XI.

Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck,
With silver scutcheon round their neck,
Stood on the steps of stone,

By which you reach the donjon gate,
And there, with herald pomp and state,
They hailed lord Marmion:
They hailed him lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye,

Of Tamworth tower and town;9
And he, their courtesy to requite,

Gave them a chain of twelve marks weight, All as he lighted down.

"Now, largesse, largesse, 10 lord Marmion, Knight of the crest of gold!

A blazoned shield, in battle won,
Ne'er guarded heart so bold."

XII.

They marshalled him to the castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside,
And loudly flourished the trumpet-call,
And the heralds loudly cried,

-"Room, lordings, room for lord Marmion,
With the crest and helm of gold!
Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold:

There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
'Gainst Marmion's force to stand;
To him he lost his ladye-love,
And to the king his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,
A sight both sad and fair;

We saw lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare;

We saw the victor win the crest

He wears with worthy pride;
And on the gibbet tree, reversed,
His foeman's scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquered in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye!"-
XIII.

Then stepped to meet that noble lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,
And captain of the Hold. 11

He led lord Marmion to the deas,
Raised o'er the pavement high,

And placed him in the upper place-
They feasted full and high:

The whiles a northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,

I pray you bide some little space
In this poor tower with me.
Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath passed a week, but giust

Or feat of arms befel:

The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
And love to couch a spear;-.
St. George! a stirring life they lead,
That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space,

Our northern wars to learn;
I pray you for your lady's grace."—
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.
XV.

The captain marked his altered look,
And gave a squire the sign;
A mighty wassail bowl he took,
And crowned it high with wine.
"Now pledge me here, lord Marmion:
But first, I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine,
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare?
When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed,

And often marked his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide:
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
To burnish shield, or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed;
But meeter seemed for lady fair,
To fan her cheeks, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead:

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom-when he sighed,
The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride!

Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady's bower?

Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour?"

XVI.

Stout Willimondswick,

And Hard-riding Dick,

Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage"
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whispered light tales of Heron's dame.
XVII.

Unmarked, at leat unrecked, the taunt,
Careless the knight replied,

"No bird, whose feathers gayly flaunt,
Delights in cage to bide:
Norham is grim, and grated close,
Hemmed in by battlement and fosse,
And many a darksome tower;
And better loves my lady bright,
To sit in liberty and light,

In fair queen Margaret's bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,

Our falcon on our glove;

But where shall we find leash or band,
For dame that loves to rove?
Let the wild falcon soar her swing,
She'll stoop when she has tired her wing."-
XVIII.

"Nay, if with royal James's bride,
The lovely lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger,
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;
For, to the Scottish court addressed,
I journey at our king's behest,
And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me, and mine, a trusty guide.
I have not ridden iu Scotland since
James backed the cause of that mock prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey's power
What time we razed old Ayton tower."-13

XIX

"For such like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow;
For here be some have pricked as far,
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale,
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods,
And given them light to set their hoods."-14
XX

"Now, in good sooth," lord Marmion cried, "Were I in warlike-wise to ride,

A better guard I would not lack,
Than your stout forayers at my back:
But, as in form of peace I go,
A friendly messenger, to know,
Why, through all Scotland, near and far,
Their king is mustering troops for war,
The sight of plundering border spears
Might justify suspicious fears,
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,
Break out in some unseemly broil:
A herald were my fitting guide;
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;
Or pardoner, or travelling priest,
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least."
XXI.

The captain mused a little space,
And passed his hand across his face.

-"Fain would I find the guide you want,
But ill may spare a pursuivant,
The only men that safe can ride
Mine errands on the Scottish side:
And, though a bishop built this fort,
Few holy brethren here resort;
Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege, we have not seen:
The mass he might not sing or say,
Upon one stinted meal a day;
So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,
And prayed for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, wo betide,

Is all too well in case to ride.

The priest of Shoreswood 15-he could rein
The wildest war-horse in your train;
But then, no spearman in the hall
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.
Friar John of Tillmouth were the man;
A blithsome brother at the can,
A welcome guest in hall and bower,
He knows each castle, town, and tower,

In which the wine and ale are good.
"Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.
But that good man, as ill befalls,
Hath seldom left our castle walls,
Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,
In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed,
To teach dame Alison her creed.
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife,
And John, an enemy to strife,
Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath deeply swore,
That, if again he venture o'er,
He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know;
Yet, in your guard, perchance, will go.”—
XXII.

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carved to his uncle, and that lord,
And reverently took up the word.
"Kind uncle, wo were we each one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach;
Full well at tables can he play,
And sweep, at bowls, the stake away.
None can a lustier carol bawl,
The needfullest among us all,
When time hangs heavy in the hall,
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,
And we can neither hunt, nor ride
A foray on the Scottish side.

The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude,
May end in worse than loss of hood.
Let friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:
Last night, to Norham there came one
Will better guide lord Marmion."
"Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay,
Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say.'

XXIII.

