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That knits me to thy rugged strand!

And in the lofty archied hall Still, as I view each well-known scene,

Was spread the gorgeous festival. Think what is now, and what hath been,

Steward and squire, with heedful haste, Seems, as to me, of all bereft,

Marshalled the rank of every guest; Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; Pages, with ready blade, were there, And thus I love them better still,

The mighty meal to carve and share; Even in extremity of ill.

O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,

And princely peacock's gilded train, Though none should guide my feeble way;

And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave, Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,

And cygnet from St. Mary's wave, Although it chill my withered cheek;

O'er ptarmigan and venison, Still lay my head by Teviot stone,

The priest had spoke his benison. Though there, forgotten and alone,

Then rose the riot and the din, The Bard may draw his parting groan.

Above, beneath, without, within! Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall

For, from the lofty balcony, The Minstrels came, at festive call;

Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery; Trooping they came, from near and far,

Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffed, The jovial priests of mirth and war:

Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughed; Alike for feast and fight prepared,

Whispered young knights, in tone more mild,

To ladies fair, and ladies smiled.
Battle and banquet both they shared.
Of late, before each martial clan,

The hooded hawks, high perched on bean,
They blew their death-note in the van,

The clamour joined with whistling scream, for every merry mate,

And flapped their wings, and shook their bellis

, Rose the portcullis' iron grate;

In concert with the stag-hounds' yells. They sound the pipe, they strike the string,

Round go the flasks of ruddy wine,

From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine;
They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.

Their tasks the busy sewers ply,

And all is mirth and revelry. Me lists not at this tide declare

The splendour of the spousal rite, How mustered in the chapel fair

THE TRIAL OF CONSTANCE. Both maid and matron, squire and knight;

In low dark rounds the arches hung, Me lists not tell of owches rare,

From the rude rock the side walls sprung: Of mantles green, and braided hair,

The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, And kirtles furred with miniver;

Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, What plumage waved the altar round,

Were all the pavement of the floor; How spurs, and ringing chainlets, sound:

The mildew drops fell one by one, And hard it were for Bard to speak

With tinkling plash, upon the stone. The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek,

A cresset, in an iron chain, That lovely hue which comes and flies,

Which served to light this drear domain, As awe and sharne alternate rige.

With damp and darkness seemed to strive,

As if it scarce might keep alive; Some bards have sung, the Ladye high

And yet it dimly served to shew
Chapel or altar came not nigh;

The awful conclave met below.
Nor durst the rights of spousal grace,
So much she feared each holy place.

There, met to doom in secrecy,
False slanders these :- I trust right well

Were met the heads of convents three; She wrought not by forbidden spell:

All servants of Saint Benedict,

The statutes of whose order strict
For mighty words and signs have power

On iron table lay;
O'er sprites in planetary hour:
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part,

In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Who tamper with such dangerous art.

Behind were these three judges shewn, But this for faithful truth I say,

By the pale cresset's ray:

The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there,
The Ladye by the altar stood,
Of sable velvet her array,

Sate for a space with visage bare,
And on her head a crimson hood,

Until, to hide her bosom's swell, With pearls embroidered and entwined,

And tear-drops that for pity fell,
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined;

She closely drew her veil:
Yon shrouded figure,

as I guess,
A merlin sat upon her wrist,
Held by a leash of silken twist.

By her proud mien and flowing dress,

Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, The spousal rites were ended soon ;

And she with awe looks pale: 'Twas now the merry hour of noon,

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And he, that Ancient Man, whose siçtain:

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Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, Has long been quenched by age's night,

Well might her paleness terror speak! Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,

For there were seen in that dark wall Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shewn, Whose look is hard and stern,

Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall;Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his stile ;

Who enters at such griesly door,

Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.
For sanctity called, through the isle,
The saint of Lindisfarn.

In each a slender meal was laid,

Of roots, of water, and of bread: Before them stood a guilty pair;

By each, in Benedictine dress, But, though an equal fate they share,

Two haggard monks stood motionless; Yet one alone deserves our care.

