By narrow draw bridge, outworks strong,
Through studded gates, an entrance long,
To the main court they cross.
It was a wide and stately square:
Around were lodgings, fit and fair,
And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky,
Whence oft the Warder could descry
The gathering ocean-storm.
Here did they rest. The princely care
Of Douglas, why should I declare,
Or say they met reception fair?
Or why the tidings say,
Which, varying, to Tantallon came,
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame,
With ever varying day?
And, first they heard King James had won
Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,
That Norham Castle strong was ta'en.
At that sore marvell'd Marmion ;-
And Douglas hoped his Monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland:
But whisper'd news there came,
That, while his host inactive lay,
And melted by degrees away,
King James was dallying off the day
With Heron's wily dame.-
Such acts to chronicles I yield;
Go seek them there, and see:
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,
And not a history.—
At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their post,
Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain;
And that brave Surrey many a band
Had gather'd in the Southern land,
And march'd into Northumberland,
And camp at Wooler ta'en.
Marmion, like charger in the stall,
That hears, without, the trumpet-call,
Began to chafe, and swear:-
"A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
When such a field is near!
Needs must I see this battle-day:
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away!
The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath 'bated of his courtesy:
will never be fou.' But when the Queen, without appearing to notice this hint, continued to press her obnoxious request, Angus replied, in the true spirit of a feudal noble, Yes, Madam, the castle is yours: God forbid else. But by the might of God, Madam!' such was his usual oath, I must be your Captain and Keeper for you, and I will keep it as well as any
No longer in his halls I'll stay."
Then bade his band they should array
For march against the dawning day.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH
Mertoun-House, Christmas.
HEAP on more wood!--the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ;a
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall;
They gorged upon the half dress'd steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw'd rib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen'd all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly-loose their red loc.s fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holy green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the misletoe.
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of " post and pair."
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.1
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roar'd with olithesome din ;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;2
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
"Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
1 MS.-" And all the hunting of the boar.
Then round the merry wassel-bowl,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithe did trowl,
And the large sirloin steam'd on high,
Plum-porridge, hare, and savoury pie."
-a proverb meant to vin-
? See Appendix, Note 4 E.
3"Blood is warmer than water, "-
dicate our family predilections.
• See Appendix, Note 4 F.
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
Still linger, in our northern clime,
Some remnants of the good old time;
And still, within our valleys here,
We hold the kindred title dear,
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim
To Southron ear sounds empty name;
For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.3
And thus, my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
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:
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,
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 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 passing year. And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, When not a leaf is on the bough. Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loath to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace :-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, And heard the chimes of midnight's tone." Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore, Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, "Were pretty fellows in their day;"8
5 MS." In these fair halls, with merry cheer, Is bid farewell the dying year."
6 "A lady of noble German descent, born Countess Harriet Bruhl of Martinskirchen, married to H. Scott, Esq. of Harden, (now Lord Polwarth), the author's relative and much valued friend almost from infancy."-Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. p. 59. 7 The MS. adds:--" As boasts old Shallow to Sir John." 8 "Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir-a very pretty fellow in his day."-Old Bachelor.
But time and tide o'er all prevail-
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale-
Of wonder and of war" Profane!
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,
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
Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith;
Æneas, upon Thracia's shore,
The ghost of murder'd Polydore;
For omens, we in Livy cross,
At every turn, locutus Bos.
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, 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 The battle turn'd on Maida's shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If ask'd to tell a fairy tale : 3 He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
Did'st e'er, dear Heber, pass along⭑
Beneath the towers of Franchémont,
Which, like an eagle's nest in air,
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair?5
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,
A mighty treasure buried lay,
Amass'd through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchémont.6
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:
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 holloo'd to a hound.
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,
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,
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,
When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure cell.
An hundred years are pass'd and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.
Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven,7 That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning ; May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 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 Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse To others what they cannot use; Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three;
1 MS.-"With all his many-languaged lore." John Leyden, M.D., who had been of great service to Sir Walter Scott in the preparation of the Border Minstrelsy, sailed for India in April 1803, and died at Java in Agust 1811, before completing his 36th year.
"Scenes sung by him who sings no more!
His brief and bright career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour:
A distant and a deadly shore
Has LEYDEN's cold remains!"
Lord of the Isles, Canto IV. past.
See a notice of his life in the Author's Miscellareous Prose Works.
2 See Appendix, Note 4 G.
8 See Appendix, Note 4 H.
4 This paragraph appears interpolated on the blank page of the MS.
• MS.-"Which, high in air. like eagle's nest,
Hang from the dizzy mountain's breast."
6 See Appendix, Note 4 I.
7 Ibid. Note 3 B.
8 See Appendix, Note 4 A. The four lines which follow sye not in the MS.
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;
Yet who of all who thus employ them,
Can like the owner's self enjoy them?-
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.
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,
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;
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
pass
From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high Baronial pride,-
A life both dull and dignified ;-
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd
Upon her intervals of rest,
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.
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep
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.
Above the rest, a turret square
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the Field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.
1 MS.-"The tower contain'd a narrow stair, And gave an open access where."
The turret held a narrow stair,'
Which, mounted, gave you access where
A parapet's embattled row
Did seaward round the castle go.
Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,
Sometimes in platform broad extending,
Its varying circle did combine
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line,
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.
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 ;
And thus these lines and ramparts rude,
Were left in deepest solitude.
And, for they were so lonely, Clare
Would to these battlements repair,
And muse upon her sorrows there,
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.
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,
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,
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
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.
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,2
With book in hand, and cross on breast,
And such a woeful mien.
2 S.-"To meet a form so fair, and dress'd In antique robes, with cross of breast."
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,
And did by Mary swear,—
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.1
Once walking thus, at evening tide,
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;
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,3
He ne'er shall bend, although he break.
"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, 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,
1 MS.-"A form so sad and fair." See Appendix, Note 4 K.
3 MS.—“ Of such a stem, or branch, {though} weak,
He ne'er shall bend me, though he break."
MS.-" By many a short caress delay'd."
5 "When the surprise at meeting a lover rescued from the dead is considered, the above picture will not be thought over
Could be thy manly bosom's guard,
On yon disastrous day!”—
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,—
WILTON himself before her stood !
It might have seem'd his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost;
And joy unwonted, and surprise,
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.-
Expect not, noble dames and lords,
That I can tell such scene in words:
What skilful limner e'er would choose
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 passion's shade;
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:
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,
By many a tender word delay'd,♦
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply:-
Be Wilton's History. "Forget we that disastrous day, When senseless in the lists I lay.
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, 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 béd,—7 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 ; For I did tear the closing wound, And dash me frantic on the ground, If e'er I heard the name of Clare.
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