Marmion. Walter Scott

well at tables can he play,

       And sweep at bowls the stake away.

       None can a lustier carol bawl,

       The needfullest among us all, 375

       When time hangs heavy in the hall,

       And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,

       And we can neither hunt, nor ride

       A foray on the Scottish side.

       The vow’d revenge of Bughtrig rude, 380

       May end in worse than loss of hood.

       Let Friar John, in safety, still

       In chimney-corner snore his fill,

       Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:

       Last night, to Norham there came one, 385

       Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-

       ‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,

       Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-

       XXIII

       ‘Here is a holy Palmer come,

       From Salem first, and last from Rome; 390

       One, that hath kiss’d the blessed tomb,

       And visited each holy shrine,

       In Araby and Palestine;

       On hills of Armenie hath been,

       Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen; 395

       By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,

       Which parted at the Prophet’s rod;

       In Sinai’s wilderness he saw

       The Mount, where Israel heard the law,

       ‘Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin, 400

       And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.

       He shows Saint James’s cockle-shell,

       Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;

       And of that Grot where Olives nod,

       Where, darling of each heart and eye, 405

       From all the youth of Sicily,

       Saint Rosalie retired to God.

       XXIV.

       ‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,

       Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,

       Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 410

       For his sins’ pardon hath he pray’d.

       He knows the passes of the North,

       And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;

       Little he eats, and long will wake,

       And drinks but of the stream or lake. 415

       This were a guide o’er moor and dale;

       But, when our John hath quaff’d his ale,

       As little as the wind that blows,

       And warms itself against his nose,

       Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.’- 420

       XXV.

       ‘Gramercy!’ quoth Lord Marmion,

       ‘Full loth were I, that Friar John,

       That venerable man, for me,

       Were placed in fear or jeopardy.

       If this same Palmer will me lead 425

       From hence to Holy-Rood,

       Like his good saint, I’ll pay his meed,

       Instead of cockle-shell, or bead,

       With angels fair and good.

       I love such holy ramblers; still 430

       They know to charm a weary hill,

       With song, romance, or lay:

       Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,

       Some lying legend, at the least,

       They bring to cheer the way.’- 435

       XXVI.

       ‘Ah! noble sir,’ young Selby said,

       And finger on his lip he laid,

       ‘This man knows much, perchance e’en more

       Than he could learn by holy lore.

       Still to himself he’s muttering, 440

       And shrinks as at some unseen thing.

       Last night we listen’d at his cell;

       Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,

       He murmur’d on till morn, howe’er

       No living mortal could be near. 445

       Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,

       As other voices spoke again.

       I cannot tell-I like it not-

       Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

       No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 450

       Can rest awake, and pray so long.

       Himself still sleeps before his beads

       Have mark’d ten aves, and two creeds.’-

       XXVII.

       -‘Let pass,’ quoth Marmion; ‘by my fay,

       This man shall guide me on my way, 455

       Although the great arch-fiend and he

       Had sworn themselves of company.

       So please you, gentle youth, to call

       This Palmer to the Castle-hall.’

       The summon’d Palmer came in place; 460

       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; 465

       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 470

       Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.

       XXVIII.

       When as the Palmer came in hall,

       Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,

       Or had a statelier step withal,

       Or look’d more high and keen; 475

       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; 480

       His cheek was sunk, alas the while!

       And when he struggled at a smile,

       His eye look ‘d haggard wild:

       Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,

       If she had been in presence there, 485

       In his wan face, and sun-burn’d 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, 490

       And blanch at once the hair;

       Hard toil can roughen form and face,