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So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochin-
O'er James's heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway:
To Scotland's court she came,

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for To be a hostage for her lord,

stone, Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was And with the king to make accord,

none; Had sept his lovely dame.

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, Nor to that lady free alone

The bride had consented, the gallant came late : Did the gay king allegiance own;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, For the fair queen of France

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. Sent him a Turquois ring, and glove, And charged him, as her knight and love, So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, For her to break a lance ;

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,

and all: And march three miles on southron land, Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his And bid the banners of his band

sword, In English breezes dance.

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a And thus, for France's qucen he drest

word,) His manly limbs in mailed vest;

“Ocome ye in peace here, or come ye in war, And thus admitted English fair,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” His inmost counsels still to share ; And thus, for both, he madly plann'd

“I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied : The ruin of himself and land!

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; And yet, the sooth to tell,

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, Nor England's fair, nor France's queen, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen, There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, From Margaret's eyes that fell,

That would gladly be bride to the young LochinHis own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's

bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the XI.

cup. The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to And weeps the weary day,

sigh, The war against her native soil,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye, Her monarch's risk in battle broil ;

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,

“ Now tread we a measure !” said young LochinDame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er

So stately his form, and so lovely his face,
The strings ber fingers flew;

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; And as she touch'd, and tuned them all,

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, Ever her bosom's rise and fall

And the bride groom stood dangling his bonnet and Was plainer given to vicw;

plume; For all, for heat, was laid aside,

And the bride-maidens whisperid, “ 'Twere better Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Then glanced her dark eye on the king,

Lochinvar." And then around the silent ring; And laugh’d, and blush'd, and oft did say, One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, Her pretty oath, by yea and nay,

When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger She could not, would not, durst not play!

stood near; At length, upon the harp, with glee,

So light to the croup the fair lady be swung, Mingled with arch simplicity,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! A soft, yet lively air she rung,

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and While thus the wily lady sung.

scaur ;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young


There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the NethO, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

erby clan; Through all the wide border his steed was the best; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and And save his good broadsword he weapons had they ran : none,

There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone. But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.


by far

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?


The monarch o'er the syren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause, the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw

A glance, where seem'd to reign The pride that claims applauses due, And of her royal conquest, too,

A real or feign'd 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 show'd: "Our borders sack'd by many a raid, Our peaceful liegemen robb'd," he said; "On day of truce our warden slain, Stout Barton kill'd his vessels ta'enUnworthy were we here to reign, Should these for vengeance cry in vain; Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, Our herald has to Henry borne."

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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 Lindisfarn,
Until my herald come again.-
Then rest you in Tantallon hold;
Your host shall be the Douglass bold,-
A chief unlike his sires of old.
He wears their motto on his blade,
Their blazon o'er his towers display'd;
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country's foes.
And, I bethink me, by St. 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 Cochran's soul may say."
And, with the slaughter'd favourite name,
Across the monarch's brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.


In answer naught could Angus speak;
His proud heart swell'd well nigh to break:
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek

A burning tear there stole.

His hand the monarch sudden took,
That sight his kind heart could not brook;
66 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 whisper'd to the king aside:
"O! 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 wo awaits a country, when
She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then, O! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye!"


Displeased was James, that stranger view'd And tamper'd with his changing mood.

*O, Dowglas! Dowglas!

Tendir and trew.-The Houlate.

“ Laugh those that can, weep those that may," She had a secret to reveal, Thus did the fiery inonarch say,

That much concern'd the church's weal, « South ward I march by break of day:

And health of sinner's soul; And if within Tantallon strong,

And with deep charge of secrecy, The good Lord Marmion tarries long,

She named a place to meet, Perchance our meeting next may fall

Within an open balcony, At Tamworth, in his castle hall.”—

That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,

Above the stately street; And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt:

To which, as common to each home, « Much honour'd were my humble home,

At night they might in secret come.
If in its hall king James would come;
But Nottingham has archers good,

And Yorkshiremen are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.

At night, in secret, there they came,
On Derby bills the paths are steep:

The palmer and the holy dame. In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep:

The moon among the clouds rode high, And many a banner will be torn,

And all the city hum was by. And many a knight to earth be borne,

Upon the street, where late before And many a sheaf of arrows spent,

Did din of war and warriors roar, Ere Scotland's king shali cross the Trent:

You might have heard a pebble fall, Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.”

