We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare;
We saw the victor win the crest
He wears with worthy pride,
And on the gibbet tree, reversed,
His foeman's scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
Room, room, ye gentles gay.
For him who conquered in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye!"

Then stepped, to meet that noble lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell and of Ford,

And Captain of the Hold;
He led Lord Marmion to the deas,
Raised o'er the pavement high,
And placed him in the upper place-
They feasted full and high:
The whiles a Northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,
"How the fierce Thirwalls, and Rid-
leys all,

Stout Willimondswick,
And Hardriding Dick,

And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o'

the Wall,

Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,

And taken his life at the Dead-man's

shaw."

Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook

The harper's barbarous lay, Yet much he praised the pains he took, And well those pains did pay; For lady's suit and minstrel's strain By knight should ne'er be heard in vain.

"Now good Lord Marmion," Heron says, "Of your fair courtesy,

I pray you bide some little space
In this poor tower with me.
Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath passed a week but joust
Or feat of arms befell.

The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
Bnd love to couch a spear ;--

Saint George! a stirring life they lead
That have such neighbors near!
Then stay with us a little space,

Our Northern wars to learn;
I pray you for your lady's grace!"
Lord Marmion's brow grew stern.

The Captain marked his altered look,
And gave the squire the sign;
A mighty wassail-bowl he took,

And crowned it high with wine. "Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion ; But first I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare ?

When last in Raby-towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed,

And often marked his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide.
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed,

But meeter seemed for lady fair,
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead;

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom-when he sighed,
The russet doublet's rugged fold
Could scarce repel its pride!
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady's bower?

Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour?

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;
He rolled his kindling eye,
With pain his rising wrath suppressed,
Yet made a calm reply;

"That boy thou thought so goodly fair,
He might not brook the Northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarne.
Enough of him.-But, Heron, say,
Why does thy lovely lady gay
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage?
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whispered light tales of Heron's dame.

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt
Careless the knight replied:
"No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt
Delights in cage to bide;

Norham is grim and grated close,
Hemmed in by battlement and fosse,

And many a darksome tower,

And better loves my lady bright
To sit in liberty and light

In fair Queen Margaret's bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove,

But where shall we find leash or band
For dame that loves to rove?
Let the wild falcon soar her swing,
She'll stoop when she has tried her

wing."

16

Nay, if with Royal James's bride
The lovely Lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger,
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;
For, to the Scottish court addressed,
I journey at our king's behest,

And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me and mine a trusty guide.
I have not ridden in Scotland since
James backed the cause of that mock
prince,

Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey's power,
What time we razed old Ayton tower."-

"For such-like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow;
For here be some have pricked as far
On Scottish grounds as to Dunbar,
Have drunk the monks of Saint
Bethan's ale,

And driven the beeves of Lauderdale,
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods,
And given them light to set their
hoods."

"Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion cried,

"Were I in warlike-wise to ride,
A better guard I would not lack
Than your stout forayers at my back;
But as in form of peace I go,

A friendly messenger, to know,
Why, through all Scotland, near and
far,

Their king is mustering troops for war,
The sight of plundering Border spears
Might justify suspicious fears,
And deadly feud or thirst of spoil
Break out in some unseemly broil.
A herald were my fitting guide;
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;
Or pardoner, or travelling priest,
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.”

The Captain mused a little space,
And passed his hand across his face.-
"Fain would I find the guide you want,
But ill may spare a pursuivant,
The only men that safe can ride
Mine errands on the Scottish side:
And though a bishop built this fort,
Few holy brethren here resort;
Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege we have not seen,
The mass he might not sing or say
Upon one stinted meal a day;
So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,

And prayed for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, woe betide,
Is all too well in case to ride;

The priest of Shoreswood--he could rein
The wildest war-horse in your train,
But then no spearman in the hall
Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.
Friar John of Tillmouth were the man;
A blithesome brother at the can,
A welcome guest in hall and bower,
He knows each castle, town, and tower,
In which the wine and ale is good,
Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.
But that good man, as ill befalls,
Hath seldom left our castle walls,
Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede,
In evil hour he crossed the Tweed,
To teach Dane Alison her creed.
Old Bughtrig found him with his wife,
And John, an enemy to strife,
Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath deeply sworn
That, if again he venture o'er
He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know,
Yet in your guard perchance will go.”

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board.
Carved to his uncle and that lord,
And reverently took up the word:
"Kind uncle, woe were we each one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach;
Full well at tables can he play,
And sweep at bowls the stake away.
None can a lustier carol bawl,
The needfullest among us all,

When time hangs heavy in the hall,
And snow comes thick at Christmas

On hills of Armenie hath been,
Where Noah's ark may yet be seen;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,
Which parted at the Prophet's rod;
In Sinai's wilderness he saw

The Mount where Israel heard the law,
Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness,
given.

He shows Saint James's cockle-shell,
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ;

And of that Grot where Olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.

"To stout Saint George of Norwich

merry,

Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins' pardon hath he prayed.
He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;
Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the stream or lake.
This were a guide o'er moor and dale;
But when our John hath quaffed his ale,
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."-

"Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion,
"Full loath were I that Friar John,
That venerable man, for me
Were placed in fear or jeopardy:
If this same Palmer will me lead
From hence to Holy-Rood.
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed,
Instead of cockle-shell or bead,

With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers; still
They know to charm a weary hill
With song, romance, or lay:
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend, at the least,

They bring to cheer the way."

