And sweep at bowls the stake away.

None can a lustier carol bawl,

The needfullest among us all,

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 vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude
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
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;
One that hath kissed 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;
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,

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,

From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.1

XXIV

'To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins' pardon hath he prayed.

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.

This were a guide o'er moor and dale;

But when our John hath quaffed his ale, As little as the wind that blows,

And warms itself against his nose,

Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.'

1 See Note 17.

XXV

'Gramercy!' quoth Lord Marmion, 'Full loath were I that Friar John, That venerable màn, for me

Were placed in fear or jeopardy:

If this same Palmer will me lead
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
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.'

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,

And shrinks as at some unseen thing.

Last night we listened at his cell;

Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,

He murmured on till morn, howe'er

No living mortal could be near.
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
Can rest awake and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads

Have marked ten aves and two creeds.'1

XXVII

'Let pass,' quoth Marmion; 'by my fay,
This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This Palmer 2 to the castle-hall.'
The summoned Palmer came in place:
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;
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
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

XXVIII

Whenas the Palmer came in hall,

Nor lord nor knight was there more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,

Or looked more high and keen;

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;
His cheek was sunk, alas the while!
And when he struggled at a smile
His eye looked haggard wild:

Poor wretch, the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,

In his wan face and sunburnt 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,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard toil can roughen form and face,