A beetle hum, a cricket sing, The monarch lightly turn'd away,

An owlet Alap his boding wing And to his nobles loud did call,

On Gile's steeple tall. “ Lords, to the dance,-a hall! a hall!"

The antique buildings, climbing high, Himself his cloak and sword flung by,

Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, And led dame Heron gallantly;

Were here wrapt deep in shade ; And minstrels at the royal order,

There on their brows the moonbeam broke Rung out—“Blue bonnets o'er the border."

Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,

And on the casement play'd.

And other light was none to see,
Leave we these revels now, to tell

Save torches gliding far, What to St. Hilda's maids befell,

Before some chieftain of degree, Whose galley, as they saild again

Who left the royal revelry To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.

To bowne him for the war,Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,

A solemn scene the abbess chose!
Till James should of their fate decide;

A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summond to prepare

To journey under Marmion's care,
As escort honour'd, safe, and fair,

“0, holy palmer !” she began,

“ For sure he must be sainted man, Again to English land.

Whose blessed feet have trod the ground The abbess told her chaplet o'er,

Where the Redeemer's tomb is found ;Nor knew which saint she should implore;

For his dear church's sake, my tale
For, when she thought of Constance, sore
She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood.

Attend, nor deem of light avail,
And judge what Clara must have felt!

Though I must speak of earthly love,

How vain to those who wed above!
The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt,

De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd
Had drunk De Wilton's blood.
Unwittingly, King James had given,

Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood;
As guard to Whitby's shades,

(Idle it were of Whitby's dame, The man most dreaded under heaven

To say of that same blood I came ;)

And once, when jealous rage was high, By these defenceless maids;

Lord Marmion said despiteously, Yet what petition could avail,

Wilton was traitor in his heart, Or who would listen to the tale

And had made league with Martin Swart, Of woman, prisoner, and nun, Mid bustle of a war begun?

When he came here on Simpel's part; They deem'd it hopeless to avoid

And only cowardice did restrain The convoy of their dangerous guide.

His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain,

And down he threw his glove the thing XIX.

Was tried, as wont, before the king ; Their lodging, so the king assign'd,

Where frankly did De Wilton own, To Marmion's as their guardian, join'd ;

That Swart in Guelders he had known; And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,

And that between them then there went The palmer caught the abbess' eye,

Some scroll of courteous compliment. Who warn'd him by a scroll,

For this he to his eastle sent;

But when his messenger return'd, The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant.

Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd!

For in his packet there were laid
Letters that claim'd disloyal aid,
And proved King Henry's cause betray'd.
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 blessed ordeal fail?

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 retain'd

Each proof that might the plot reveal,

Instructions with his hand and seal:
And thus Saint Hilda deign'd,
Though sinners perfidy impure,
Her house's glory to secure,

And Clare's immortal weal.

XXII. “ His squire, who now De Wilton saw As recreant doom'd to suffer law,

Repentant, own'd in vain, That, while he had the scrolls in care, A stranger maiden, passing fair, Had drench'd him with a beverage rare ;

His words no faith could gain.
With Clare alone he credence won,
Who, rather than wed Marmion,
Did to St. Hilda's shrine repair,
To give our house her livings fair,
And die a vestal votaress there-
The impulse from the earth was given,
But bent her to the paths of heaven.
A purer heart a lovelier maid,
Ne'er shelter'd her in Whitby's shade,
No, not since Saxon Edelsed;
Only one trace of earthly stain,

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 wore it to Saint Hilda dear,
And I, her humble votaress here,

Should do a deadly sin.
Her temple spoil'd 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.

“ '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 blessed 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, 0! with cautious speed !
To Wolsey's hand the papers bring,
That he may show them to the king;

And, for thy well-earn'd 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 shriek'd 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 blazon banners toss!”

XXIII. “ Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd 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 betray'd,
And with his squire forged letters laid,
She was, alas ! that sinful maid,

By whom the deed was done, O! shame and horror to be said,

She was-a perjured nun?

Dun-Edin's cross, a pillar'd 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.
0! 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 ;

• i. e. curse.

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No audience had Lord Marmion sought;
Ever he fear'd to aggravate
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate;
And safer 'twas be 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 fann'd by looks and sighs,
And lighted oft at lady's eyes;

He long'd 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 lov'd 'twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone.


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 view'd 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 pray'd saint Hilda's abbess rest
With her a loved and honour'd guest,

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