Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Arm❜d burghers kept their watch and ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear,
When lay encamp'd, 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 clash'd and rang,
Or toil'd 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 squires, 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, Discuss'd his lineage, told his name, His following, and his warlike fame.-The lion led to lodging meet, Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street; There must the baron rest, Till past the hour of vesper tide, And then to Holy-Rood 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 Holy-Rood rung merrily,
That night, with wassel, mirth and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power,
Summon'd 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 masquers 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 touch'd a softer string;
With long-ear'd cap, and motely vest,
The licensed fool retail'd 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;

Following-Feudal retainers.

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 mix'd crowd of glee and game,
The king to greet Lord Marmion came,
While, reverend, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James's manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doff'd, to Marmion bending low,
His broider'd cap and plume.
For royal were his garb and mien,

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
Trimm'd 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 button'd with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deem'd 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 deepest dye

His short curl'd beard and hair. Light was his footstep in the dance, And firm his stirrup in the lists; And, O! 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 joy'd 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 rush'd, 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 tighten'd 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 Turquois 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 mailed vest;
And thus admitted English fair,
His inmost counsels still to share;

And thus, for both, he madly plann'd
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 Holy-Rood, 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 touch'd, 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 pitch'd her voice to sing, Then glanced her dark eye on the king, And then around the silent ring; And laugh'd, and blush'd, 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.

0, 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 unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochin-

var.

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,

He swam the Eske 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 enter'd 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,)

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

"I long woo'd 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 kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the

cup.

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd 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 Lochin

var.

So stately his form, and so lovely his face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bride groom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd 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 Græmes 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 sec.

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 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."

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,
And with stern eye the pageant view'd:
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 Lauders 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 Liddesdale,

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 sooth his sovereign's mood,
Against the war had Angus stood,
And chafed his royal lord.

XV.

His giant form, like ruin'd tower,

Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt, Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, Seem'd 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 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.

XVI.

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;
"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!"

XVII.

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,"

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 answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: "Much honour'd were my humble home, If in its hall king James would come; But Nottingham has archers good, And Yorkshiremen 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 turn'd 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 St. Hilda's maids befell,
Whose galley, as they sail'd again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en.
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide;

And soon, by his command,
Were gently summon'd to prepare
To journey under Marmion's care,
As escort honour'd, 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 fear'd 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 deem'd it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.
ΧΙΧ.

Their lodging, so the king assign'd,
To Marmion's as their guardian, join'd;
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,
The palmer caught the abbess' eye,
Who warn'd him by a scroll,

The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant.

"O, holy palmer!" she began,-
"For sure he must be sainted man,
Whose blessed 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 earthly love,-
How vain to those who wed above!
De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd
Clara de Clare, of Gloster'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 Guelders 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 return'd,
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?

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 Edelfled;

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 were 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.

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?

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.

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 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, O! 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 !"

XXV.

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.

O! 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.