Who, holding high a blazing torch, Her sex a page's dress belied ;

Shew'd the grim entrance of the porch: The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,

Reflecting back the smoky beam, Obscured her charms, but could not hide.

The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Her cap down o'er her face she drew;

Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
And, on her doublet-breast,

And building tools in order laid.
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest.

These executioners were chose,
But, at the Prioress' command,

As men who were with mankind foes, A monk undid the silken band,

And, with despite and envy fired,
That tied her tresses fair,

Into the cloister had retired;
And raised the bonnet from her head,

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, And down her slender form they spread,

Strove, by deep penance, to efface
In ringlets rich and rare.

Of some foul crime the stain;
Constance de Beverley they know,

For, as the vassals of her will, Sister profess’d of Fontevraud,

Such men the church selected still, Whom the church numbered with the dead,

As either joy'd in doing ill, For broken vows, and convent fled.

Or thought more grace to gain,

If, in her cause, they wrestled down When thus her face was given to view

Feelings their nature strove to own. (Although so pallid was her hue,

By strange device were they brought there, It did a ghastly contrast bear

They knew not how, and knew not where.
To those bright ringlets glittering fair)
Her look composed, and steady eye,

And now that blind old Abbot rose,
Bespoke a matchless constancy.
And there she stood, so calm and pale,

To speak the Chapter's doom,

On those the wall was to inclose, That, but her breathing did not fail,

Alive, within the tomb: And motion slight of eye and head,

But stopp'd, because that woeful maid, And of her bosom, warranted That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,

Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. You might have thought a form of wax,

Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain;

Her accents might no utterance gain;
Wrought to the very life, was there ;
So still she was, so pale, so fair.

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip

From her convulsed and quivering lip: Her comrade was a sordid soul,

"Twixt each attempt all was so still, Such as does murder for a meed;

You seem'd to hear a distant rill Who, but of fear, knows no controul,

'Twas ocean's swells and falls; Because his conscience, sear’d and foul,

For though this vault of sin and fear Feels not the import of his deed;

Was to the sounding surge so near, One, whose brute feeling ne'er aspires

A tempest there you scarce could hear, Beyond his own more brute desires.

So massive were the walls.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs
To do the savagest of deeds;

At length, an effort sent apart
For them no vision'd terrors daunt,

The blood that curdled at her heart, Their nights no fancied spectres haunt;

And light came to her eye, One fear with them, of all most base,

And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, The fear of death,--alone finds place.

A hectic and a futter'd streak, This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,

Like that left on the Cheviot peak, And shamed not loud to moan and howl,

By Autumn's stormy sky; His body on the floor to dash,

And when her silence broke at length, And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;

Still as she spoke she gathered strength, While his mute partner, standing near,

And arm'd herself to bear; Waited her doom without a tear.

It was a fearful sight to see


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Such high resolve and constancy,

And, by his drugs, my rival fair In form so soft and fair.

A saint in heaven should be.

But ill the dastard kept his oath, “ I speak not to implore your grace;

Whose cowardice has undone us both. Well know I for one minute's space Successless might I sue:

“ And now my tongue the secret tells, Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;

Not that remorse my bosom swells, For if a death of lingering pain

But to assure my soul that none To cleanse my sins be penance vain,

Shall ever wed with Marmion. Vain are your masses too.

Had fortune my last hope betray'd, I listened to a traitor's tale,

This packet, to the king convey'd, I left the convent and the veil;

Had given him to the headsman's stroke, For three long years I bow'd my pride,

Although my heart that instant brokeA horse-boy in his train to ride;

Now, men of death, work forth your will, And well my folly's meed he gave,

For I can suffer and be still; Who forfeited, to be his slave,

And come he slow, or come he fast, All here, and all beyond the grave.

It is but Death who comes at last.
He saw young Clara's face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,

“ Yet dread me, from my living tomb, Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome! And Constance was beloved no more.

