Marmion/Canto Fourth

by Walter Scott

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

I.
Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
5And with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
 Whistling they came, and free of heart,
  But soon their mood was changed;
 Complaint was heard on every part,
10  Of something disarranged.
Some clamour'd loud for armour lost;
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host;
'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'—
15Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
20Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,—
'Help, gentle 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?'—
25Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,—
'What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
30Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'

II.
 Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd,
  Nor wholly understood,
 His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd;
35  He knew Lord Marmion's mood.
 Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
 And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
  And did his tale display
 Simply, as if he knew of nought
40  To cause such disarray.
Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,—
Pass'd them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.
45Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
'Ill thou deservest thy hire,' he said;
'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?
50Fairies have ridden him all the night,
 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,
55 To their infernal home:
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.'—
The laughing host look'd on the hire,—
'Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
60And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'
Here stay'd their talk,—for Marmion
65Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journey'd all the morning day.

IV.
The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
70A forest-glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches made.
'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said;
75'Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
80In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.'
85He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind;
Perchance to show his lore design'd;
 For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
90Imprinted at the antique dome
 Of Caxton, or de Worde.
Therefore he spoke,—but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answer'd nought again.

V.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
95In notes prolong'd by wood and hill,
 Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know,
 They breathed no point of war.
100Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band,
 Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees, receding, show'd
105 A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade,
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
 Issued a gallant train.

VI.
110First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward press'd,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
115Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore:
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
120 Attendant on a King-at-arms,
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quell'd,
 When wildest its alarms.

VII.
 He was a man of middle age;
125 In aspect manly, grave, and sage,
  As on King's errand come;
 But in the glances of his eye,
 A penetrating, keen, and sly
  Expression found its home;
130 The flash of that satiric rage,
 Which, bursting on the early stage,
 Branded the vices of the age,
  And broke the keys of Rome.
 On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;
135 His cap of maintenance was graced
  With the proud heron-plume.
 From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
  Silk housings swept the ground,
 With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
140  Embroider'd round and round.
 The double tressure might you see,
  First by Achaius borne,
 The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
  And gallant unicorn.
145So bright the King's armorial coat,
That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colours, blazon'd brave,
The Lion, which his title gave;
A train, which well beseem'd his state,
150But all unarm'd, around him wait.
 Still is thy name in high account,
  And still thy verse has charms,
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
  Lord Lion King-at-arms!

VIII.
155Down from his horse did Marmion spring,
Soon as he saw the Lion-King;
For well the stately Baron knew
To him such courtesy was due,
Whom Royal James himself had crown'd,
160And on his temples placed the round
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem:
And wet his brow with hallow'd wine,
And on his finger given to shine
 The emblematic gem.
165Their mutual greetings duly made,
The Lion thus his message said:—
'Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
170From England to his royal court;
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name,
And honours much his warlike fame,
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack
Of courtesy, to turn him back;
175And, by his order, I, your guide,
Must lodging fit and fair provide,
Till finds King James meet time to see
The flower of English chivalry.'

IX.
Though inly chafed at this delay,
180Lord Marmion bears it as he may.
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,
 Sought to take leave in vain:
Strict was the Lion-King's command,
185That none, who rode in Marmion's band,
 Should sever from the train:
'England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes;'
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,
190But fair pretext to Marmion made.
The right hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.
At length up that wild dale they wind,
 Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank;
195For there the Lion's care assign'd
 A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.
That Castle rises on the steep
 Of the green vale of Tyne:
And far beneath, where slow they creep,
200From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist, and willows weep,
 You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows
205 The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
 The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI.
Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
210 But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
 Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
 Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
215 Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,
Quarter'd in old armorial sort,
 Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet had time defaced
 Thy lordly gallery fair;
220Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
 Adorn thy ruin'd stair.
Still rises unimpair'd below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
225Above its cornice, row and row
 Of fair hewn facets richly show
  Their pointed diamond form,
 Though there but houseless cattle go,
  To shield them from the storm.
230 And, shuddering, still may we explore,
  Where oft whilom were captives pent,
 The darkness of thy Massy More;
  Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace, in undulating line,
235The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.
Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
240For none were in the Castle then,
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
245Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold;
For each man that could draw a sword
Had march'd that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,—he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
250Long may his Lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train,
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.

