Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Has long been quenched by age's night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shewn,
Whose look is hard and stern,-
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his stile;
For sanctity called, through the isle,
The saint of Lindisfarn.

Before them stood a guilty pair;

But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page's dress belied;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down o'er her face she drew;

And, on her doublet-breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,

Lord Marmion's falcon crest.

But, at the Prioress' command,
A monk undid the silken band,

That tied her tresses fair,

And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread,
In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister profess'd of Fontevraud,

Whom the church numbered with the dead,
For broken vows, and convent fled.

When thus her face was given to view
(Although so pallid was her hue,
It did a ghastly contrast bear
To those bright ringlets glittering fair)
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy.
And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.

Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed;
Who, but of fear, knows no controul,
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul,
Feels not the import of his deed;
One, whose brute feeling ne'er aspires
Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs
To do the savagest of deeds;

For them no vision'd terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt;
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death,-alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; While his mute partner, standing near, Waited her doom without a tear.

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak!
For there were seen in that dark wall
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;-
Who enters at such griesly door,
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid,
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Shew'd the grim entrance of the porch:
Reflecting back the smoky beam,

The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
And building tools in order laid.

These executioners were chose,
As men who were with mankind foes,
And, with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired;

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface
Of some foul crime the stain;
For, as the vassals of her will,
Such men the church selected still,
As either joy'd in doing ill,

Or thought more grace to gain,
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own.
By strange device were they brought there,
They knew not how, and knew not where.

And now that blind old Abbot rose,
To speak the Chapter's doom,
On those the wall was to inclose,

Alive, within the tomb:

But stopp'd, because that woeful maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd.
Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain;
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quivering lip:
"Twixt each attempt all was so still,
You seem'd to hear a distant rill-

'Twas ocean's swells and falls;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could hear,
So massive were the walls.

At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled at her heart,
And light came to her eye,
And colour dawn'd upon her cheek,
A hectic and a flutter'd streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,

By Autumn's stormy sky;

And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gathered strength,
And arm'd herself to bear ;-
It was a fearful sight to see

Such high resolve and constancy, In form so soft and fair.

"I speak not to implore your grace;
Well know I for one minute's space

Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain
To cleanse my sins be penance vain,

Vain are your masses too.

I listened to a traitor's tale,

I left the convent and the veil;

For three long years I bow'd my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride;
And well my folly's meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.
'Tis an old tale, and often told;

But, did my fate and wish agree,
Ne'er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betray'd for gold,
That loved, or was avenged like me!

"The King approved his favourite's aim; In vain a rival barr'd his claim,

Whose faith with Clare's was plight, For he attaints that rival's fame

With treason's charge-and on they came, In mortal lists to fight.

Their oaths are said,

Their prayers are pray'd,

Their lances in the rest are laid, They meet in mortal shock;

And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,
Shout "Marmion, Marmion!" to the sky,
"De Wilton to the block!"

Say ye, who preach heaven shall decide,
When in the lists two champions ride,
Say, was heaven's justice here?
When, loyal in his love and faith,
Wilton found overthrow or death,
Beneath a traitor's spear.

How false the charge, how true he fell,
This guilty packet best can tell"—
Then drew a packet from her breast,
Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest.

"Still was false Marmion's bridal staid;
To Whitby's convent fled the maid,
The hated match to shun.

Ho! shifts she thus?' king Henry cried,
'Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,
If she were sworn a nun.'
One way remained—the king's command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
For Clara and for me:

This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear
He would to Whitby's shrine repair,

[blocks in formation]

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air;
Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair;
The locks that wont her brows to shade,
Stared up erectly from her head;
Her figure seem'd to rise more high;
Her voice, despair's wild energy
Had given a tone of prophecy.
Appall'd the astonished conclave sate;
With stupid eyes, the men of fate
Gazed on the light inspired form,
And listen'd for the avenging storm;
The judges felt the victim's dread;
No hand was moved, no word was said,
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given,
Raising his sightless balls to heaven:-
"Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
Sinful brother, part in peace!"-

From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,

Paced forth the judges three; Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell The butcher-work that there befell, When they had glided from the cell

Of sin and misery.