If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 'Tis an old tale, and often told;

Full soon such vengeance will be take, But, did my fate and wish agree,

That you shall wish the fiery Dane Ne'er had been read, in story old,

Had rather been your guest again. Of maiden true betray'd for gold,

Behind, a darker hour ascends! That loved, or was avenged like me!

The altars quake, the crosier bends,

The ire of a despotic King “ The King approved his favourite's aim;

Rides forth upon destruction's wing. In vain a rival barr'd his claim,

Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, Whose faith with Clare's was plight,

Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep: For he attaints that rival's fame

Some traveller then shall find my bones, With treason's charge—and on they came,

Whitening amid disjointed stones, In mortal lists to fight.

And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, Their oaths are said,

Marvel such relics here should be." Their prayers are pray'd, Their lances in the rest are laid,

Fix'd was her look, and stern her air; They meet in mortal shock;

Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; And hark! the throng, with thundering cry, The locks that wont her brows to shade, Shout “ Marmion, Marmion!” to the sky,

Stared up erectly from her head; “ De Wilton to the block !"

Her figure seem'd to rise more high; Say ye, who preach heaven shall decide,

Her voice, despair's wild energy When in the lists two champions ride,

Had given a tone of prophecy. Say, was heaven's justice here?

Appallid the astonished conclave sate; When, loyal in his love and faith,

With stupid eyes, the men of fate Wilton found overthrow or death,

Gazed on the light inspired form, Beneath a traitor's spear.

And listen'd for the avenging storm; How false the charge, how true he fell,

The judges felt the victim's dread; This guilty packet best can tell"

No hand was moved, no word was said, Then drew a packet from her breast,

Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, Paused, gather's voice, and spoke the rest. Raising his sightless balls to heaven:

“ Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 6 Still was false Marmion's bridal staid;

Sinful brother, part in peace!"To Whitby's convent fled the maid,

From that dire dungeon, place of doom, The hated match to shun.

Of execution too, and tomb, Ho! shifts she thus?' king Henry cried,

Paced forth the judges three; • Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,

Sorrow it were, aud shame, to tell If she were sworn a nun.'

The butcher-work that there befell, One way remained—the king's command

When they had glided from the cell
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land:

Of sin and misery.
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd
For Clara and for me:

An hundred winding steps convey
This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear

That conclave to the upper day; He would to Whitby's shrine repair,

But ere they breathed the fresher air

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They heard the sbriekings of despair,

While, reverent, all made room.
And many a stified groan:

An easy task it was, I trow,
With speed their upward way they take,

King James's manly form to know, (Such speed as age and sear can make,)

Although, his courtesy to show,
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake,

He doff'd, to Marmion bending low,
As hurrying, tottering on,

His broider'd cap and plume.
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone,

For royal were his garb and mien, They seem'd to hear a dying groan,

His cloak of crimson velvet piled, And bade the passing knell to toll

Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild; For welfare of a parting soul.

His vest of changeful satin sheen Slow o'er the inidnight wave it swung,

The dazzled eye beguiled; Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;

His gorgeous collar hung adown, To Warkworth cell the echoes rollid,

Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown, His beads the wakeful hermit told;

The thistle brave, of old renown; The Bamborough peasant raised his head,

His trusty blade, Toledo right, But slept ere half a prayer he said;

Descended from a baldric bright; So far was heard the mighty knell,

White were his buskins, on the heel The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,

His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; Spread his broad nostril to the wind,

His bonnet, all of crimson fair, Listed before, aside, behind,

Was button'd with a ruby rare: Then couch'd him down beside the hind,

And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen And quaked among the mountain fern,

A prince of such a noble mien. To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

The Monarch's form was middle size;

For feat of strength, or exercise,

Shaped in proportion fair;

And hazle was his eagle eye,
Old Holy-Rood rung merrily

And auburn of the darkest dye
That night, with wassal, mirth, and glee:

His short curled beard and hair.
King James within her princely bower

Light was his footstep in the dance,
Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power,

And firm his stirrup in the lists;
Summon’d to spend the parting hour;

And, oh! he had that merry glance
For he had charged, that his array

That seldom lady's heart resists.
Should southward march by break of day. Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
Well loved that splendid monarch aye

And loved to plead, lament, and sue;-
The banquet and the song,

Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
By day the tourney, and by night

For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
The merry dance, traced fast and light,

I said he joy'd in banquet-bower;
The masquers quaint, the pageant bright,

But, mid his mirth, 'twas often strange,
The revel loud and long.

