Quartered in old armorial sort.
Remains of rude magnificence:
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.
Still rises unimpaired, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
Where oft whilome were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy-More;*
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement.
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.
Another aspect Crichtoun showed,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
For none were in the castle then,
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffered the Baron's rein to hold;
For each man, that could draw a sword,
Had marched that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn,-he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long may his Lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun
'Twas a brave race, before the name Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.
And here two days did Marmion rest
With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the king's own guest, –
Such the command of royal James;
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Boroughmoor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
The pit, or prison-vault.
Till full prepared was every
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit;
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,— Trained in the lore of Rome, and Greece, And policies of war and peace.
It chanced, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walked,
And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talked ;
And, unaware, the Herald-bard
Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war:
And, closer questioned, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old
In Scottish story have enrolled :-
Sir Dabid Lindesay's Tale.
"Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnets tune,
How blithe the black bird's lay!
The wild buck bells* from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.
But June is to our Sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,—
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience_burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,
King James's June is ever spent.
"When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow's holy dome
The King, as wont, was praying;
While, for his royal father's soul,
* An ancient word for the cry of deer.
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying-
For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless king was slain-
In Katherine's aisle the Monarch knelt,
With sackloth shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him, in their stalls of state,
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stained casement gleaming;
But while I marked what next befell,
It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.-
Now mock me nct, when, good my Lord.
I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,-
Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint,
Who propped the Virgin in her faint,
The loved Apostle John.
"He stepped before the Monarch's chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made :
Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,
And words like these he said,
In a low voice,-but never tone
So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bons:
'My mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,-
Woe waits on thine array;
If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:
God keep thee as he may !'-
The wondering Monarch seemed to seek
For answer, and found none;
And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.
The Marshal and myself had cast
To stop him as he outward passed;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast.,
He vanished from our eyes,
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