Marmion. Вальтер Скотт

took up the word:

        ‘Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray                    310

      From Scotland’s simple land away,

        To visit realms afar,

      Full often learn the art to know

      Of future weal, or future woe,

        By word, or sign, or star;                              315

      Yet might a knight his fortune hear,

      If, knight-like, he despises fear,

      Not far from hence; – if fathers old

      Aright our hamlet legend told.’-

      These broken words the menials move,

      (For marvels still the vulgar love,)                      320

      And, Marmion giving license cold,

      His tale the host thus gladly told: -

XIX

      The Host’s Tale

      ‘A Clerk could tell what years have flown

      Since Alexander fill’d our throne,                        325

      (Third monarch of that warlike name,)

      And eke the time when here he came

      To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:

      A braver never drew a sword;

      A wiser never, at the hour                                330

      Of midnight, spoke the word of power:

      The same, whom ancient records call

      The founder of the Goblin-Hall.

      I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay

      Gave you that cavern to survey.                            335

      Of lofty roof, and ample size,

      Beneath the castle deep it lies:

      To hew the living rock profound,

      The floor to pave, the arch to round,

      There never toil’d a mortal arm,                          340

      It all was wrought by word and charm;

      And I have heard my grandsire say,

      That the wild clamour and affray

      Of those dread artisans of hell,

      Who labour’d under Hugo’s spell,                          345

      Sounded as loud as ocean’s war,

      Among the caverns of Dunbar.

XX

      ‘The King Lord Gifford’s castle sought,

      Deep labouring with uncertain thought;

      Even then he mustered all his host,                        350

      To meet upon the western coast;

      For Norse and Danish galleys plied

      Their oars within the Frith of Clyde.

      There floated Haco’s banner trim,

      Above Norweyan warriors grim,                              355

      Savage of heart, and large of limb;

      Threatening both continent and isle,

      Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.

      Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,

      Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,                            360

      And tarried not his garb to change,

      But, in his wizard habit strange,

      Came forth, – a quaint and fearful sight;

      His mantle lined with fox-skins white;

      His high and wrinkled forehead bore                        365

      A pointed cap, such as of yore

      Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:

      His shoes were mark’d with cross and spell,

      Upon his breast a pentacle;

      His zone, of virgin parchment thin,                        370

      Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,

      Bore many a planetary sign,

      Combust, and retrograde, and trine;

      And in his hand he held prepared,

      A naked sword without a guard.                            375

XXI

      ‘Dire dealings with the fiendish race

      Had mark’d strange lines upon his face;

      Vigil and fast had worn him grim,

      His eyesight dazzled seem’d and dim,

      As one unused to upper day;                                380

      Even his own menials with dismay

      Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,

      In his unwonted wild attire;

      Unwonted, for traditions run,

      He seldom thus beheld the sun. –                           385

      “I know,” he said, – his voice was hoarse,

      And broken seem’d its hollow force, -

      “I know the cause, although untold,

      Why the King seeks his vassal’s hold:

      Vainly from me my liege would know                        390

      His kingdom’s future weal or woe;

      But yet, if strong his arm and heart,

      His courage may do more than art.

XXII

      ‘“Of middle air the demons proud,

      Who ride upon the racking cloud,                          395

      Can read, in fix’d or wandering star,

      The issue of events afar;

      But still their sullen aid withhold,

      Save when by mightier force controll’d.

      Such late I summon’d to my hall;                          400

      And though so potent was the call,

      That scarce the deepest nook of hell

      I deem’d a refuge from the spell,

      Yet, obstinate in silence still,

      The haughty demon mocks my skill.                          405

      But thou, – who little know’st thy might,

      As born upon that blessed night

      When yawning graves, and dying groan,

      Proclaim’d hell’s empire overthrown, -

      With untaught valour shalt compel                          410

      Response denied to magic spell.”-

      “Gramercy,” quoth our Monarch free,

      “Place him but front to front with me,

      And, by this good and honour’d brand,

      The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,                          415

      Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,

      The