Then came the merry maskers in, 70 And carols roar'd with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong.

Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; 75 White shirts supplied the masquerade, And s.m.u.tted cheeks the visors made; But, O! what maskers, richly dight, Can boast of bosoms half so light!

England was merry England, when 80 Old Christmas brought his sports again.

'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. 85

Still linger, in our northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred t.i.tle dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim 90 To Southron ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain-stream.

And thus, my Christmas still I hold Where my great-grandsire came of old, 95 With amber beard, and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic air-- The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 100 Small thought was his, in after time E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme.

The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banish'd race of kings revered, 105 And lost his land,--but kept his beard.

In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand 110 Of the fair dame that rules the land.

Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer, Speed on their wings the pa.s.sing year.

And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, 115 When not a leaf is on the bough.

Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace:-- 120 Gladly as he, we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home.

How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee!

For many a merry hour we've known, 125 And heard the chimes of midnight's tone.

Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these cla.s.sic tomes in peace!

Of Roman and of Grecian lore, Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 130 These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 'Were pretty fellows in their day;'

But time and tide o'er all prevail-- On Christmas eve a Christmas tale-- Of wonder and of war--'Profane! 135 What! leave the lofty Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verse's charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjurer and ghost, 140 Goblin and witch!'--Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:--in realms of death 145 Ulysses meets Alcides' WRAITH; Aeneas, upon Thracia's sh.o.r.e, The ghost of murder'd Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, locutus Bos. 150 As grave and duly speaks that ox, As if he told the price of stocks; Or held, in Rome republican, The place of Common-councilman.

All nations have their omens drear, 155 Their legends wild of woe and fear.

To Cambria look--the peasant see, Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun 'the Spirit's Blasted Tree.'

The Highlander, whose red claymore 160 The battle turn'd on Maida's sh.o.r.e, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If ask'd to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his gra.s.sy ring: 165 Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men.

Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pa.s.s along Beneath the towers of Franchemont, Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 170 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?

Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Ama.s.s'd through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchemont. 175 The iron chest is bolted hard, A Huntsman sits, its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: 180 An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle e'er in brake did sound, Or ever hollow'd to a hound. 185 To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged Necromantic Priest; It is an hundred years at least, Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 190 And neither yet has lost nor won.

And oft the Conjurer's words will make The stubborn Demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 195 Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again.

That magic strife within the tomb May last until the day of doom, Unless the Adept shall learn to tell The very word that clench'd the spell, 200 When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure cell.

An hundred years are pa.s.s'd and gone, And scarce three letters has he won.

Such general superst.i.tion may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; 205 Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven, That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pa.s.s the Monk of Durham's tale, 210 Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave.

But why such instances to you, Who, in an instant, can renew 215 Your treasured h.o.a.rds of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more?

h.o.a.rds, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse 220 To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 225 Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amus.e.m.e.nt, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can like the owner's self enjoy them?-- 230 But, hark! I hear the distant drum!

The day of Flodden Field is come.-- Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth.

CANTO SIXTH.

THE BATTLE.

While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale, And the demeanour, changed and cold, Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold, And, like the impatient steed of war, 5 He snuff'd the battle from afar; And hopes were none, that back again Herald should come from Terouenne, Where England's King in leaguer lay, Before decisive battle-day; 10 Whilst these things were, the mournful Clare Did in the Dame's devotions share: For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid.

And, with short interval, did pa.s.s 15 From prayer to book, from book to ma.s.s, And all in high Baronial pride,-- A life both dull and dignified;-- Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd Upon her intervals of rest, 20 Dejected Clara well could bear The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer, Though dearest to her wounded heart The hours that she might spend apart.

II.

I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 25 Hung o'er the margin of the deep.

Many a rude tower and rampart there Repell'd the insult of the air, Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 30 Above the rest, a turret square Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; The b.l.o.o.d.y Heart was in the Field, And in the chief three mullets stood, 35 The cognizance of Douglas blood.

The turret held a narrow stair, Which, mounted, gave you access where A parapet's embattled row Did seaward round the castle go. 40 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, Sometimes in platform broad extending, Its varying circle did combine Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, 45 And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign: Above the booming ocean leant The far-projecting battlement; The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, Upon the precipice below. 50 Where'er Tantallon faced the land, Gate-works, and walls, were strongly mann'd; No need upon the sea-girt side; The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Approach of human step denied; 55 And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, Were left in deepest solitude.

