The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott

was her deadliest foe.

       XXIV

      “The vision made our monarch start,

       But soon he manned his noble heart,

       And in the first career they ran,

       The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man;

       Yet did a splinter of his lance

       Through Alexander’s visor glance,

       And razed the skin—a puny wound.

       The King, light leaping to the ground,

       With naked blade his phantom foe

       Compelled the future war to show.

       Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,

       Where still gigantic bones remain,

       Memorial of the Danish war;

       Himself he saw, amid the field,

       On high his brandished war-axe wield,

       And strike proud Haco from his car,

       While all around the shadowy kings

       Denmark’s grim ravens cowered their wings.

       ‘Tis said, that, in that awful night,

       Remoter visions met his sight,

       Foreshowing future conquests far,

       When our son’s sons wage northern war;

       A royal city, tower and spire,

       Reddened the midnight sky with fire,

       And shouting crews her navy bore,

       Triumphant to the victor shore.

       Such signs may learned clerks explain -

       They pass the wit of simple swain.

       XXV

      “The joyful King turned home again,

       Headed his host, and quelled the Dane;

       But yearly, when returned the night

       Of his strange combat with the sprite,

       His wound must bleed and smart;

       Lord Gifford then would gibing say,

       ‘Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay

       The penance of your start.’

       Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave,

       King Alexander fills his grave,

       Our Lady give him rest!

       Yet still the knightly spear and shield

       The Elfin Warrior doth wield,

       Upon the brown hill’s breast;

       And many a knight hath proved his chance,

       In the charmed ring to break a lance,

       But all have foully sped;

       Save two, as legends tell, and they

       Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.

       Gentles, my tale is said.”

       XXVI

      The quaighs were deep, the liquors strong,

       And on the tale the yeoman-throng

       Had made a comment sage and long,

       But Marmion gave a sign:

       And, with their lord, the squires retire;

       The rest around the hostel fire,

       Their drowsy limbs recline:

       For pillow, underneath each head,

       The quiver and the targe were laid.

       Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,

       Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore:

       The dying flame, in fitful change,

       Threw on the group its shadows strange.

       XXVII

      Apart, and nestling in the hay

       Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;

       Scarce by the pale moonlight, were seen

       The foldings of his mantle green:

       Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream

       Of sport by thicket, or by stream

       Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,

       Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love.

       A cautious tread his slumber broke,

       And close beside him, when he woke,

       In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,

       Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;

       But ere his dagger Eustace drew,

       His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

       XXVIII

      “Fitz-Eustace! rise,—I cannot rest; -

       Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,

       And graver thoughts have chafed my mood;

       The air must cool my feverish blood;

       And fain would I ride forth, to see

       The scene of elfin chivalry.

       Arise, and saddle me my steed;

       And, gentle Eustace, take good heed

       Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;

       I would not, that the prating knaves

       Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,

       That I could credit such a tale.”

       Then softly down the steps they slid;

       Eustace the stable door undid,

       And darkling, Marmion’s steed arrayed,

       While, whispering, thus the baron said: -

       XXIX

      “Didst never, good my youth, hear tell,

       That on the hour when I was born,

       Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,

       Down from his steed of marble fell,

       A weary wight forlorn?

       The flattering chaplains all agree,

       The champion left his steed to me.

       I would, the omen’s truth to show,

       That I could meet this elfin foe!

       Blithe would I battle, for the right

       To ask one question at the sprite; -

       Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,

       An empty race, by fount or sea,

       To dashing waters dance and sing,

       Or round the green oak wheel their ring.”

       Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,

       And from the hostel slowly rode.

       XXX

      Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,

       And marked him pace the village road,

       And listened to his horse’s tramp,

       Till by the lessening sound,

       He judged that of the Pictish camp

       Lord Marmion sought the round.

       Wonder it seemed, in the squire’s eyes,

       That one so wary held, and wise -

       Of whom ‘twas said, he scarce received

       For gospel what the Church believed -

       Should, stirred by