THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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.

       XXVIII

      Whenas 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 sunburned 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.

       XXIX

      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 St. Andrews 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 springs 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!”

       XXX

      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.

       XXXI

      With early dawn Lord Marmion rose:

       And first the chapel doors unclose;

       Then after morning rites were done

       (A hasty mass from Friar John),

       And knight and squire had broke their fast

       On rich substantial repast,

       Lord Marmion’s bugles 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.

Introduction to Canto Second

      TO THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

       Table of Contents

      The scenes are desert now, and bare,

       Where flourished once a forest fair

       When these waste glens with copse were lined,

       And peopled with the hart and hind.

       Yon thorn—perchance whose prickly spears

       Have fenced him for three hundred years,

       While fell around his green compeers -

       Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell

       The changes of his parent dell,

       Since he, so grey and stubborn now,

       Waved in each breeze a sapling bough:

       Would he could tell how deep the shade

       A thousand mingled branches made;

       How broad the shadows of the oak,

       How clung the rowan to the rock,

       And through the foliage showed his head,

       With narrow leaves and berries red;

       What pines on every mountain sprung,

       O’er every dell what birches hung,

       In every breeze what aspens shook,

       What alders shaded every brook!

      “Here, in my shade,” methinks he’d say,

       “The mighty stag at noontide lay:

       The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game

       (The neighbouring dingle bears his name),