Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem My verse intrudes on this sad theme; for sacred was the pen that wrote, 150 'Thy father's friend forget thou not:'

And grateful t.i.tle may I plead, For many a kindly word and deed, To bring my tribute to his grave:-- 'Tis little--but 'tis all I have. 155

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing nought,--and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do,-- The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160 While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way, Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, 165 We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely labouring to pourtray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; I spelling o'er, with much delight, 170 The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, yclep'd the White.

At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 175 And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud.

The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180 Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossom'd bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers.

Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185 The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190 Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's sh.o.r.e, The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more; And thou, and I, and dear-loved R--, And one whose name I may not say,-- 195 For not Mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-- In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drown'd the whistling wind.

Mirth was within; and care without 200 Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene-- Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 205 For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we've had; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day, or the drill, 210 Seem less important now--yet still Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain!

And mark, how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 215

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark.

The lark sang shrill, the c.o.c.k he crew, And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, And with their light and lively call, 5 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. 10 Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; Some brawl'd 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, 15 Found his steed wet with sweat and mire; Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.

While chafed the impatient squire like thunder, Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,-- 20 '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 25 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 30 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd, Nor wholly understood, His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd; He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 35 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. 40 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,-- Pa.s.s'd them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 45 Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, 'Ill thou deservest thy hire,' he said; 'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?

Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50 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: 55 For in this haunted den, I trow, All night they trampled to and fro.'-- The laughing host look'd on the hire,-- 'Gramercy, gentle southern squire, And if thou comest among the rest, 60 With Scottish broadsword to be blest, 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. 65 The Palmer showing forth the way, They journey'd all the morning day.

IV.

The green-sward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood; A forest-glade, which, varying still, 70 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 where errant-knights might see 75 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. 80 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; 85 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 90 Of Caxton, or de Worde.

Therefore he spoke,--but spoke in vain, For Marmion answer'd nought again.

V.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 95 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, 100 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. 105 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 110 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: 115 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, 120 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held, That feudal strife had often quell'd, When wildest its alarms.

VII.

He was a man of middle age; In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 125 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, 130 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 135 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. 140 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, 145 That scarce the dazzled eye could note, In living colours, blazon'd brave, The Lion, which his t.i.tle gave; A train, which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait. 150 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, 155 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 160 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, 165 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; 170 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, 175 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. 180 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, 185 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. 190 The right hand path they now decline, And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.

At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care a.s.sign'd 195 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, 200 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; 205 A mighty ma.s.s, 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, 210 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, 215 Quarter'd in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence.

Nor wholly yet had time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 220 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 225 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, 230 Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy Ma.s.sy More; Or, from thy gra.s.s-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 235

XII.