Sir Walter Scott: Marmion—Canto IV

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Canto IV.

THE CAMP.

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,

And 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

Of something disarranged.

Some clamored loud for armor lost;

Some brawled and wrangled with the host;

'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear

That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'

Young Blount, lord Marmion's second squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and mire,

Although the rated horseboy sware

Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.

While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

Old 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?'

Gaping 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?

Better we had through mire and bush

Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'*

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,

Nor wholly understood,

His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed;

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

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,

Nor marvelled at the wonders told,—

Passed them as accidents of course,

And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost

Had reckoned with their Scottish host;

And, as the charge he cast and paid,

'Ill thou deserv'st thy hire,' he said;

'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?

Fairies 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

To their infernal home;

For in this haunted den, I trow,

All night they trampled to and fro.'

The laughing host looked on the hire:

'Gramercy, gentle southern squire,

And if thou com'st among the rest,

With Scottish broadsword to be blest,

Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,

And short the pang to undergo.'

Here stayed their talk, for Marmion

Gave now the signal to set on.

The Palmer showing forth the way,

They journeyed all the morning-day.

IV.

The greensward 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 overhead

A vaulted screen the branches made.

'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said;

'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,

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 designed;

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 answered nought again.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,

In notes prolonged by wood and hill,

Were heard to echo far;

Each ready archer grasped 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 showed

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.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang

So late the forest echoes rang;

On prancing steeds they forward pressed,

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 quelled

When wildest its alarms.

VII.

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,

Embroidered round and round.

The double tressure might you see,

First by Achaius borne,

The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,

And gallant unicorn.

So bright the king's armorial coat

That scarce the dazzled eye could note,

In living colors blazoned brave,

The Lion, which his title gave;

A train, which well beseemed his state,

But all unarmed, 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.

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 crowned,

And on his temples placed the round

Of Scotland's ancient diadem,

And wet his brow with hallowed 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 honors much his warlike fame,

My liege hath deemed 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.'

IX.

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.

At length up that wild dale they wind,

Where Crichtoun Castle* crowns the bank;

For there the Lion's care assigned

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.

XI.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court

But pens the lazy steer and sheep,

Thy turrets rude and tottered keep

Have been the minstrel's loved resort.

Oft have I traced, within thy fort,

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,

Scutcheons of honor or pretence,

Quartered in old armorial sort,

Remains of rude magnificence.

Nor wholly yet hath time defaced

Thy lordly gallery fair,

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,

Adorn thy ruined stair.

Still rises unimpaired below

The court-yard's graceful portico;

Above 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.

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

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun showed

As through its portal Marmion rode;

But yet 't was melancholy state

Received him at the outer gate,

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,

Proffered the baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword

Had marched 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-Dean.

'T was a brave race before the name

Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.*

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest,

With every right that honor claims,

Attended as the king's own guest;—

Such the command of Royal James,

Who marshalled then his land's 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,—

Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,

And policies of war and peace.

XIV.

It chanced, as fell the second night,

That on the battlements they walked,

And by the slowly fading light

Of varying topics talked;

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 questioned, thus he told

A tale which chronicles of old

In Scottish story have enrolled:—

XV.

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;

Too well his cause of grief you know,

June saw his father's overthrow.*

Woe 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.

XVI.

'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 Catherine'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,

Bedeafened with the jangling knell,

Was watching where the sunbeams fell,

Through the stained casement gleaming;

But while I marked what next befell

It seemed as I were dreaming.

Stepped 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,on—

Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint

So just an image of the saint

Who propped the Virgin in her faint,

The loved Apostle John!

XVII.

'He stepped before the monarch's chair,

And stood with rustic plainness there,

And little reverence made;

Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent,

But on the desk his arm he leant,

And words like these he said,

In a low voice,— but never tone

So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:—

"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,

Her witching wiles and wanton snare,

James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:

God keep thee as he may!"—

The wondering monarch seemed to seek

For answer, and found none;

And when he raised his head to speak,

The monitor was gone.

The marshal and myself had cast

To stop him as he outward passed;

But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,

He vanished 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,

He marked not Marmion's color 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 seem, since past the Tweed,

What much has changed my sceptic creed,

And made me credit aught.'—He stayed,

And seemed to wish his words unsaid,

But, by that strong emotion pressed

Which prompts us to unload our breast

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,

And 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 couched my head;

Fantastic thoughts returned,

And, by their wild dominion led,

My heart within me burned.