"Ah! noble sir," young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid,

"This man knows much, perchance e'en

more

Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he's muttering,

And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listened at his cell;

Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to

tell,

He murmured on till morn, howe'er No living mortal could be near.

Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.

I cannot tell-I like it not-
Friar John hath told us it is wrote,
No conscience clear and void of wrong
Can rest awake and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have marked ten aves and two
creeds."-

"Let pass," quoth Marmion; "by my fay,

This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This Palmer to the castle-hall.”
The summoned Palmer came in place:
His sable cowl o'erhung his face;
In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

On his broad shoulders wrought;
The scallop shell his cap did deck;
The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought;
His sandals were with travel tore.
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

When as the Palmer came in hall,
Nor lord nor knight was there more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,

Or looked more high and keen;
For no saluting did he wait,
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marmion where he sate,
As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with

toil;

His cheek was sunk, alas the while!
And when he struggled at a smile

His eye looked haggard wild :
Poor wretch, the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face and sunburnt hair
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,
Soon change the form that best we
know-

For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want can quench the eye's bright

grace,

Nor does old age a wrinkle trace

More deeply than despair. Happy whom none of these befall, But this poor Palmer knew them all.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.

But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,
To fair Saint Andrew's bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,

Sung to the billows' sound;
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel
And the crazed brain restore.
Saint Mary grant that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!"

And now the midnight draught of sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The Captain pledged his noble guest,
The cup went through among the rest,
Who drained it merrily;
Alone the Palmer passed it by,
Though Selby pressed him courteously.
This was a sign the feast was o'er;
It hushed the merry wassail roar,

The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard But the slow footstep of the guard

Pacing his sober round.

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose: And first the chapel doors unclose; Then, after morning rites were doneA hasty mass from Friar John

And knight and squire had broke their fast

On rich substantial repast,

Lord Marmion's bugle blew to horse.
Then came the stirrup-cup in course:
Between the baron and his host,
No point of courtesy was lost;
High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the Captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had passed
That noble train, their lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call;
Thundered the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow
Volumes of smoke as white as snow
And hid its turrets hoar,
Till they rolled forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.

CANTO SECOND

THE CONVENT

THE breeze which swept away the smoke
Round Norham Castle rolled,
When all the loud artillery spoke
With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold.-

It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,
It freshly blew and strong,
Where, from high Whitby's cloistered
pile,

Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle,
It bore a bark along.

Upon the gale she stooped her side,
And bounded o'er the swelling tide,
As she were dancing home;
The merry seamen laughed to see
Their gallant ship so lustily

Furrow the green sea-foam.

Much joyed they in their honored freight;

For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

"T was sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to greenwood shades,
Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view

Their wonderment engage.

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite;

One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray,
Then shrieked because the sea-dog nigh
His round black head and sparkling eye
Reared o'er the foaming spray;
And one would still adjust her veil
Disordered by the summer gale,
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy,
Perchance because such action graced
Her fair-turned arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share,~
The Abbess and the Novice Clare.

The Abbess was of noble blood,
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen
For her a timid lover sigh,
Nor knew the influence of her eye.

Love to her ear was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall;
The deadliest sin her mind could reach
Was of monastic rule the breach,
And her ambition's highest aim
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame.
For this she gave her ample dower
To raise the convent's eastern tower;
For this, with carving rare and quaint,
She decked the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relic-shrine of cost,
With ivory and gems embossed.
The poor her convent's bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

Black was her garb, her 'rigid rule
Reformed on Benedictine school;
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;
Vigils and penitence austere
Had early quenched the light of youth:
But gentle was the dame, in sooth;
Though, vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,
Yet nothing stern was she in cell,
And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame ;
Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came,
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold
A chapter of Saint Benedict,
For inquisition stern and strict
On two apostates from the faith,
And, if need were, to doom to death.

Nought say I here of Sister Clare,
Save this, that she was young and fair;
As yet a novice unprofessed,
Lovely and gentle, but distressed,
She was betrothed to one now dead,
Or worse, who had dishonored fled.
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand
To one who loved her for her land;
Herself, almost heart-broken now,
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom
Her blasted hopes and withered bloom.

She sate upon the galley's prow,
And seemed to mark the waves below;
Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye,
To count them as they glided by:
She saw them not-'t was seeming all--
Far other scene her thoughts recall,
A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare;
Nor waves nor breezes murmured there;
There saw she where some careless hand
O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand,

To hide it till the jackals come
To tear it from the scanty tomb.-
See what a woful look was given,
As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

Lovely, and gentle, and distressedThese charms might tame the fiercest breast:

Harpers have sung and poets told
That he, in fury uncontrolled.
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame
Oft put the lion's rage to shame;
And jealousy, by dark intrigue,
With sordid avarice in league,
Had practised with their bowl and knife
Against the mourner's harmless life.
This crime was charged gainst those
who lay

Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray.

And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland;
Towns, towers, and halls successive rise,
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes.
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouth's priory and bay :
They marked amid her trees the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;

They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods

Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

They passed the tower of Widderington,
Mother of many a valiant son;
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell.
To the good saint who owned the cell;
Then did the Alne attention claim,
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's

name;

And next they crossed themselves to hear

The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they

roar

On Dunstanborough's caverned shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there,

King Ida's castle, huge and square,
From its tall rock look grimly down,
And on the swelling ocean frown;
Then from the coast they bore away
And reached the Holy Island's bay.

The tide did now its flood-mark gain
And girdled in the Saint's domain;
For, with the flow and ebb, its style