Something, my friend, we yet may gain :
There is a pleasure in this pain:
It soothes 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 :-
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 scatter'd pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal'd 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,
"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;
On which no sun-beam 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 dist 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.
$126. Banquet at Holyrood House, where
James IV. of Scotland held his court.
WALTER SCOTT.
THROUGH this mix'd crowd of glee and game,
The king to greet lord Marmion came,
While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James's manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doffed, to Marmion bending low,
His broidered cap and plume.
For royal were his garb and mien ;
His cloak, of crimson velvet piled,
Trimmed with the fur of martin wild;
His vest, of changeful satin sheen,
The dazzled eye beguil'd;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown;
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, Descended from a baldric bright;
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 grey;"-
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd 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,
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was buttoned with a ruby rare :
And Marmion deemed he ne'er had scen
A prince of such a noble mien.
The monarch's form was middle size;
For feat of strength or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn, of the darkest dye,
His short curled beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance,
And firm his stirrup in the lists;
And, oh! he had that merry glance,
That seldom lady's heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue ;-
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain'
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
I said he joyed in banquet-bower;
But, mid his mirth, 'twas often strange,
How suddenly his cheer would change,
His look o'ercast and lower,
If, in a sudden turn, he felt
The pressure of his iron belt,
That bound his breast in penance pain,
In memory of his father slain.
Even so 'twas strange how, evermore,
Soon as the passing pang was o'er,
Forward he rushed, with double glee,
Into the stream of revelry;
Thus, dim-seen object of affright
Startles the courser in his flight,
And half he halts, half springs aside;
But feels the quickening spur applied,
And, straining on the tighten'd rein,
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.
O'er James's heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway:
To Scotland's court she came,
To be a hostage for her lord,
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored,
And with the king to make accord,
Had sent his lovely dame.
Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay king allegiance own:
For the fair queen of France
Sent him a turquois ring, and glove,
And charged him as her knight and love,
For her to break a lance;
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on Southron land,
And bid the banners of his band
In English breezes dance.
And thus, for France's queen he drest
His manly limbs in mailed vest;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share;
And thus, for both, he madly planned
The ruin of himself and land!
And yet, the sooth to tell,
For all, for heat, was laid aside,
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
And then around the silent ring;
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by yea and nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play:
At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung:-
Lochinvar-Lady Heron's Song.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed was the
best;
[none,
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Loch-
invar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for
stone,
[none;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and bro-
thers and all :
[sword,
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, [Lochinvar."
Nor England's fair, nor France's queen, Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, From Margaret's eyes that fell, [bower, That would gladly be bride to the young His own queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took All lonely sat and wept the weary hour.
The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch's risk in battle broil ;-
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
The strings her fingers flew ;
And as she touched and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom's rise and fall
Was plainer given to view;
it up. [the cup. He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down She looked down to blush, and she looked up
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,[Lochinvar. "Now tread we a measure!" said young
So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume; [and plume; And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere And succor those that need it most.
To have matched our fair cousin with young
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, [charger stood near; When they reached the hall-door, and the So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur, [young Lochinvar.
Now gallant Marmion, well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go;
Edmund, the admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their charge will blithely share;
There fight thine own retainers too,
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true."—
"Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said,
Nor further greeting there he paid;
But, parting like a thunderbolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt,
Where such a shout there rose
Of" Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry
Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
Netherby clan;
[and they ran: Up
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie
Lee,
[see,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch-
Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill :
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
§ 127. Death of Marmion. WALTER SCOTT. Could plain their distant comrades view:
HENCE might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
"Unworthy office here to stay,
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-
But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,
Their marshalled line stretched east and west, The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation past
From the loud cannon mouth;
Not in the close successive rattle,
That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between.
The hillock gained, Lord Marmion staid : "Here by this cross," he gently said,
"You well may view the scene. Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: O' think of Marmion in thy prayer! Thou wilt not?—well,-no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.You, Blount, and Eustace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train; With England if the day go hard, To Berwick speed amain.But if we conquer, cruel maid! My spoils shall at your feet be laid, When here we meet again."He waited not for answer there; And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And dashing through the battle plain, His way to Surrey took.
" -The good Lord Marmion by my life!
Welcome to danger's hour!-
Short greeting serves in time of strife :-
Thus have I ranged my power:
Myself will rule this central host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right,
My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight;
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rearward of the fight,
And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreath'd in sable smoke;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain throne
King James did rushing come.-
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon point they close.-
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war.
And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see;
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,"
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged border clan,
With Huntley and with Home.
XXVII.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broad-sword plied:
'Twas vain. But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,-
The Howard's lion fell;
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky:
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry!
Loud were the clanging blows;
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels:
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.
The scatter'd van of England wheels ;-
She only said, as loud in air
The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"
They fly, or, maddened by despair,
Fight but to die." Is Wilton there ?"
With that straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore..
His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand,
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!-
Young Blount his armor did unlace,"
And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said "By Saint George, he 's gone!
That spear wound has our master sped
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good night to Marmion."
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"
XXX.
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Advanced, forced back,-now low, now high, Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
![[graphic]](https://books.google.hu/books/content?id=hgNLAAAAYAAJ&hl=hu&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA334&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:HARVARD32044043849819&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U0eoojXFz7zMXtdEjHKK5N8n7f5cg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=135,140,744,1287)
Ask me not what the maiden feels,
Left in that dreadful hour alone:
O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-
![[merged small][ocr errors]](https://books.google.hu/books/content?id=hgNLAAAAYAAJ&hl=hu&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA335&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:HARVARD32044043849819&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3QE5u5pIJJ53-WUlsD7GnQJsslSg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=115,150,366,261)
Where water clear, as diamond-spark
In a stone basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say,
"Drink. weary, pilgrim. drink. and. pray.
For. the, kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.
Who. built. this, cross. and. well."
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A monk supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
XXXII.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,
And as she stooped his brow to lave-
"Is it the hand of Clare," he said,
"Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?"
Then, as remembrance rose,-
"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!
I must redress her woes.
Short space, few words, are mine to spare;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"
"Alas!" she said, "the while,—
O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle."
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents, from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!"-he said-" I knew
That the dark pressage must be true.—
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be !-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."-
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.
With fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.hu/books/content?id=hgNLAAAAYAAJ&hl=hu&output=html_text&pg=RA1-PA335&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:HARVARD32044043849819&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3QE5u5pIJJ53-WUlsD7GnQJsslSg&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=455,150,439,122)
"Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O think on faith and bliss!-
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, And-Stanley! was the cry ;A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye: With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted" Victory!Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on !"Were the last words of Marmion.
128. Harp of the North. WALTER SCOTT. HARP of the North! that mouldering long hast hung [spring,
On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan's And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?
'Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence
keep, [weep? Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy Was knighthood's dauntless deed, and beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; O wake once more! though scarce my skill command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, The wizard note has not been touched in vain. [again! Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake $129. Portrait of Ellen. WALTER SCOTT THE boat had touch'd this silver strand, Just as the hunter left his stand, And stood conceal'd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
|