How suddenly his cheer would change,
This feast outshone his banquets past;

His look o'ercast and lower,
It was his blithest,—and his last.

If, in a sudden turn he felt
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,

The pressure of his iron belt,
Cast on the court a dancing ray;

That bound his breast in penance pain,
Here to the harp did minstrels sing;

In memory of his father slain.
There ladies touch'd a softer string;

Even so 'twas strange how, evermore,
With long-ear’d cap, and motley vest,

Soon as the passing pang was o'er,
The licensed fool retail'd his jest;

Forward he rush'd, with double glee,
His magic tricks the juggler plied;

Into the stream of revelry:
At dice and draughts the gallants vied;

Thus, dim-seen object of affright
While some, in close recess apart,

Startles the courser in his flight,
Courted the ladies of their heart,

And half he halts, half springs aside;
Nor courted them in vain;

But feels the quickening spur applied, For often, in the parting hour,

And, straining on the tighten'd rein, Victorious love asserts his power

Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain.
O'er coldness and disdain ;

O'er James's heart, the courtiers say,
And flinty is her heart, can view

Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held
To battle march a lover true-


To Scotland's court she came,
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.

To be a hostage for her lord,

Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored,
Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game And with the King to make accord,
The King to greet Lord Marmion came,

Had sent his lovely dame.

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Nor to that lady free alone
Did the gay King allegiance own;

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, (all:
For the fair Queen of France

Among bride's men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and
Sent him a turquois ring, and glove,

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, And charged him, as her knight and love,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) For her to break a lance;

O come ye in peace, or come ye in war,

Or to dance atour bridal, young Lord Lochiuvar?"-
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on southern land,

“I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied :And bid the banners of his band

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
In English breezes dance.

And now am I come, with tbis lost love of mine,
And thus, for France's Queen he drest

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. His manly limbs in mailed vest;

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, And thus admitted English fair

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." His inmost counsels still to share ;

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it

up, And thus, for both, he madly plann'd

He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup

The ruin of himself and land!

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
And yet, the sooth to tell,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen,

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen,

“ Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.
From Margaret's eyes that fell,-

So stately his form, and so lovely his face, His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
And weeps the weary day,


[by far The war against her native soil,

And the bride-maidens whisper, “ 'Twere better Her Monarch's risk in battle broil ;

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch

And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile

Onc touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
Upon the harp to play.

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er

stood near; The strings her fingers flew;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, And as she touch'd and tuned them all,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! Ever her bosom's rise and fall

“ She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and Was plainer given to view;


(Lochinvar. For all, for heat, was laid aside

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby

(they rao:
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;

Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and And laugh’d, and blush'd, and oft did say

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
Her pretty oath, by yea, and nay,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see,
She could not, would not, durst not play! So daring in love, and so dauntiess in war,
At length, upon the harp, with glee,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar!
Mingled with arch simplicity,

The Monarch o'er the syren hung, A soft yet lively air she rung,

And beat the measure as she sung; While thus the wily lady sung.

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And, pressing closer, and more near,
He whisper'd praises in her ear.
In loud applause the courtiers vied;
And ladies wink’d, and spoke aside.
The witching dame to Marmion threw

A glance, where seemd to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest, too,

A real or feign'd disdain :
Familiar was the look, and told,
Marmion and she were friends of old.


Lady Heron's Song.
0, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword he weapons had
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone. (none,
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

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And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,

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