An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day;
But ere they breathed the fresher air

They heard the shriekings of despair,
And many a stifled groan:
With speed their upward way they take,
(Such speed as age and fear can make,)
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake,
As hurrying, tottering on,
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone,
They seem'd to hear a dying groan,
And bade the passing knell to toll
For welfare of a parting soul.

Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told;
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

COURT OF JAMES OF SCOTLAND. Old Holy-Rood rung merrily

That night, with wassal, mirth, and glee:
King James within her princely bower
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power,
Summon'd to spend the parting hour;

For he had charged, that his array
Should southward march by break of day.
Well loved that splendid monarch aye
The banquet and the song,
By day the tourney, and by night
The merry dance, traced fast and light,
The masquers quaint, the pageant bright,
The revel loud and long.

This feast outshone his banquets past;
It was his blithest,-and his last.
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,
Cast on the court a dancing ray;
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;
There ladies touch'd a softer string;
With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest,
The licensed fool retail'd his jest;
His magic tricks the juggler plied;
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;
While some, in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,
Nor courted them in vain;

For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious love asserts his power
O'er coldness and disdain ;

And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true-

Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.

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 doff'd, to Marmion bending low,
His broider'd cap and plume.
For royal were his garb and mien,

His cloak of crimson velvet piled, Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild; His vest of changeful satin sheen

The dazzled eye beguiled;

His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown;
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright;
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was button'd with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen
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 hazle 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 joy'd 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 rush'd, 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.

Did the gay King allegiance own;

Nor to that lady free alone

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 southern 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 plann'd
The ruin of himself and land!

And yet, the sooth to tell,
Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,
From Margaret's eyes that fell,—

His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower,
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 touch'd and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom's rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;
For all, for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;
And laugh'd, and blush'd, 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;
And save his good broad-sword he weapons had
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. [none,
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
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, Call:
Among bride's men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal,y
,young Lord Lochinvar?"-

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely his face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume;

[by far And the bride-maidens whisper, ""Twere better To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch

invar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

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; [Lochinvar.

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby
clan;
[they ran:
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see,
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar!

The Monarch o'er the syren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung;
And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw
A glance, where seem'd to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest, too,
A real or feign'd disdain :
Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.

THE BATTLE. And why stands Scotland idly now, Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,

Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed's southern strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead?
What vails the vain knight-errant's brand?
-O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!
O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight,
And cry-"Saint Andrew and our right!"
Another sight had seen that morn,
From fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannock-bourne!
The precious hour has pass'd in vain,
And England's host has gain'd the plain;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
Around the base of Flodden-hill.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye,
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,-
"Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending squadrons come
Between Tweed's river and the hill,
Foot, horse, and cannon:-hap what hap,
My basnet to a prentice cap,

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till!—
Yet more! yet more!-how fair array'd
They file from out the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by!

With all their banners bravely spread,
And all their armour flashing high,
Saint George might waken from the dead,

To see fair England's standards fly."

"Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount; "thou'dst best, And listen to our lord's behest."

With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,-
"This instant be our band array'd;

The river must be quickly cross'd,
That we may join Lord Surrey's host.
If fight King James,—as well I trust,
That fight he will, and fight he must,-
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry, while the battle joins."-
Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu,

Far less would listen to his prayer,
To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And mutter'd as the flood they view,
"The pheasant in the falcon's claw,
He scarce will yield to please a daw :
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,

So Clare shall bide with me."
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,
Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep,
He ventured desperately: ·
And not a moment will he bide,
Till squire, or groom, before him ride;

Headmost of all he stems the tide,

And stems it gallantly.

Eustace held Clare upon her horse,

Old Hubert led her rein,

Stoutly they braved the current's course,
And though far downward driven per force,
The southern bank they gain;
Behind them, straggling, came to shore,

As best they might, the train:
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore,

A caution not in vain;

Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion staid,
And breath'd his steed, his men array'd,

Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won,
He halted by a cross of stone,
That, on a hillock standing lone,
Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray;

Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and west
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 gain'd, 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 pick'd archers of my train;
With England if the day go hard,

To Berwick speed amain.
But, if we conquer, cruel maid!
My spoil 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 spurr'd amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His way to Surrey took.

66 -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 succour those that need it most.
Now, gallant Marmion, well I know,

« AnteriorContinuar »