XIII.
255And here two days did Marmion rest,
 With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the King's own guest;—
 Such the command of Royal James,
Who marshall'd then his land's array,
260Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.
265Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,—
Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece,
270And policies of war and peace.

XIV.
It chanced, as fell the second night,
 That on the battlements they walk'd,
And, by the slowly fading light,
 Of varying topics talk'd;
275And, unaware, the Herald-bard
Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
 In travelling so far;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
280 Against the English war:
And, closer question'd, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enroll'd:

XV.
Sir David Lindsey's Tale.
'Of all the palaces so fair,
285 Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare
 Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
290 How blithe the blackbird's lay!
The wild buck bells from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
 To see all nature gay.
295But June is to our Sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
300The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,
King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.
'When last this ruthful month was come,
305And in Linlithgow's holy dome
 The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father's soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
 The Bishop mass was saying—
310For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless King was slain—
In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,
 And eyes with sorrow streaming;
315Around him in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
 Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell,
320Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
 Through the stain'd casement gleaming;
But, while I mark'd what next befell,
 It seem'd as I were dreaming.
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight,
325In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.—
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word,
330That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
 So stately gliding on,—
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
335So just an image of the Saint,
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,—
 The loved Apostle John!

XVII.
'He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
340And little reverence made;
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
 And words like these he said,
In a low voice,—but never tone
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve, and bone:—
346"My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,—
 Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
350Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware:
 God keep thee as He may!"—
  The wondering monarch seem'd to seek
   For answer, and found none;
355  And when he raised his head to speak,
   The monitor was gone.
The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward pass'd;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
360 He vanish'd from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
 That glances but, and dies.'

XVIII.
 While Lindesay told his marvel strange,
  The twilight was so pale,
365 He mark'd not Marmion's colour change,
  While listening to the tale:
 But, after a suspended pause,
 The Baron spoke:—'Of Nature's laws
  So strong I held the force,
370 That never superhuman cause
  Could e'er control their course;
And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game.
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
375What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught.'—He staid,
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion press'd,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
380 Even when discovery's pain,
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
 At Gifford, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
385And nought of Constance, or of Clare;
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX.
'In vain,' said he, 'to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head:
390 Fantastic thoughts return'd;
And, by their wild dominion led,
 My heart within me burn'd.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
395And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I pass'd through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,—
400Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX.
'Thus judging, for a little space
I listen'd, ere I left the place;
405 But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they serve me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
 A mounted champion rise.—
410I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,
In single fight, and mix'd affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
 Have borne me as a knight;
But when this unexpected foe
415Seem'd starting from the gulf below,—
I care not though the truth I show,—
 I trembled with affright;
And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
420I scarce could couch it right.

XXI.
'Why need my tongue the issue tell?
We ran our course,—my charger fell;—
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?
 I roll'd upon the plain.
425High o'er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand,—
 Yet did the worst remain:
My dazzled eyes I upward cast,—
Not opening hell itself could blast
430 Their sight, like what I saw!
Full on his face the moonbeam strook!—
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
 And held my breath for awe.
435I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead,—
 I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
440 So grimly and so ghast.
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade;
But when to good Saint George I pray'd,
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid),
 He plunged it in the sheath;
445And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem'd to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest night
 Sunk down upon the heath.—
  'Twere long to tell what cause I have
450   To know his face, that met me there,
  Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
   To cumber upper air:
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.'

XXII.
455Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
 Such chance had happ'd of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
460In likeness of a Scottish knight,
 With Brian Bulmer bold,
And train'd him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said,
465With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid
 And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,
Or where the sable pine-tree shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,
470 Dromouchty, or Glenmore.
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay,
 On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
475True son of chivalry should hold
 These midnight terrors vain;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the evil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
480Or harbour unrepented sin.'—
Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
 Then press'd Sir David's hand,—
But nought, at length, in answer said;
485And here their farther converse staid,
 Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland's camp to take their way,
 Such was the King's command.

