Marmion. Walter Scott

       Table of Contents

      THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

      I.

       The livelong day Lord Marmion rode:

       The mountain path the Palmer show’d

       By glen and streamlet winded still,

       Where stunted birches hid the rill.

       They might not choose the lowland road, 5

       For the Merse forayers were abroad,

       Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,

       Had scarcely fail’d to bar their way.

       Oft on the trampling band, from crown

       Of some tall cliff, the deer look’d down; 10

       On wing of jet, from his repose

       In the deep heath, the black-cock rose;

       Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,

       Nor waited for the bending bow;

       And when the stony path began, 15

       By which the naked peak they wan,

       Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.

       The noon had long been pass’d before

       They gain’d the height of Lammermoor;

       Thence winding down the northern way, 20

       Before them, at the close of day,

       Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

       II.

       No summons calls them to the tower,

       To spend the hospitable hour.

       To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone; 25

       His cautious dame, in bower alone,

       Dreaded her castle to unclose,

       So late, to unknown friends or foes.

       On through the hamlet as they paced,

       Before a porch, whose front was graced 30

       With bush and flagon trimly placed,

       Lord Marmion drew his rein:

       The village inn seem’d large, though rude;

       Its cheerful fire and hearty food

       Might well relieve his train. 35

       Down from their seats the horsemen sprung,

       With jingling spurs the court-yard rung;

       They bind their horses to the stall,

       For forage, food, and firing call,

       And various clamour fills the hall: 40

       Weighing the labour with the cost,

       Toils everywhere the bustling host.

       III

       Soon, by the chimney’s merry blaze,

       Through the rude hostel might you gaze;

       Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 45

       The rafters of the sooty roof

       Bore wealth of winter cheer;

       Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,

       And gammons of the tusky boar,

       And savoury haunch of deer. 50

       The chimney arch projected wide;

       Above, around it, and beside,

       Were tools for housewives’ hand;

       Nor wanted, in that martial day,

       The implements of Scottish fray, 55

       The buckler, lance, and brand.

       Beneath its shade, the place of state,

       On oaken settle Marmion sate,

       And view’d around the blazing hearth.

       His followers mix in noisy mirth; 60

       Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,

       From ancient vessels ranged aside,

       Full actively their host supplied.

       IV.

       Theirs was the glee of martial breast,

       And laughter theirs at little jest; 65

       And oft Lord Marmion deign’d to aid,

       And mingle in the mirth they made;

       For though, with men of high degree,

       The proudest of the proud was he,

       Yet, train’d in camps, he knew the art 70

       To win the soldier’s hardy heart.

       They love a captain to obey,

       Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;

       With open hand, and brow as free,

       Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 75

       Ever the first to scale a tower,

       As venturous in a lady’s bower:-

       Such buxom chief shall lead his host

       From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

       V.

       Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 80

       Right opposite the Palmer stood;

       His thin dark visage seen but half,

       Half hidden by his hood.

       Still fix’d on Marmion was his look,

       Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 85

       Strove by a frown to quell;

       But not for that, though more than once

       Full met their stern encountering glance,

       The Palmer’s visage fell.

       VI.

       By fits less frequent from the crowd 90

       Was heard the burst of laughter loud;

       For still, as squire and archer stared

       On that dark face and matted beard,

       Their glee and game declined.

       All gazed at length in silence drear, 95

       Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear

       Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

       Thus whispered forth his mind:-

       ‘Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight?

       How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100

       Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light

       Glances beneath his cowl!

       Full on our Lord he sets his eye;

       For his best palfrey, would not I

       Endure that sullen scowl.’ 105

       VII.

       But Marmion, as to chase the awe

       Which thus had quell’d their hearts, who saw

       The ever-varying fire-light show

       That figure stern and face of woe,

       Now call’d upon a squire:- 110

       ‘Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,

       To speed the lingering night away?

       We slumber by the fire.’-

       VIII.

       ‘So please you,’ thus the youth rejoin’d,

       ‘Our choicest minstrel’s left behind. 115

       Ill may we hope