III.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there, 60 And list the sea-bird's cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide Along the dark-grey bulwarks' side, And ever on the heaving tide Look down with weary eye. 65 Oft did the cliff, and swelling main, Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,-- A home she ne'er might see again; For she had laid adown, So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 70 And frontlet of the cloister pale, And Benedictine gown: It were unseemly sight, he said, A novice out of convent shade.-- Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, 75 Again adorn'd her brow of snow; Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, A deep and fretted broidery bound, In golden foldings sought the ground; Of holy ornament, alone 80 Remain'd a cross with ruby stone; And often did she look On that which in her hand she bore, With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er, Her breviary book. 85 In such a place, so lone, so grim, At dawning pale, or twilight dim, It fearful would have been To meet a form so richly dress'd, With book in hand, and cross on breast, 90 And such a woeful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, To practise on the gull and crow, Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, And did by Mary swear,-- 95 Some love-lorn Fay she might have been, Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen; For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide, 100 It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And, sighing, thought--'The Abbess, there, Perchance, does to her home repair; Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, Walks hand in hand with Charity; 105 Where oft Devotion's tranced glow Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, That the enraptured sisters see High vision, and deep mystery; The very form of Hilda fair, 110 Hovering upon the sunny air, And smiling on her votaries' prayer.

O! wherefore, to my duller eye, Did still the Saint her form deny!

Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 115 My heart could neither melt nor burn?

Or lie my warm affections low, With him, that taught them first to glow?

Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, To pay thy kindness grateful due, 120 And well could brook the mild command, That ruled thy simple maiden band.

How different now! condemn'd to bide My doom from this dark tyrant's pride.-- But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 125 That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl, From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl: Of such a stem, a sapling weak, He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 130

V.

'But see!--what makes this armour here?'-- For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm;--she view'd them near.-- 'The breast-plate pierced!--Ay, much I fear, Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, 135 That hath made fatal entrance here, As these dark blood-gouts say.-- Thus Wilton!--Oh! not corslet's ward, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom's guard, 140 On yon disastrous day!'-- She raised her eyes in mournful mood,-- WILTON himself before her stood!

It might have seem'd his pa.s.sing ghost, For every youthful grace was lost; 145 And joy unwonted, and surprise, Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.-- Expect not, n.o.ble dames and lords, That I can tell such scene in words: What skilful limner e'er would choose 150 To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?

Far less can my weak line declare Each changing pa.s.sion's shade; 155 Brightening to rapture from despair, Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, And joy, with her angelic air, And hope, that paints the future fair, Their varying hues display'd: 160 Each o'er its rival's ground extending, Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, And mighty Love retains the field, Shortly I tell what then he said, 165 By many a tender word delay'd, And modest blush, and bursting sigh, And question kind, and fond reply:--

VI.

De Wilton's History.

'Forget we that disastrous day, When senseless in the lists I lay. 170 Thence dragg'd,--but how I cannot know, For sense and recollection fled,- I found me on a pallet low, Within my ancient beadsman's shed.

Austin,--remember'st thou, my Clare, 175 How thou didst blush, when the old man, When first our infant love began, Said we would make a matchless pair?-- Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled From the degraded traitor's bed,-- 180 He only held my burning head, And tended me for many a day, While wounds and fever held their sway.

But far more needful was his care, When sense return'd to wake despair; 185 For I did tear the closing wound, And dash me frantic on the ground, If e'er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought, Much by his kind attendance wrought, 190 With him I left my native strand, And, in a Palmer's weeds array'd My hated name and form to shade, I journey'd many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, 195 But mingled with the dregs of earth.

Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 200 My friend at length fell sick, and said, G.o.d would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed, He begg'd of me a boon-- If e'er my deadliest enemy 205 Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII.

'Still restless as a second Cain, To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 210 Full well the paths I knew.

Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perish'd of my wound,-- None cared which tale was true: 215 And living eye could never guess De Wilton in his Palmer's dress; For now that sable slough is shed, And trimm'd my s.h.a.ggy beard and head, I scarcely know me in the gla.s.s. 220 A chance most wondrous did provide, That I should be that Baron's guide-- I will not name his name!-- Vengeance to G.o.d alone belongs; But, when I think on all my wrongs, 225 My blood is liquid flame!

And ne'er the time shall I forget, When in a Scottish hostel set, Dark looks we did exchange: What were his thoughts I cannot tell; 230 But in my bosom muster'd h.e.l.l Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII.

'A word of vulgar augury, That broke from me, I scarce knew why, Brought on a village tale; 235 Which wrought upon his moody sprite, And sent him armed forth by night.

I borrow'd steed and mail, And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, pa.s.sing from a postern door, 240 We met, and 'counter'd, hand to hand,-- He fell on Gifford-moor.

For the death-stroke my brand I drew, (O then my helmed head he knew, The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 245 Then had three inches of my blade The heavy debt of vengeance paid,-- My hand the thought of Austin staid; I left him there alone.-- O good old man! even from the grave, 250 Thy spirit could thy master save: If I had slain my foeman, ne'er Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, Given to my hand this packet dear, Of power to clear my injured fame, 255 And vindicate De Wilton's name.-- Perchance you heard the Abbess tell Of the strange pageantry of h.e.l.l, That broke our secret speech-- It rose from the infernal shade, 260 Or featly was some juggle play'd, A tale of peace to teach.

Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.