Canto Sixth.

The Battle.

I.

WHILE great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanour, changed and cold,
Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuff'd the battle from afar;
And hopes were none, that back again
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England's King in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day;

Whilst these things were, the mournful
Clare

Did in the Dame's devotions share :
For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd
To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid,
And, with short interval, did pass
From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high Baronial pride,-
A life both dull and dignified;
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend' apart.

II.

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep
Hung o'er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repell'd the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vex'd the
sky,
Halfbreeze, half spray, came whistling
by.

Above the rest, a turret square

Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield;
The Bloody Heart was in the Field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas blood.

The turret held a narrow stair,

Which, mounted, gave you access where

A parapet's embattled row

Did seaward round the castle go.
Sometimes in dizzy steps descending,
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending,
Sometimes in platform broad extend-
ing,

Its varying circle did combine
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line,
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign;
Above the booming ocean leant
The far-projecting battlement;
The billows burst, in ceaseless flow,
Upon the precipice below.
Where'er Tantallon faced the land,
Gate-works, and walls, were strongly
mann'd;

No need upon the sea-girt side;
The steepy rock, and frantic tide,
Approach of human step denied ;
And thus these lines and ramparts
rude

Were left in deepest solitude.

III.

And, for they were so lonely, Clare Would to these battlements repair, And muse upon her sorrows there,

And list the sea-bird's cry; Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide

Along the dark-grey bulwarks' side, And ever on the heaving tide

Look down with weary eye. Oft did the cliff and swelling main Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane,A home she ne'er might see again;

For she had laid adown,

So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, And frontlet of the cloister pale,

And Benedictine gown: It were unseemly sight, he said, A novice out of convent shade. Now her bright locks, with sunnyglow, Again adorn'd her brow of snow;

Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, A deep and fretted broidery bound, In golden foldings sought the ground; Of holy ornament, alone

Remain'd a cross with ruby stone;

And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,
With velvet bound. and broider'd o'er,
Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,
At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been
To meet a form so richly dress'd,
With book in hand, and cross on
breast,

And such a woeful mien.
Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,
To practise on the gull and crow,
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,

And did by Mary swear

Some love-lorn Fay she might have been,

Or, in Romance, some spell-bound

Queen;

Forne'er, in work-day world, was seen A form so witching fair.

IV.

Once walking thus, at evening tide, It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And, sighing, thought-"The Abbess,

there,

Perchance, does to her home repair;
Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free,
Walks hand in hand with Charity;
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,
That the enraptur'd sisters see
High vision and deep mystery;
The very form of Hilda fair,
Hovering upon the sunny air,
And smiling on her votaries' prayer.
O! wherefore, to my duller eye,
Did still the Saint her form deny !
Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn,
My heart could neither melt nor
burn?

Or lie my warm affections low,
With him, that taught them first to
glow?

Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew,
To pay thy kindness grateful due,
And well could brook the mild com-
mand,

That ruled thy simple maiden band. How different now! condemn'd to bide

My doom from this dark tyrant's pride. But Marmion has to learn, ere long, That constant mind, and hate of wrong, Descended to a feeble girl,

From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's
Earl:

Of such a stem, a sapling weak
He ne'er shall bend, although he break.

V.

'But see! what makes this armour here?"

For in her path there lay Targe, corslet, helm; she view'd thein

near.

'The breastplate pierc'd!-Ay, much I fear,

Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's

spear,

That hath made fatal entrance here,

As these dark blood-gouts say. Thus Wilton-oh! not corslet's warp, Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, Could be thy manly bosom's guard,

On yon disastrous day!'

She raised her eyes in mournful mood,

WILTON himself before her stood!
It might have seem'd his passing ghost,
For every youthful grace was lost;
And joy unwonted, and surprise,
Gave their strange wildness to his
eyes.

Expect not, noble dames and lords,
That I can tell such scene in words:
What skilful limner e'er would choose
To paint the rainbow's varying hues,

Unless to mortal it were given
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
Far less can my weak line declare

Each changing passion's shade;
Brightening to rapture from despair,
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there,
And joy, with her angelic air,
And hope, that paints the future fair,
Their varying hues display'd:
Each o'er its rival's ground extending,
Alternate conquering, shifting, blend-
ing,

Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,
And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,
By many a tender word delay'd,
And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
And question kind, and fond reply:

How thou didst blush, when the old man,

When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless
pair?-

Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor's bed,—
He only held my burning head,
And tended me for many a day,
While wounds and fever held their
sway.

