Marmion

Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
And laughter theirs at little jest;         
And oft Lord Marmion deign’d to aid, 
And mingle in the mirth they made;

For though, with men of high degree, 
The proudest of the proud was he, 
Yet, train’d in camps, he knew the art 
To win the soldier’s hardy heart.

They love a captain to obey, 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; 
With open hand, and brow as free, 
Lover of wine and minstrelsy;       

Ever the first to scale a tower, 
As venturous in a lady’s bower:- 
Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 
  Right opposite the Palmer stood; 
His thin dark visage seen but half, 
  Half hidden by his hood.

Still fix’d on Marmion was his look, 
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 
  Strove by a frown to quell; 
But not for that, though more than once 
Full met their stern encountering glance, 
The Palmer’s visage fell.

VI.

By fits less frequent from the crowd 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud;

For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard, 
  Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 
  Thus whispered forth his mind:-

‘Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 
Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light 
  Glances beneath his cowl!

Full on our Lord he sets his eye; 
For his best palfrey, would not I 
  Endure that sullen scowl.’        

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
Which thus had quell’d their hearts, who saw 
The ever-varying fire-light show 
That figure stern and face of woe,

  Now call’d upon a squire:-        
‘Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay, 
To speed the lingering night away? 
  We slumber by the fire.’-