He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace;
His faith was painted on his face,
And Clare's worst fear relieved. The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, Entreated, threatened, grieved, To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed Against Lord Marmion inveighed, And called the prioress to aid, To curse with candle, bell, and book. Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 'The Douglas and the king,' she said, 'In their commands will be obeyed; Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon Hall.'
The abbess, seeing strife was vain,
Assumed her wonted state again, -
For much of state she had,
Composed her veil, and raised her head,
AndBid,' in solemn voice she said,
Thy master, bold and bad,
The records of his house turn o'er,
And, when he shall there written see
That one of his own ancestry
Drove the monks forth of Coventry,
Bid him his fate explore!
Prancing in pride of earthly trust, His charger hurled him to the dust, And, by a base plebeian thrust, He died his band before.
God judge 'twixt Marmion and me:
He is a chief of high degree,
And I a poor recluse,
Yet oft in holy writ we see
Even such weak minister as me
May the oppressor bruise;
For thus, inspired, did Judith slay
The mighty in his sin,
And Jael thus, and Deborah’·
Here hasty Blount broke in: 'Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band; Saint Anton' fire thee! wilt thou stand All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
To hear the lady preach?
By this good light! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion for our fond delay
Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, don thy cap and mount thy horse; The dame must patience take perforce.'
'Submit we then to force,' said Clare, 'But let this barbarous lord despair
His purposed aim to win;
Let him take living, land, and life,
But to be Marmion's wedded wife
In me were deadly sin:
And if it be the king's decree
That I must find no sanctuary
In that inviolable dome
Where even a homicide might come
And safely rest his head, Though at its open portals stood, Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, The kinsmen of the dead, Yet one asylum is my own Against the dreaded hour, A low, a silent, and a lone,
Where kings have little power. One victim is before me there. Mother, your blessing, and in prayer Remember your unhappy Clare! Loud weeps the abbess, and bestows Kind blessings many a one; Weeping and wailing loud arose, Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes Of every simple nun.
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.
Then took the squire her rein,
And gently led away her steed,
And by each courteous word and deed
To cheer her strove in vain.
But scant three miles the band had rode,
When o'er a height they passed,
And, sudden, close before them showed
His towers Tantallon vast,
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,
And held impregnable in war.
On a projecting rock they rose,
And round three sides the ocean flows.
The fourth did battled walls enclose
And double mound and fosse.
By narrow drawbridge, 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 every varying day?
And, first, they heard King James had
Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then,
That Norham Castle strong was ta'en.
At that sore marvelled Marmion,
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand
Would soon subdue Northumberland;
But whispered 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 gathered in the Southern land,
And marched 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;
No longer in his halls I'll stay:'
Then bade his band they should array
For march against the dawning day.
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 deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain,
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 decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer,
While round in brutal jest were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrowbone,
Or listened all in grim delight
While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks 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 fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50 Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed 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 frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where, the monster fell,
What dogs before his death be tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note and strong.
Who lists may in their mummning see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But oh! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoins half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'T was Christmas broached the mightiest
Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the
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-fetched claim
To Southron ear sounds empty name;
For course of blood, our proverbs deem,
Is warmer than the mountain-stream.
And thus my Christmas still I hold
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard and flaxen hair
And reverent apostolic air,
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,
And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 100
Small thought was his, in after time
E'er to be hitched into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost,
The banished 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.
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,
Eneas upon Thracia's shore
The ghost of murdered 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 turned on Maida's shore,
Will on a Friday morn look pale,
If asked to tell a fairy tale:
He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring;
Invisible to human ken,
He walks among the sons of men.
Didst 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? Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amassed through rapine
wrong By the last Lord of Franchémont. 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 bloodhounds lie: An 't were not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look
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,
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfered 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 demeanor, changed and cold,
Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuffed 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,
While these things were, the mournful
Clare
Did in the dame's devotions share;
For the good countess ceaseless prayed
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 pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthened 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
Repelled the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vexed 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.
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.
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would
glide
Along the dark-gray 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 adorned 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
Remained a cross with ruby stone;
And often did she look
On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound and broidered 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 dressed,
With book in hand, and cross on breast, 9
And such a woful mien.
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 lovelorn fay she might have been,
Or in romance some spell-bound queen,
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