So sore was the delirious goad,

I took my steed and forth I rode,

And, as the moon shone bright and cold,

Soon reached the camp upon the wold.

The southern entrance I passed through,

And hafted, 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.

XX.

'Thus judging, for a little space

I listened ere I left the place,

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.—

I 've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,

In single fight and mixed affray,

And ever, I myself may say,

Have borne me as a knight;

But when this unexpected foe

Seemed 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.

XXI.

'Why need my tongue the issue tell?

We ran our course,—my charger fell;—

What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?

I rolled 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 prayed,—

The first time e'er I asked his aid,—

He plunged it in the sheath,

And, on his courser mounting light,

He seemed to vanish from my sight:

The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night

Sunk down upon the heath.—

'T were long to tell what cause I have

To know his face that met me there,

Called by his hatred from the grave

To cumber upper air;

Dead or alive, good cause had he

To be my mortal enemy.'

# XXII.

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount;

Then, learned in story, gan recount

Such chance had happed 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 trained him nigh to disallow

The aid of his baptismal vow.

'And such a phantom, too, 't is said,

With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid,

And fingers red with gore,

Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade,

Or where the sable pine-trees shade

Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid,

Dromouchty, or Glenmore.*

And yet, whate'er such legends say

Of warlike demon, ghost, 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 harbor unrepented sin.'—

Lord Marmion turned him half aside,

And twice to clear his voice he tried,

Then pressed Sir David's hand,—

But nought, at length, in answer said;

And here their further converse stayed,

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.

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,

Suftice it that their route was laid

Across the furzy hills of Braid.

They passed the glen and scanty rill,

And climbed the opposing bank, until

They gained 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

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,

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

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:

Thousand 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,

That checkered 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.

XXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,

To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,

And from the southern Redswire edge

To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge,

From west to east, from south to north,

Scotland sent all her warriors forth.

Marmion might hear the mingled hum

Of myriads up the mountain come,—

The horses' tramp and tinkling clank,

Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,

And charger's shrilling neigh,—

And see the shifting lines advance,

While frequent flashed from shield and lance

The sun's reflected ray.

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare

To embers now the brands decayed,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.

They saw, slow rolling on the plain,

Full many a baggage-cart and wain,

And dire artillery's clumsy car,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven,*

And culverins which France had given.

Ill-omened gift! the guns remain

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII.

Nor marked 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-tailed, and square,

Scroll, pennon, pencil, 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,

Pitched deeply in a massive stone,

Which still in memory is shown,

Yet bent beneath the standard's weight,

Whene'er the western wind unrolled

With toil the huge and cumbrous fold,

And gave to view the dazzling field,

Where in proud Scotland's royal shield

The ruddy lion ramped in gold.*

XXIX.

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,—

He viewed it with a chief's delight,—

Until within him burned his heart,

And lightning from his eye did part,

As on the baffle-day;

Such glance did falcon never dart

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 Saint George, were that host mine,

Not power infernal nor divine

Should once to peace my soul incline,

Till I had dimmed their armor's shine

In glorious battle-fray!'

Answered the bard, of milder mood:

'Fair is the sight,—and yet 't were good

That kings would think withal,

When peace and wealth their land has blessed,

'T is better to sit still at rest

Than rise, perchance to fall.'

XXX.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,

For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed.

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 splendor red;

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her sable turrets 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 kissed,

It gleamed a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw,

Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law;

And, broad between them rolled,

The gallant Firth 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 bridle hand,

And making demi-volt in air,

Cried, 'Where 's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!'

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see,

Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,

Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,

And fife, and kettle-drum,

And 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;

The whilst the bells with distant chime

Merrily tolled the hour of prime,

And thus the Lindesay spoke:

'Thus clamor still the war-notes when

The king to mass his way has ta'en,

Or to Saint Catherine'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,

Thrilling 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

I 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—

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 their larum call

The burghers forth to watch and ward,

'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard

Dun-Edin's leaguered wall.—

But not for my presaging thought,

Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought!

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,

That 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,

The 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

Of Scotland's ancient court and king,

In the succeeding lay.

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