XXI.

'Dire dealings with the fiendish race Had mark'd strange lines upon his face; Vigil and fast had worn him grim, His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, As one unused to upper day; 380 Even his own menials with dismay Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, In his unwonted wild attire; Unwonted, for traditions run, He seldom thus beheld the sun.-- 385 "I know," he said,--his voice was hoa.r.s.e, And broken seem'd its hollow force,-- "I know the cause, although untold, Why the King seeks his va.s.sal's hold: Vainly from me my liege would know 390 His kingdom's future weal or woe; But yet, if strong his arm and heart, His courage may do more than art.

XXII.

'"Of middle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, 395 Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, The issue of events afar; But still their sullen aid withhold, Save when by mightier force controll'd.

Such late I summon'd to my hall; 400 And though so potent was the call, That scarce the deepest nook of h.e.l.l I deem'd a refuge from the spell, Yet, obstinate in silence still, The haughty demon mocks my skill. 405 But thou,--who little know'st thy might, As born upon that blessed night When yawning graves, and dying groan, Proclaim'd h.e.l.l's empire overthrown,-- With untaught valour shalt compel 410 Response denied to magic spell."-- "Gramercy," quoth our Monarch free, "Place him but front to front with me, And, by this good and honour'd brand, The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 415 Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, The demon shall a buffet bide."-- His bearing bold the wizard view'd, And thus, well pleased, his speech renew'd:-- "There spoke the blood of Malcolm!--mark: 420 Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, The rampart seek, whose circling crown Crests the ascent of yonder down: A southern entrance shalt thou find; There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 425 And trust thine elfin foe to see, In guise of thy worst enemy: Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed-- Upon him! and Saint George to speed!

If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 Whate'er these airy sprites can show:-- If thy heart fail thee in the strife, I am no warrant for thy life."

XXIII.

'Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and arm'd, forth rode the King 435 To that old camp's deserted round: Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound, Left hand the town,--the Pictish race, The trench, long since, in blood did trace; The moor around is brown and bare, 440 The s.p.a.ce within is green and fair.

The spot our village children know, For there the earliest wild-flowers grow; But woe betide the wandering wight, That treads its circle in the night! 445 The breadth across, a bowshot clear, Gives ample s.p.a.ce for full career; Opposed to the four points of heaven, By four deep gaps are entrance given.

The southernmost our Monarch past, 450 Halted, and blew a gallant blast; And on the north, within the ring, Appeared the form of England's King, Who then a thousand leagues afar, In Palestine waged holy war: 455 Yet arms like England's did he wield, Alike the leopards in the shield, Alike his Syrian courser's frame, The rider's length of limb the same: Long afterwards did Scotland know, 460 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

XXIV.

'The vision made our Monarch start, But soon he mann'd his n.o.ble heart, And in the first career they ran, The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man; 465 Yet did a splinter of his lance Through Alexander's visor glance, And razed the skin--a puny wound.

The King, light leaping to the ground, With naked blade his phantom foe 470 Compell'd the future war to show.

Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, Where still gigantic bones remain, Memorial of the Danish war; Himself he saw, amid the field, 475 On high his brandish'd war-axe wield, And strike proud Haco from his car, While all around the shadowy Kings Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings.

'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 480 Remoter visions met his sight, Foreshowing future conquest far, When our sons' sons wage northern war; A royal city, tower and spire, Redden'd the midnight sky with fire, 485 And shouting crews her navy bore, Triumphant, to the victor sh.o.r.e.

Such signs may learned clerks explain, They pa.s.s the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

'The joyful King turn'd home again, 490 Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; But yearly, when return'd the night Of his strange combat with the sprite, His wound must bleed and smart; Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 495 "Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay The penance of your start."

Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, King Alexander fills his grave, Our Lady give him rest! 500 Yet still the knightly spear and shield The Elfin Warrior doth wield, Upon the brown hill's breast; And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 505 But all have foully sped; Save two, as legends tell, and they Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.-- Gentles, my tale is said.'

XXVI.

The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, 510 And on the tale the yeoman-throng Had made a comment sage and long, But Marmion gave a sign: And, with their lord, the squires retire; The rest around the hostel fire, 515 Their drowsy limbs recline: For pillow, underneath each head, The quiver and the targe were laid.

Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore: 520 The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 525 The foldings of his mantle green: Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Of sport by thicket, or by stream, Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 530 A cautious tread his slumber broke, And, close beside him, when he woke, In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 535 His master Marmion's voice he knew.

XXVIII.

