Marmion

Despising spells and demons’ force, 
Holds converse with the unburied corse; 
Or when, Dame Ganore’s grace to move, 
(Alas, that lawless was their love!) 
He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
And freed full sixty knights; or when, 
A sinful man, and unconfess’d, 
He took the Sangreal’s holy quest, 
And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 
He might not view with waking eye. 

  The mightiest chiefs of British song 
Scorn’d not such legends to prolong: 
They gleam through Spenser’s elfin dream, 
And mix in Milton’s heavenly theme; 
And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
Had raised the Table Round again, 
But that a ribald King and Court 
Bade him toil on, to make them sport; 
Demanded for their niggard pay, 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
Licentious satire, song, and play; 
The world defrauded of the high design, 
Profaned the God-given strength, and marr’d the lofty line. 

Warm’d by such names, well may we then, 
Though dwindled sons of little men, 
Essay to break a feeble lance 
In the fair fields of old romance; 
Or seek the moated castle’s cell, 
Where long through talisman and spell, 
While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept: 
There sound the harpings of the North, 
Till he awake and sally forth, 
On venturous quest to prick again, 
In all his arms, with all his train, 
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scarf, 
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, 
And wizard with his wand of might, 
And errant maid on palfrey white. 
Around the Genius weave their spells, 
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; 
Mystery, half veil’d and half reveal’d; 
And Honour, with his spotless shield; 
Attention, with fix’d eye; and Fear, 
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; 
And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, 
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death; 
And Valour, lion-mettled lord, 
Leaning upon his own good sword.

  Well has thy fair achievement shown, 
A worthy meed may thus be won; 
Ytene’s oaks-beneath whose shade 
Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold, 
And that Red King, who, while of old, 
Through Boldrewood the chase he led, 
By his loved huntsman’s arrow bled- 
Ytene’s oaks have heard again 
Renew’d such legendary strain; 
For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
That Amadis so famed in hall, 
For Oriana, foil’d in fight 
The Necromancer’s felon might; 
And well in modern verse hast wove 
Partenopex’s mystic love; 
Hear, then, attentive to my lay, 
A knightly tale of Albion’s elder day.  

CANTO FIRST. THE CASTLE.

I.

Day set on Norham’s castled steep, 
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, 
  And Cheviot’s mountains lone: 
The battled towers, the donjon keep, 
The loophole grates, where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 
  In yellow lustre shone.

The warriors on the turrets high, 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 
Seem’d forms of giant height: