Marmion

For lady’s suit, and minstrel’s strain, 
By knight should ne’er be heard in vain,

XIV.

‘Now, good Lord Marmion,’ Heron says, 
  ‘Of your fair courtesy, 
I pray you bide some little space 
  In this poor tower with me.

Here may you keep your arms from rust, 
  May breathe your war-horse well; 
Seldom hath pass’d a week but giust 
  Or feat of arms befell:

The Scots can rein a mettled steed; 
  And love to couch a spear:- 
Saint George! a stirring life they lead, 
  That have such neighbours near.

Then stay with us a little space, 
  Our northern wars to learn; 
I pray you, for your lady’s grace!’- 
  Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern. 

XV.

The Captain mark’d his alter’d look, 
  And gave a squire the sign; 
A mighty wassell-bowl he took, 
  And crown’d it high with wine.

‘Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion: 
  But first I pray thee fair, 
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 
  That used to serve thy cup of wine, 
  Whose beauty was so rare?

When last in Raby towers we met, 
  The boy I closely eyed, 
And often mark’d his cheeks were wet, 
  With tears he fain would hide:

His was no rugged horse-boy’s hand, 
To burnish shield or sharpen brand, 
  Or saddle battle-steed;

But meeter seem’d for lady fair, 
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, 
Or through embroidery, rich and rare, 
  The slender silk to lead:

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 
  His bosom-when he sigh’d, 
The russet doublet’s rugged fold 
  Could scarce repel its pride!

Say, hast thou given that lovely youth 
  To serve in lady’s bower? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 
  A gentle paramour?’

XVI.

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; 
  He roll’d his kindling eye, 
With pain his rising wrath suppress’d, 
  Yet made a calm reply:

‘That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair, 
  He might not brook the northern air.