But far more needful was his care,
When sense return'd to wake despair;
For I did tear the closing wound,
And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e'er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought, Much by his kind attendance wrought,

With him I left my native strand, And, in a palmer's weeds array'd, My hated name and form to shade,

I journey'd many a land; No more a lord of rank and birth, But mingled with the dregs of earth. Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, When I would sit, and deeply brood On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. My friend at length fell sick, and said, God would remove him soon: And, while upon his dying bed,

'He begg'd of me a boonIf e'er my deadliest enemy Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, Even then my mercy should awake, And spare his life for Austin's sake.

VII.

'Still restless as a second Cain, To Scotland next my route was ta'en, Full well the paths I knew.

Fame of my fate made various sound, That death in pilgrimage I found, That I had perish'd of my wound,

None cared which tale was true:
And living eye could never guess
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress;
For now that sable slough is shed,
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and
head,

I scarcely know me in the glass.
A chance most wondrous did provide,
That I should be that Baron's guide-
I will not name his name!
Vengeance to God alone belongs;
But, when I think on all my wrongs,

My blood is liquid flame!
And ne'er the time shall I forget,
When, in a Scottish hostel set,

Dark looks we did exchange : What were his thoughts I cannot tell; But in my bosom muster'd Hell

Its plans of dark revenge.

VIII.

'A word of vulgar augury, That broke from me, I scarce knew why,

Brought on a village tale; Which wrought upon his moody sprite, And sent him armed forth by night.

I borrow'd steed and mail,

And weapons, from his sleeping band; And, passing from a postern door, We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand,

He fell on Gifford moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew,
(O then my helmed head he knew,
The Palmer's cowl was gone,)
Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid;
My hand the thought of Austin staid;
I left him there alone.

O good old man! even from the grave
Thy spirit could thy master save:
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear,
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton's name.
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,

That broke our secret speech-
It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle play'd,
A tale of peace to teach.

Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, When my name came among the rest.

IX.

'Now here, within Tantallon Hold,
To Douglas late my tale I told,
To whom my house was known of old.
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright
This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did
turn

The tide of fight on Otterburne,
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the Dead Douglas won the field.

XI.

That night, upon the rocks and bay, The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay,

And pour'd its silver light, and pure, Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,

Upon Tantallon tower and hall; But chief where arched windows wide Illuminate the chapel's pride,

The sober glances fall.

Much was there need; though, seam'd with scars,

Two veterans of the Douglas' wars,

Though two grey priests were there, And each a blazing torch held high, You could not by their blaze descry

The chapel's carving fair. Amid that dim and smoky light, Chequering the silver moonshine bright,

`A bishop by the altar stood,

A noble lord of Douglas blood, With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful

eye

But little pride of prelacy;

More pleas'd that, in a barbarous age,
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doff'd his furr'd gown, and sable hood:
O'er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail;
And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand
Upon the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont of yore, in battle fray,
His foeman's limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seem'd as, from the tombs around
Rising at judgment-day,
Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old array;
So pale his face, so huge his limb,
So old his arms, his look so grim.

XII.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels;
And think what next he must have felt,
At buckling of the falchion belt!

And judge how Clara changed her

hue,

While fastening to her lover's side Afriend, which, though in danger tried, He once had found untrue!

Then Douglas struck him with his blade:

'Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, I dub thee knight.

Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir! For King, for Church, for Lady fair, See that thou fight.'

And Bishop Gawain, as he rose, Said 'Wilton! grieve not for thy woes,

Disgrace, and trouble;

For He, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.'

De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must-
Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust
That Douglas is my brother!'-
'Nay, nay,' old Angus said, 'not so;
To Surrey's camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field;
And, if thou meet'st them under shield,
Upon them bravely-do thy worst;
And foul fall him that blenches first!'

XIII.

Not far advanc'd was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide: The ancient Earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whisper'd in an under tone, 'Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.'