Marmion/Canto Fifth/Introduction
< Marmion | Canto Fifth
Edinburgh.
When dark December glooms the day,And takes our autumn joys away;When short and scant the sunbeam throws,Upon the weary waste of snows,5A cold and profitless regard,Like patron on a needy bard;When silvan occupation's done,And o'er the chimney rests the gun,And hang, in idle trophy, near,10The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear;When wiry terrier, rough and grim,And greyhound, with his length of limb,And pointer, now employ'd no more,Cumber our parlour's narrow floor;15When in his stall the impatient steedIs long condemn'd to rest and feed;When from our snow-encircled home,Scarce cares the hardiest step to roamSince path is none, save that to bring20The needful water from the spring;When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er,Beguiles the dreary hour no more,And darkling politician, cross'd,Inveighs against the lingering post,25And answering housewife sore complainsOf carriers' snow-impeded wains; When such the country cheer, I come,Well pleased, to seek our city home;For converse, and for books, to change30The Forest's melancholy range,And welcome, with renew'd delight,The busy day and social night.
Not here need my desponding rhymeLament the ravages of time,35As erst by Newark's riven towers,And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers.True,—Caledonia's Queen is changed,Since on her dusky summit ranged,Within its steepy limits pent,40By bulwark, line, and battlement,And flanking towers, and laky flood,Guarded and garrison'd she stood,Denying entrance or resort,Save at each tall embattled port;45Above whose arch, suspended, hungPortcullis spiked with iron prong.That long is gone,—but not so long,Since, early closed, and opening late,Jealous revolved the studded gate,50Whose task, from eve to morning tide,A wicket churlishly supplied.Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,When safe amid thy mountain court55Thou sitt'st, like Empress at her sport,And liberal, unconfined, and free,Flinging thy white arms to the sea,For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower,That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower,60Thou gleam'st against the western rayTen thousand lines of brighter day.
Not she, the Championess of old,In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd, She for the charmed spear renown'd,Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,—66Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,What time she was Malbecco's guest,She gave to flow her maiden vest;When from the corselet's grasp relieved,70Free to the sight her bosom heaved;Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile,Erst hidden by the aventayle;And down her shoulders graceful roll'dHer locks profuse, of paly gold.75They who whilom, in midnight fight,Had marvell'd at her matchless might,No less her maiden charms approved,But looking liked, and liking loved.The sight could jealous pangs beguile,80And charm Malbecco's cares a while;And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,Forgot his Columbella's claims,And passion, erst unknown, could gainThe breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;85Nor durst light Paridel advance,Bold as he was, a looser glance.She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart,Incomparable Britomane!
So thou, fair City! disarray'd90Of battled wall, and rampart's aid,As stately seem'st, but lovelier farThan in that panoply of war.Nor deem that from thy fenceless throneStrength and security are flown;95Still as of yore, Queen of the North!Still canst thou send thy children forth.Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's callThy burghers rose to man thy wall,Than now, in danger, shall be thine,100Thy dauntless voluntary line; For fosse and turret proud to stand,Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil,Full red would stain their native soil,105Ere from thy mural crown there fellThe slightest knosp, or pinnacle.And if it come,—as come it may,Dun-Edin! that eventful day,—Renown'd for hospitable deed,110That virtue much with Heaven may plead,In patriarchal times whose careDescending angels deign'd to share;That claim may wrestle blessings downOn those who fight for The Good Town,115Destined in every age to beRefuge of injured royalty;Since first, when conquering York arose,To Henry meek she gave repose,Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,120Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw.
Truce to these thoughts!--for, as they rise,How gladly I avert mine eyes,Bodings, or true or false, to change,For Fiction's fair romantic range,125Or for Tradition's dubious light,That hovers 'twixt the day and night:Dazzling alternately and dimHer wavering lamp I'd rather trim,Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see,130Creation of my fantasy,Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,And make of mists invading men.—Who loves not more the night of JuneThan dull December's gloomy noon?135The moonlight than the fog of frost?But can we say, which cheats the most?
But who shall teach my harp to gainA sound of the romantic strain,Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere140Could win the royal Henry's ear,Famed Beauclerk call'd, for that he lovedThe minstrel, and his lay approved?Who shall these lingering notes redeem,Decaying on Oblivion's stream;145Such notes as from the Breton tongueMarie translated, Blondel sung?—O! born, Time's ravage to repair,And make the dying Muse thy care;Who, when his scythe her hoary foe150Was poising for the final blow,The weapon from his hand could wring,And break his glass, and shear his wing,And bid, reviving in his strain,The gentle poet live again;155Thou, who canst give to lightest layAn unpedantic moral gay,Nor less the dullest theme bid flitOn wings of unexpected wit;In letters as in life approved,160Example honour'd, and beloved,—Dear ELLIS! to the bard impartA lesson of thy magic art,To win at once the head and heart,—At once to charm, instruct, and mend,165My guide, my pattern, and my friend!
Such minstrel lesson to bestowBe long thy pleasing task,—but, O!No more by thy example teach,—What few can practise, all can preach,—170With even patience to endureLingering disease, and painful cure,And boast affliction's pangs subduedBy mild and manly fortitude. Enough, the lesson has been given:175Forbid the repetition, Heaven!
Come listen, then! for thou hast known,And loved the Minstrel's varying tone,Who, like his Border sires of old,Waked a wild measure rude and bold,180Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain,With wonder heard the northern strain.Come listen! bold in thy applause,The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws;And, as the ancient art could stain185Achievements on the storied pane,Irregularly traced and plann'd,But yet so glowing and so grand,—So shall he strive, in changeful hue,Field, feast, and combat, to renew,190And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee,And all the pomp of chivalry.