Marmion. Walter Scott

Constant’s strains to hear.

       The harp full deftly can he strike,

       And wake the lover’s lute alike;

       To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 120

       Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,

       No nightingale her love-lorn tune

       More sweetly warbles to the moon.

       Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,

       Detains from us his melody, 125

       Lavish’d on rocks, and billows stern,

       Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

       Now must I venture as I may,

       To sing his favourite roundelay.’

       IX.

       A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130

       The air he chose was wild and sad;

       Such have I heard, in Scottish land,

       Rise from the busy harvest band,

       When falls before the mountaineer,

       On Lowland plains, the ripen’d ear. 135

       Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,

       Now a wild chorus swells the song:

       Oft have I listen’d, and stood still,

       As it came soften’d up the hill,

       And deem’d it the lament of men 140

       Who languish’d for their native glen;

       And thought how sad would be such sound,

       On Susquehanna’s swampy ground,

       Kentucky’s wood-encumber’d brake,

       Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake, 145

       Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,

       Recall’d fair Scotland’s hills again!

       X.

       Song

       Where shall the lover rest,

       Whom the fates sever

       From his true maiden’s breast, 150

       Parted for ever?

       Where, through groves deep and high,

       Sounds the far billow,

       Where early violets die,

       Under the willow. 155

       CHORUS.

       Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

       There, through the summer day,

       Cool streams are laving;

       There, while the tempests sway,

       Scarce are boughs waving; 160

       There, thy rest shalt thou take,

       Parted for ever,

       Never again to wake,

       Never, O never!

       CHORUS.

       Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! 165

       XI.

       Where shall the traitor rest,

       He, the deceiver,

       Who could win maiden’s breast,

       Ruin, and leave her?

       In the lost battle, 170

       Borne down by the flying,

       Where mingles war’s rattle

       With groans of the dying.

       CHORUS.

       Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

       Her wing shall the eagle flap 175

       O’er the false-hearted;

       His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

       Ere life be parted.

       Shame and dishonour sit

       By his grave ever; 180

       Blessing shall hallow it,-

       Never, O never.

       CHORUS.

       Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

       XII.

       It ceased, the melancholy sound;

       And silence sunk on all around. 185

       The air was sad; but sadder still

       It fell on Marmion’s ear,

       And plain’d as if disgrace and ill,

       And shameful death, were near.

       He drew his mantle past his face, 190

       Between it and the band,

       And rested with his head a space,

       Reclining on his hand.

       His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,

       That, could their import have been seen, 195

       The meanest groom in all the hall,

       That e’er tied courser to a stall,

       Would scarce have wished to be their prey,

       For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

       XIII.

       High minds, of native pride and force, 200

       Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

       Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,

       Thou art the torturer of the brave!

       Yet fatal strength they boast to steel

       Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 205

       Even while they writhe beneath the smart

       Of civil conflict in the heart.

       For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,

       And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,

       ‘Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 210

       Seem’d in mine ear a death-peal rung,

       Such as in nunneries they toll

       For some departing sister’s soul?

       Say, what may this portend?’-

       Then first the Palmer silence broke, 215

       (The livelong day he had not spoke)

       ‘The death of a dear friend.’

       XIV.

       Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

       Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

       Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 220

       Even from his King, a haughty look;

       Whose accents of command controll’d,

       In camps, the boldest of the bold-

       Thought, look, and utterance fail’d him now,

       Fall’n was his glance, and flush’d his brow: 225

       For either in the tone,

       Or something in the Palmer’s look,

       So full upon his conscience strook,

       That answer he found none.

       Thus oft it haps, that when within 230

       They shrink at sense of secret sin,

       A feather daunts the brave;

       A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,

       And proudest princes vail their eyes

       Before their meanest slave. 235

       XV.

       Well might he falter!-By his aid

       Was Constance