Marmion. Walter Scott

that awful night, 480

       Remoter visions met his sight,

       Foreshowing future conquest far,

       When our sons’ sons wage northern war;

       A royal city, tower and spire,

       Redden’d the midnight sky with fire, 485

       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 turn’d home again, 490

       Headed his host, and quell’d the Dane;

       But yearly, when return’d the night

       Of his strange combat with the sprite,

       His wound must bleed and smart;

       Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 495

       “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! 500

       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 charm’d ring to break a lance, 505

       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 liquor strong, 510

       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, 515

       Their drowsy limbs recline:

       For pillow, underneath each head,

       The quiver and the targe were laid.

       Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,

       Oppress’d with toil and ale, they snore: 520

       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 525

       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. 530

       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, 535

       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; 540

       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; 545

       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, 550

       And, darkling, Marmion’s steed array’d,

       While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

       XXIX.

       ‘Did’st never, good my youth, hear tell,

       That on the hour when I was born,

       Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle, 555

       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, 560

       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, 565

       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 follow’d him abroad, 570

       And mark’d him pace the village road,

       And listen’d to his horse’s tramp,

       Till, by the lessening sound,

       He judged that of the Pictish camp

       Lord Marmion sought the round. 575

       Wonder it seem’d, 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, stirr’d by idle tale, 580

       Ride forth in silence of the night,

       As hoping half to meet a sprite,

       Array’d in plate and mail.

       For little did Fitz-Eustace know,

       That passions, in contending flow, 585

       Unfix the strongest mind;

       Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,

       We welcome fond credulity,

       Guide confident, though blind.

       XXXI.

       Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 590

       But, patient, waited till he heard,

       At distance, prick’d to utmost speed,

       The foot-tramp of a flying steed,

       Come town-ward rushing on;

       First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 595

       Then, clattering on the village road,-

       In other pace than forth he yode,

       Return’d Lord Marmion.

       Down hastily he sprung from selle,