Marmion

Fitz-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent; 
As if to give his rapture vent, 
The spur he to his charger lent, 
  And raised 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 smiled his joy to see;                
Nor Marmion’s frown repress’d his glee.

XXXI.

Thus while they look’d, a flourish proud, 
Where mingled trump, and clarion 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 Saint 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, 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 
In signal none his steed should spare, 
But strive which foremost might repair 
  To the downfall of the deer.

XXXII.

‘Nor less,’ 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 guard 
  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, 
He breaks the champion’s spear and 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.