Marmion

  Not she, the Championess of old, 
In Spenser’s magic tale enroll’d, 
She for the charmed spear renown’d, 
Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,-

Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,  
What time she was Malbecco’s guest, 
She gave to flow her maiden vest;

When from the corselet’s grasp relieved, 
Free to the sight her bosom heaved;     

Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile, 
Erst hidden by the aventayle; 
And down her shoulders graceful roll’d 
Her locks profuse, of paly gold.

They who whilom, in midnight fight,   
Had marvell’d at her matchless might, 
No less her maiden charms approved, 
But looking liked, and liking loved.

The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
And charm Malbecco’s cares a while; 

And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
Forgot his Columbella’s claims, 
And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane; 
Nor durst light Paridel advance,         
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charm’d, at once, and tamed the heart, 
Incomparable Britomane! 

  So thou, fair City! disarray’d 
Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid, 
As stately seem’st, but lovelier far 
Than in that panoply of war.

Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
Strength and security are flown; 
Still as of yore, Queen of the North! 
Still canst thou send thy children forth.

Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call 
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, 
Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
Thy dauntless voluntary line;           

For fosse and turret proud to stand, 
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.

Thy thousands, train’d to martial toil, 
Full red would stain their native soil, 
Ere from thy mural crown there fell   
The slightest knosp, or pinnacle.

And if it come,-as come it may, 
Dun-Edin! that eventful day,- 
Renown’d for hospitable deed, 
That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 
In patriarchal times whose care 
Descending angels deign’d to share;

That claim may wrestle blessings down 
On those who fight for The Good Town, 
Destined in every age to be                   
Refuge of injured royalty;

Since first, when conquering York arose, 
To Henry meek she gave repose, 
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, 
Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw.     

  Truce to these thoughts!-for, as they rise, 
How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
Bodings, or true or false, to change, 
For Fiction’s fair romantic range, 
Or for Tradition’s dubious light,   
That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:

Dazzling alternately and dim 
Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,