing
Was tried, as wont, before the king;
Where frankly did De Wilton own
That Swart in Gueldres he had known;
And that between them then there went
Some scroll of courteous compliment.
For this he to his castle sent;
But when his messenger returned,
Judge how De Wilton’s fury burned
For in his packet there were laid
Letters that claimed disloyal aid,
And proved King Henry’s cause betrayed.
His fame, thus blighted, in the field
He strove to clear by spear and shield;
To clear his fame in vain he strove,
For wondrous are His ways above!
Perchance some form was unobserved;
Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved;
Else how could guiltless champion quail,
Or how the blessèd ordeal fail?

XXII.

“His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doomed to suffer law,
    Repentant, owned in vain,
That while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair,
Had drenched him with a beverage rare;
    His words no faith could gain.
With Clare alone he credence won,
Who, rather than wed Marmion,
Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair,
To give our house her livings fair,
And die a vestal vot’ress there.
The impulse from the earth was given,
But bent her to the paths of heaven.
A purer heart, a lovelier maid,
Ne’er sheltered her in Whitby’s shade,
No, not since Saxon Edelfled:
    Only one trace of earthly strain,
        That for her lover’s loss
    She cherishes a sorrow vain,
        And murmurs at the cross.
    And then her heritage;—it goes
        Along the banks of Tame;
Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,
In meadows rich the heifer lows,
The falconer and huntsman knows
    Its woodlands for the game.
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,
And I, her humble vot’ress here,
    Should do a deadly sin,
Her temple spoiled before mine eyes,
If this false Marmion such a prize
    By my consent should win;
Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn
That Clare shall from our house be torn;
And grievous cause have I to fear
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

XXIII.

“Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed
To evil power, I claim thine aid,
    By every step that thou hast trod
To holy shrine and grotto dim,
By every martyr’s tortured limb,
By angel, saint, and seraphim,
    And by the Church of God!
For mark:—When Wilton was betrayed,
And with his squire forged letters laid,
She was, alas! that sinful maid
    By whom the deed was done—
Oh! shame and horror to be said!—
    She was a perjured nun!
No clerk in all the land, like her
Traced quaint and varying character.
    Perchance you may a marvel deem
        That Marmion’s paramour
    (For such vile thing she was) should scheme
        Her lover’s nuptial hour;
    But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,
    As privy to his honour’s stain,
        Illimitable power:
    For this she secretly retained
        Each proof that might the plot reveal,
        Instructions with his hand and seal;
    And thus Saint Hilda deigned,
        Through sinners’ perfidy impure,
        Her house’s glory to secure
    And Clare’s immortal weal.

XXIV.

“’Twere long, and needless, here to tell
How to my hand these papers fell;
    With me they must not stay.
Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true!
Who knows what outrage he might do
    While journeying by the way?
O blessèd saint, if e’er again
I venturous leave thy calm domain,
To travel or by land or main,
    Deep penance may I pay!
Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer:
I give this packet to thy care,
For thee to stop they will not dare;
    And, oh! with cautious speed
To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring,
That he may show them to the king
    And for thy well-earned meed,
Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine
A weekly mass shall still be thine
    While priests can sing and read.
What ail’st thou? Speak!” For as he took
The charge, a strong emotion shook
    His frame; and, ere reply,
They heard a faint yet shrilly tone,
Like distant clarion feebly blown,
    That on the breeze did die;
And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear,
“Saint Withold, save us! What is here?
    Look at yon city cross!
See, on its battled tower appear
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,
    And blazoned banners toss!”

XXV.

Dunedin’s Cross, a pillared stone,
Rose on a turret octagon;
    (But now is razed that monument
        Whence royal edict rang,
    And voice of Scotland’s law was sent
        In glorious trumpet-clang.
Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead
Upon its dull destroyer’s head!—
A minstrel’s malison is said).
Then on its battlements they saw
A vision, passing Nature’s law,
    Strange, wild, and dimly seen—
Figures that seemed to rise and die,
Gibber and sign, advance and fly,
While nought confirmed could ear or eye
    Discern of sound or mien.
Yet darkly did it seem, as there
Heralds and pursuivants prepare,
With trumpet sound and blazon fair,
    A summons to proclaim;
But indistinct the pageant proud,
As fancy-forms of midnight cloud,
When flings the moon upon her shroud
    A wavering tinge of flame;
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,
From midmost of the spectre crowd,
    This awful summons came:—

XXVI.

“Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,
    Whose names I now shall call,
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!
Subjects of him who sent me here,
At his tribunal to appear
    I summon one and all:
I cite you by each deadly sin
That e’er hath soiled your hearts within;
I cite you by each brutal lust
That e’er defiled your earthly dust—
    By wrath, by pride, by fear;
By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone,
By the dark grave and dying groan!
When forty days are passed and gone,
I cite you, at your monarch’s throne,
    To answer and appear.”
Then thundered forth a roll of names;
The first was thine, unhappy James!
    Then all thy nobles came:—
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle—
Why should I tell their separate style?
    Each chief of birth and fame,
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,
Foredoomed to Flodden’s carnage pile,
    Was cited there by name;
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye;
De Wilton, erst of Aberley,
The self-same thundering voice did say.
    But then another spoke:
“Thy fatal summons I deny,
And thine infernal lord defy,
Appealing me to Him on high,
    Who burst the sinner’s yoke.”
At that dread accent, with a scream.
Parted the pageant like a dream,
    The summoner was gone.
Prone on her face the Abbess fell,
And fast and fast her beads did tell;
Her nuns came, startled by the yell,
    And found her there alone.
She marked not, at the scene aghast,
What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

XXVII.

Shift we the scene. The camp doth move;
    Dunedin’s streets are empty now,
Save when, for weal of those they love,
    To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,
The tottering child, the anxious fair,
The grey-haired sire, with pious care,
To chapels and to shrines repair—
Where is the Palmer now? and where
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?
Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair
    They journey in thy charge.
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,
The Palmer still was with the band;
Angus, like Lindesay, did command
    That none should roam at large.
But in that Palmer’s altered mien
A wondrous change might now be seen;
    Freely he spoke of war,
Of marvels wrought by single hand
When lifted for a native land;
And still looked high, as if he planned
    Some desperate deed afar.
His courser would he feed and stroke,
And, tucking up his sable frock,
Would first his mettle bold provoke,
    Then soothe or quell his pride.
Old Hubert said, that never one
He saw, except Lord Marmion,
    A steed so fairly ride.

XXVIII.

Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,
    By Eustace governed fair,
A troop escorting Hilda’s dame,
    With all her nuns and Clare.
No audience had Lord Marmion sought;
    Ever he feared to aggravate
    Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;
And safer ’twas, he thought,
    To wait till, from the nuns removed,
    The influence of kinsmen loved,
    And suit by Henry’s self approved,
Her slow consent had wrought.
    His was no flickering flame, that dies
    Unless when fanned by looks and sighs,
    And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;
    He longed to stretch his wide command
    O’er luckless Clara’s ample land;
    Besides, when Wilton with him vied,
    Although the pang of humbled pride
    The place of jealousy supplied,
Yet conquest, by that meanness won
He almost loathed to think upon,
Led him, at times, to hate the cause
Which made him burst through honour’s laws
If e’er he loved, ’twas her alone
Who died within that vault of stone.

XXIX.

And now when close at hand they saw
North Berwick’s town and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile
Before a venerable pile,
    Whose turrets viewed, afar,
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle,
    The ocean’s peace or war.
At tolling of a bell, forth came
The convent’s venerable dame,
And prayed Saint Hilda’s Abbess rest
With her, a loved and honoured guest,
Till Douglas should a barque prepare
To waft her back to Whitby fair.
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,
And thanked the Scottish Prioress;
And tedious were to tell, I ween,
The courteous speech that passed between.
    O’erjoyed, the nuns their palfreys leave;
        But when fair Clara did intend,
        Like them, from horseback to descend,
    Fitz-Eustace said, “I grieve,
    Fair lady—grieve e’en from my heart—
    Such gentle company to part;
        Think not discourtesy,
    But lords’ commands must be obeyed;
    And Marmion and the Douglas said
        That you must wend with me.
    Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,
    Which to the Scottish earl he showed,
    Commanding that beneath his care
    Without delay you shall repair
    To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.”

XXX.

The startled Abbess loud exclaimed;
But she at whom the blow was aimed
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead—
She deemed she heard her death-doom read.
“Cheer thee, my child,” the Abbess said;
“They dare not tear thee from my hand
To ride alone with armèd band.”
    “Nay, holy mother, nay,”
Fitz-Eustace said, “the lovely Clare
Will be in Lady Angus’ care,
    In Scotland while we stay;
And when we move, an easy ride
Will bring us to the English side,
Female attendance to provide
    Befitting Gloucester’s heir;
Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord,
By slightest look, or act, or word,
    To harass Lady Clare.
Her faithful guardian he will be,
Nor sue for slightest courtesy
    That e’en to stranger falls.
Till he shall place her, safe and free,
    Within her kinsman’s halls.”
He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace;
His faith was painted on his face,
    And Clare’s worst fear relieved.
The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed,
    Entreated, threatened, grieved;
To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed,
Against Lord Marmion inveighed,
And called the Prioress to aid,
To curse with candle, bell, and book.
Her head the grave Cistercian shook:
“The Douglas and the King,” she said,
“In their commands will be obeyed;
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon Hall.”

XXXI.

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,
Assumed her wonted state again—
    For much of state she had—
Composed her veil, and raised her head,
And—“Bid,” in solemn voice she said,
    “Thy master, bold and bad,
The records of his house turn o’er,
    And when he shall there written see,
    That one of his own ancestry
    Drove the monks forth of Coventry,
Bid him his fate explore.
    Prancing in pride of earthly trust,
    His charger hurled him to the dust,
    And, by a base plebeian thrust,
He died his band before.
    God judge ’twixt Marmion and me;
    He is a chief of high degree,
And I a poor recluse;
    Yet oft, in Holy Writ, we see
    Even such weak minister as me
May the oppressor bruise:
    For thus, inspired, did Judith slay
        The mighty in his sin,
    And Jael thus, and Deborah”—
        Here hasty Blount broke in:—
“Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band;
Saint Anton’ fire thee! wilt thou stand
All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
    To hear the lady preach?
By this good light! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
    Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse;
The dame must patience take perforce.”

XXXII.

“Submit we, then, to force,” said Clare,
“But let this barbarous lord despair
    His purposed aim to win;
Let him take living, land, and life;
But to be Marmion’s wedded wife
    In me were deadly sin:
And if it be the king’s decree
That I must find no sanctuary
In that inviolable dome
Where even a homicide might come
    And safely rest his head,
Though at its open portals stood,
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,
    The kinsmen of the dead;
Yet one asylum is my own
    Against the dreaded hour—
A low, a silent, and a lone,
    Where kings have little power.
One victim is before me there.
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer
Remember your unhappy Clare!”
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows
    Kind blessings many a one:
Weeping and wailing loud arose
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes
    Of every simple nun.
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried,
And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.
    Then took the squire her rein,
And gently led away her steed,
And, by each courteous word and deed,
    To cheer her strove in vain.

XXXIII.

But scant three miles the band had rode,
    When o’er a height they passed,
And, sudden, close before them showed
    His towers, Tantallon vast;
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,
And held impregnable in war,
On a projecting rock they rose,
And round three sides the ocean flows,
The fourth did battled walls enclose,
    And double mound and fosse.
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong,
Through studded gates, an entrance long,
    To the main court they cross;
It was a wide and stately square;
Around were lodgings, fit and fair,
    And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky,
Whence oft the warder could descry
    The gathering ocean-storm.

XXXIV.

Here did they rest. The princely care
Of Douglas, why should I declare,
Or say they met reception fair?
    Or why the tidings say,
Which, varying, to Tantallon came,
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame,
    With every varying day?
And, first, they heard King James had won
    Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then
    That Norham Castle strong was ta’en.
At that sore marvelled Marmion;
And Douglas hoped his monarch’s hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland:
    But whispered news there came,
That, while his host inactive lay,
And melted by degrees away,
King James was dallying off the day
    With Heron’s wily dame.
Such acts to chronicles I yield:
    Go seek them there and see;
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,
    And not a history.
At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their post
    Which frowns o’er Milfield Plain,
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gathered in the Southern land,
And marched into Northumberland,
    And camp at Wooler ta’en.
Marmion, like charger in the stall,
That hears, without, the trumpet call,
    Began to chafe and swear:
“A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
    When such a field is near!
Needs must I see this battle-day;
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away!
    The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
    Hath ’bated of his courtesy:
No longer in his halls I’ll stay.”
Then bade his band they should array
For march against the dawning day.