I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams
fell,

Through the stain'd casement
gleaming;

But, while I mark'd what next befell,

It seem'd as I were dreaming. Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, In azure gown, with cincture white; His forehead bald, his head was bare, Down hung at length his yellow hair. Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord,

I pledge to you my knightly word,
That, when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,

His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,

Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the Saint
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint,
The loved Apostle John!

XVII.

'He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair,
And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made;
Nor head, nor body, bow'd nor bent,
But on the desk his arm he leant,

And words like these he said,
In a low voice, but never tone
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve,
and bone:

"My mother sent me from afar, Sir King, to warn thee not to war;

Woe waits on thine array;

If war thou wilt, of woman fair,
Her witching wiles and wanton snare,
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware:
God keep thee as he may!"
The wondering Monarch seem'd to
seek

For answer, and found none; And when he rais'd his head to speak,

The monitor was gone.

So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed, and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reach'd the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I pass'd through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear;
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

XX.

'Thus judging, for a little space I listen'd, ere I left the place;

But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they serv'd me true When sudden in the ring I view, In form distinct of shape and hue,

A mounted champion rise. I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, In single fight, and mix'd affray, And ever, I myself may say,

Have borne me as a knight; But when this unexpected foe Seem'd starting from the gulf belowI care not though the truth I showI trembled with affright; And as I plac'd in rest my spear, My hand so shook for very fear, I scarce could couch it right.

XXI.

'Why need my tongue the issue tell? We ran our course,—my charger fell; What could he 'gainst the shock of hell?

I roll'd upon the plain. High o'er my head, with threatening hand,

The spectre shook his naked brand;

Yet did the worst remain :
My dazzled eyes I upward cast,-
Not opening hell itself could blast

Their sight, like what I saw !
Full on his face the moonbeam strook,
A face could never be mistook!
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.

I saw the face of one who, fled To foreign climes, has long been dead,

I well believe the last; For ne'er, from vizor rais'd, did stare A human warrior, with a glare

So grimly and so ghast.

Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade;

But when to good Saint George I pray'd,

(The first time ere I ask'd his aid,)

He plung'd it in the sheath;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seem'd to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam droop'd, and deepest
night

Sunk down upon the heath.
'Twere long to tell what cause I have
To know his face, that met me
there,

Call'd by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air:
Dead or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.'

XXII.

Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount;
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount
Such chance had happ'd of old,
When once, near Norham, there did
fight,

A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,

With Brian Bulmer bold, And train'd him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow. 'And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid,

And fingers, red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-trees shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromouchty, or Glenmore. And yet, whate'er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,

On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold, These midnight terrors vain; For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.'

Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried,

Then press'd Sir David's hand,--But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day,

To Scotland's camp to take their

XXVII.

Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreaths of failing smoke declare
To embers now the brands decay'd,
Where the night-watch their fires had
made.

They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war;
And there were Borthwick's Sisters

Seven,

XXIX.

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,

He view'd it with a chief's delight, Until within him burn'd his heart, And lightning from his eye did part, As on the battle-day;

Such glance did falcon never dart,

When stooping on his prey. 'Oh well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, Thy King from warfare to dissuade Were but a vain essay;

given.

Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

XXVIII.

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air

A thousand streamers flaunted fair; Various in shape, device, and hue, Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,

Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square,

Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there

O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and
straight,

Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Yet bent beneath the standard's
weight

Whene'er the western wind un-
roll'd,

With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,

And gave to view the dazzling field, Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,

The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.

mine,

Not power infernal nor divine,

Should once to peace my soul incline, Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine

In glorious battle-fray!' Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood: Fair is the sight,-and yet 'twere good,

That kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has bless'd,

'Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall.'

xxx.

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.

When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o'er it go, And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed, And ting'd them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder

cloud.

Such dusky grandeur cloth'd the height,

Where the huge Castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down,

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Pil'd deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kiss'd, It gleam'd a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law: And, broad between them roll'd, The gallant Frith the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chas'd in gold. Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, And rais'd his bridle hand, And, making demi-volte in air, Cried 'Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!' The Lindesay smil'd his joy to see; Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud,

Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, In signal none his steed should spare, But strive which foremost might repair To the downfall of the decr.

XXXII.

'Norless,' he said, 'when looking forth,
I view yon Empress of the North
Sit on her hilly throne;
Her palace's imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers-
Nor less,' he said, 'I moan,
To think what woe mischance may
bring,

And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant king;
Or with the larum call

The burghers forth to watch and ward,

'Gainst southern sack and fires to

guar

Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall.

But not for my presaging thought Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!

Lord Marmion, I say nay: God is the guider of the field,

loud,

And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come; The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

Merrily toll'd the hour of prime,

And thus the Lindesay spoke: 'Thus clamour still the war-notes when The king to mass his way has ta'en, Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne,

Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. To you they speak of martial fame; But me remind of peaceful game, When blither was their cheer,

shield,

But thou thyself shalt say, When joins yon host in deadly stowre, That England's dames must weep in bower,

Her monks the death-mass sing; For never saw'st thou such a power Led on by such a King.' And now, down-winding to the plain,

The barriers of the camp they gain,

And there they made a stay.-. There stays the Minstrel, till he fling

His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King,
In the succeeding lay.