Marmion

And neither yet has lost nor won.

And oft the Conjurer’s words will make 
The stubborn Demon groan and quake; 
And oft the bands of iron break, 
Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 
Fast as ‘tis open’d, shuts again.

That magic strife within the tomb 
May last until the day of doom, 
Unless the Adept shall learn to tell 
The very word that clench’d the spell, 
When Franch’mont lock’d the treasure cell.

An hundred years are pass’d and gone, 
And scarce three letters has he won.

  Such general superstition may 
Excuse for old Pitscottie say;    
Whose gossip history has given 
My song the messenger from Heaven, 
That warn’d, in Lithgow, Scotland’s King, 
Nor less the infernal summoning;

May pass the Monk of Durham’s tale, 
Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail; 
May pardon plead for Fordun grave, 
Who told of Gifford’s Goblin-Cave.

But why such instances to you, 
Who, in an instant, can renew  
Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
And furnish twenty thousand more?

Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest 
Like treasures in the Franch’mont chest, 
While gripple owners still refuse            
To others what they cannot use;

Give them the priest’s whole century, 
They shall not spell you letters three; 
Their pleasure in the books the same 
The magpie takes in pilfer’d gem.    

Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
Delight, amusement, science, art, 
To every ear and eye impart; 
Yet who, of all who thus employ them, 
Can like the owner’s self enjoy them?- 

But, hark! I hear the distant drum! 
The day of Flodden Field is come.- 
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, 
And store of literary wealth.

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