Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo."-
Here stay'd their talk,-for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The palmer showing forth the way,
They journey'd all the morning day.
The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A 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;
"Such as were 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,
In 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."—
He 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,
Imprinted at the antique dome
Of Caxton or De Worde.
Therefore he spoke,-but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answer'd naught again.
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In 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.
Yet 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
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.
First 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,
Which 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,
Attendant on a king-at-arms,
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quell'd,
When wildest its alarms.
He was a man of middle age;
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;
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;
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,
Embroider'd round and round.
The double treasure might you see,
First by Achaius borne,
The thistle, and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn.
So bright the kings 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,
But 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!
Down 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,
And 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.
Their 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
From 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:
And, 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."
Though inly chafed at this delay Lord 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,
That 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,
But 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 Critchtoun-castle crowns the bank;
For 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
From 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
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.
Critchtoun though now thy miry court 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, Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, Quarter'd in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;
Nor yet the stony chord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair.
Still rises unimpair'd, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row,
Of fairhewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but homeless cattle go
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
Where oft whilome were captives pent,
The darkness of thy massy-more :*
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.
Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
The pit, or prison vault.
For 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,
Proffer'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.
Long may his lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-dear.
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.
And 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 them his lands array,
Upon 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.
Here 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,
And policies of war and peace.
It chanced, as fell the second night, That on the battlement they walk'd, And, by the slowly fading light,
On varying topics talk'd; And, 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
Against the English war:
And, closer question'd, thus he told
A tale which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enroll'd:-
SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE. "Of all the palaces so fair, 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,
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.
But June is to our sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
* An ancient word for the cry of deer.
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Wo to the traitors who could bring
The 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.
"When last this ruthful month was come, And 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-
For 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;
Around 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 jingling knell,
Was 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,
In 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,
That, 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
So just an image of the saint
Who propp'd the virgin in her faint,-
The loved apostle John.
"He stepp'd before the monarch's chair, And stood with rustic plainness there, And little reverence made;
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he lent,
And words like these he said,
In a low voice,-but never tone
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve, and bone :My mother sent me from afar,
Sir king, to warn thee not to war,—
Wo waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her 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;
And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.
The marshall and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward past;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast
He vanish'd from our eyes,
Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies."—
While Lindesay told this marvel strange, The twilight was so pale,
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,
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, What much has changed my skeptic 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, E'en when discovery's pain, To Lindesay did at length unfold The tale his village host had told At Gifford, to his train. Naught of the palmer says he there, And naught of Constance or of Clare: The thoughts which broke his sleep, he seems To mention but as feverish dreams.
"In vain," said he, " to rest I spread My burning limbs, and couch'd my head:
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, And, as the moon shone bright and cold, Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold. The southern entrance I past through, And halted, and my bugle blew. Methought an answer met my ear,Yet was the blast so low and drear, So hollow, and so faintly blown, It might be echo of my own.
"Thus judging, for a little space
I listen'd, ere I left the place;
But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they served me true
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.—
I'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
Seem'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,
I scarce could couch it right.
"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.
High 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
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.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead,―
I well believe the last;
For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
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 his sheath; And, 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
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."-
Marvell'd Sir David of the mount;
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had hap'd of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell, of fiendish might,
In 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,
With highland broadsword, targe, and plaid,
And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurchus's glade,
Or where the sable pine trees shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid,
Dromouchty, or Glenmore.
And yet, whate'er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, host, or fay,
On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True 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,
Or 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 naught, at length, in answer said;
And 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.
Early 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 it boast of storied lore;
But, 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
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill.
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,
While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the city crowd,
And, from his steeple jangling loud,
Saint Gile's mingling din-
Now, from the summit of the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;
And, o'er the lanscape as I look,
Naught do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook:
To me they make a heavy moan
Of early friendships past and gone.
But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down:-
A thousand did I say? I ween,
Thousand on thousands there were seen,
That checker'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
Some 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.
For from Hebudes, dark with rain, To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
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,
Broad, 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:
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, 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.
Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,-
He view'd it with a chief's 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,
When stooping on his prey.
"O! 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,
Not power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine
In glorious battle-fray !"
Seven culverins, so called, cast by one Borthwick.
+ Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different rank of those entitled to display them.
Answer'd the bard, of milder mood:
"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."
Still 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,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow
That round her sable turret's flow,
The morning beams were shed,
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,
Whose 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,
And, 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,
The 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,
The spur he to his charger lent,
And raised his bridal hand,
And, making demi-vault in air,
Cried, "Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land!"
The lion smiled his joy to see;
Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.
Thus while they look'd a flourish proud, Where mingled trump and clarion loud, And fife, and kettle-drum, And sackbut deep, and psaltery, And warpipe with discordant cry, And cymbal clattering to the sky, Making wild music bold and high, Did up the mountain come: The whilst the bells, with distant chime, Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,
And thus the lion spoke :-
"Thus clamour'd still the war-notes, when
The king to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to St. Catherine's of Sienne,
Or chapel of St. Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame;
But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer,
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