--'Fitz-Eustace! rise,--I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, And graver thoughts have chafed my mood: The air must cool my feverish blood; 540 And fain would I ride forth, to see The scene of elfin chivalry.

Arise, and saddle me my steed; And, gentle Eustace, take good heed Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 545 I would not, that the prating knaves Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, That I could credit such a tale.'-- Then softly down the steps they slid, Eustace the stable door undid, 550 And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd, While, whispering, thus the Baron said:--

XXIX.

'Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, That on the hour when I was born, Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle, 555 Down from his steed of marble fell, A weary wight forlorn?

The flattering chaplains all agree, The champion left his steed to me.

I would, the omen's truth to show, 560 That I could meet this Elfin Foe!

Blithe would I battle, for the right To ask one question at the sprite:- Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be, An empty race, by fount or sea, 565 To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the green oak wheel their ring.'

Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, And from the hostel slowly rode.

x.x.x.

Fitz-Eustace follow'd him abroad, 570 And mark'd him pace the village road, And listen'd to his horse's tramp, Till, by the lessening sound, He judged that of the Pictish camp Lord Marmion sought the round. 575 Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held, and wise,--- Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received For gospel, what the Church believed,-- Should, stirr'd by idle tale, 580 Ride forth in silence of the night, As hoping half to meet a sprite, Array'd in plate and mail.

For little did Fitz-Eustace know, That pa.s.sions, in contending flow, 585 Unfix the strongest mind; Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, We welcome fond credulity, Guide confident, though blind.

x.x.xI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 590 But, patient, waited till he heard, At distance, p.r.i.c.k'd to utmost speed, The foot-tramp of a flying steed, Come town-ward rushing on; First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 595 Then, clattering on the village road,-- In other pace than forth he yode, Return'd Lord Marmion.

Down hastily he sprung from selle, And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 600 To the squire's hand the rein he threw, And spoke no word as he withdrew: But yet the moonlight did betray, The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay; And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 605 By stains upon the charger's knee, And his left side, that on the moor He had not kept his footing sure.

Long musing on these wondrous signs, At length to rest the squire reclines, 610 Broken and short; for still, between, Would dreams of terror intervene: Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 'Where is the life which late we led?'

That motley clown in Arden wood, Whom humorous Jacques with envy view'd, Not even that clown could amplify, 5 On this trite text, so long as I.

Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well; Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; 10 And sure, through many a varied scene,, Unkindness never came between.

Away these winged years have flown, To join the ma.s.s of ages gone; And though deep mark'd, like all below, 15 With chequer'd shades of joy and woe; Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed, While here, at home, my narrower ken Somewhat of manners saw, and men; 20 Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, Fever'd the progress of these years, Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem The recollection of a dream, So still we glide down to the sea 25 Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day, Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often' thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, 30 That now, November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow sh.o.r.e.

Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 35 Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again: And mountain dark, and flooded mead, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40 Earlier than wont along the sky, Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly; The shepherd who, in summer sun, Had something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, 45 The features traced of hill and glen;-- He who, outstretch'd the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, View'd the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 50 Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessen'd tide;-- At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun, 55 Through heavy vapours dark and dun; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, Against the cas.e.m.e.nt's tinkling pane; 60 The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task.

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 65 The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go.

Long, with dejected look and whine, 70 To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers, and he guides, To open downs, and mountain-sides, 75 Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below.

The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, Stiffens his locks to icicles; Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 80 His cottage window seems a star,-- Loses its feeble gleam,--and then Turns patient to the blast again, And, facing to the tempest's sweep, Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 85 If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, Benumbing death is in the gale; His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, Close to the hut, no more his own, Close to the aid he sought in vain, 90 The morn may find the stiffen'd swain: The widow sees, at dawning pale, His orphans raise their feeble wail; And, close beside him, in the snow, Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 95 Couches upon his master's breast, And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, 100 His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes, tuned on high, To Marion of the blithesome eye; His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed? 105

Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene?

Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage, 110 Against the winter of our age: As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy; But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 115 Then happy those, since each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain,-- Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given; Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 120 Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief.

And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou, of late, wert doom'd to twine,-- Just when thy bridal hour was by,-- The cypress with the myrtle tie. 125 Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And bless'd the union of his child, When love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe affection's filial tear.

Nor did the actions next his end, 130 Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold-- 135 Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind!

But not around his honour'd urn, Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140 Pour at his name a bitter tide; And frequent falls the grateful dew, For benefits the world ne'er knew.

If mortal charity dare claim The Almighty's attributed name, 145 Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.'