XXIII.
490Early they took Dun-Edin's road,
And I could trace each step they trode:
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.
Much might if boast of storied lore;
495But, passing such digression o'er,
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill,
And climb'd the opposing bank, until
500They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill.

XXIV.
 Blackford! on whose uncultured breast,
  Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,
 A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
 Or listed, as I lay at rest,
505  While rose, on breezes thin,
 The murmur of the city crowd,
 And, from his steeple jangling loud,
  Saint Giles's mingling din.
 Now, from the summit to the plain,
510 Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
  And o'er the landscape as I look,
 Nought do I see unchanged remain,
  Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
 To me they make a heavy moan,
515 Of early friendships past and gone.

XXV.
But different far the change has been,
 Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
 Upon the bent so brown:
520Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
 Upland, and dale, and down:—
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen
525That chequer'd all the heath between
 The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular;
Oft giving way, where still there stood
530Some relics of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed the glaring white with green:
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom's vast array.

XXVI.
535For from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge:
From west to east, from south to north,
540Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank,
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
545 And charger's shrilling neigh;
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance,
 The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII.
Thin curling in the morning air,
550The wreaths of failing smoke declare
To embers now the brands decay'd,
Where the night-watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
555And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain
560The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII.
Nor mark'd they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
 Various in shape, device, and hue,
 Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
565Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there
 O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest, and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;
570 The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
 Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
  Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
575  With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
  The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.

XXIX.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,—
580He view'd it with a chiefs delight,—
 Until within him burn'd his heart,
 And lightning from his eye did part,
  As on the battle-day;
 Such glance did falcon never dart,
585  When stooping on his prey.
'Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
 Were but a vain essay:
For, by St. George, were that host mine,
590Not power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
 In glorious battle-fray!'
Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood:
595'Fair is the sight,—and yet 'twere good,
 That Kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land has bless'd,
'Tis better to sit still at rest,
 Than rise, perchance to fall.'

XXX.
600Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,
For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.
 When sated with the martial show
 That peopled all the plain below,
 The wandering eye could o'er it go,
605 And mark the distant city glow
  With gloomy splendour red;
 For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
 That round her sable turrets flow,
  The morning beams were shed,
610 And tinged them with a lustre proud,
 Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
 And all the steep slope down,
615Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
 Mine own romantic town!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
620And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law;
 And, broad between them roll'd,
625The gallant Frith the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
 Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture vent,
630The spur he to his charger lent,
 And raised his bridle hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare
 To fight for such a land!'
635The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;
Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.
Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
 And fife, and kettle-drum,
640And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
 Did up the mountain come;
645The whilst the bells, with distant chime,
Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,
 And thus the Lindesay spoke:
'Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The King to mass his way has ta'en,
650Or to Saint Katharine's of Sienne,
 Or Chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame;
But me remind of peaceful game,
 When blither was their cheer,
655Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,
In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
 To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII.
'Nor less,' he said,—'when looking forth,
660I view yon Empress of the North
 Sit on her hilly throne;
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers—
665 Nor less,' he said, 'I moan,
To think what woe mischance may bring,
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant King;
 Or with the larum call
670The burghers forth to watch and ward,
'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard
 Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.—
But not for my presaging thought,
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!
675 Lord Marmion, I say nay:
God is the guider of the field,
He breaks the champion's spear and shield,—
 But thou thyself shalt say,
When joins yon host in deadly stowre,
680That England's dames must weep in bower,
 Her monks the death-mass sing;
For never saw'st thou such a power
 Led on by such a King.'—
And now, down winding to the plain,
685The barriers of the camp they gain,
 And there they made a stay.—
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
690Of Scotland's ancient Court and King,
 In the succeeding lay.