"Here is a holy palmer come,
From Salem first, and last from Rome;
One, that hath kissed the blessed tomb,
And visited each holy shrine,

In Araby and Palestine;

On hills of Armenie hath been,
Where Noah's ark may yet be seen;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,
Which parted at the prophet's rod;
In Sinai's wilderness he saw

The Mount, where Israel heard the law,
Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.
He shows saint James's cockle shell,
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

And of that Grot where Olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God. 16

As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."-

XXV.

"Gramercy!" quoth lord Marmion,
"Full loth were 1, that friar John,
That venerable man, for me,
Were placed in fear or jeopardy:
If this same palmer will me lead
From hence to Holy-Rood,
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed,
Instead of cockle shell or bead,

With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers; still
They know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay:
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend, at the least,
They bring to cheer the way.'

XXVI.

"Ah! noble sir, young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid,

"This man knows much, perchance e'en more
Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he's muttering,
And shrinks, as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listened at his cell;
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmured on till morn, howe'er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.

I cannot tell-I like it not

Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

No conscience clear, and void of wrong,
Can rest awake, and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads

Have marked ten aves, and two creeds."—17

XXVII.

"Let pass," quoth Marmion; " by my fay,
This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company;
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This palmer to the castle hall."
The summoned palmer came in place;
His sable cowl o'erhung his face:

In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,
On his broad shoulders wrought;18
The scallop shell his cap did deck;
The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought;
His sandals were with travel tore,
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore:
The faded palm-branch in his hand,
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

XXVIII.

When as the palmer came in hall,

Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Or had a statelier step withal,

Or looked more high and keen:

For no saluting did he wait,
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marmion where he sate,
As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil
His cheek was sunk, alas, the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye looked haggard wild:

Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burned hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or wo,
Soon change the form that best we know-
For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard toil can roughen form and face,
And want can quench the eye's bright grace;
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace,

More deeply than despair.
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor palmer knew them all.
XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
-"But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair Saint Andrews bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,

Sung to the billows' sound;19
Thence to saint Fillan's blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,
And the crazed brain restore:-20
Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!"-

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The captain pledged his noble guest,
The cup went through among the rest,
Who drained it merrily:
Alone the palmer passed it by,
Though Selby pressed him courteously.
This was the sign the feast was o'er:
It hushed the merry wassel-roar,

The minstrels ceased to sound.
Soon in the castle nought was heard,
But the slow footstep of the guard,
Pacing his sober round.

XXXI.
With early dawn lord Marmion rose:
And first the chapel doors unclose;
Then, after morning rites were done,
(A hasty mass from friar John,)

And knight and squire had broke their fast,
On rich substantial repast,

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse:
Then came the stirrup-cup in course,
Between the baron and his host,
No point of courtesy was lost;

High thanks were by lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had past
That noble train, their lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet-call;
Thundered the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar;

On the free hours that we have spent,
Together, on the brown hill's bent.
When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain,-
There is a pleasure in this pain:
It sooths the love of lonely rest,
Deep in each gentler heart impressed.
Tis silent, amid worldly toils,
And stifled soon by mental broils;
But, in a bosom thus prepared,
Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
Twixt resignation and content.
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
by lone St. Mary's silent lake:3

Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water meets the land.
Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.
Yet e'en this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour;
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing concealed might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,

Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;
There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness:

And silence aids-though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer tide, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid,
Where erst his simple fathers prayed.

If age had tamed the passions' strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain's cell,
Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton longed to spend his age.
Twere sweet to mark the setting day
On Bourhope's lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died,
On the broad lake, and mountain's side,
To say, "Thus pleasures fade away;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray!"-
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower,
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower:
And when that mountain-sound I heard,
Which bids us be for storm prepared,
The distant rustling of his wings,
As up his force the tempest brings,
Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,
To sit upon the wizard's grave;

That wizard priest's, whose bones are thrust

From company of holy dust;5

On which no sunbeam ever shines-
(So superstition's creed divines,)
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore;
And mark the wild swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,
And ever stoop again, to lave

Their bosoms on the surging wave;
Then, when against the driving hail,
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire:
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,

And thought the wizard priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range

To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I cleared,
And smiled to think that I had feared.

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life,
(Though but escape from fortune's strife,)
Something most matchless, good, and wise,
A great and grateful sacrifice;

And deem each hour, to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease
Such peaceful solitudes displease:
He loves to drown his bosom's jar
Amid the elemental war:

And my black palmer's choice had been
Some ruder and more savage scene,
Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene.
There eagles scream from isle to shore;
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O'er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemned to lave
Some demon's subterranean cave,
Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.

And well that palmer's form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken,
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep, deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn:
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,
And wheeling round the Giant's Grave,
White as the snowy charger's tail,
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung,
To many a Border theme has rung:
Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Of this mysterious man of wo.

CANTO II.

THE CONVENT. I.

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke, Round Norham Castle rolled,

When all the loud artillery spoke,