LITMIR.BIZ

      -‘Let pass,’ quoth Marmion; ‘by my fay,

      This man shall guide me on my way,                        455

      Although the great arch-fiend and he

      Had sworn themselves of company.

      So please you, gentle youth, to call

      This Palmer to the Castle-hall.’

      The summon’d Palmer came in place;                        460

      His sable cowl o’erhung his face;

      In his black mantle was he clad,

      With Peter’s keys, in cloth of red,

        On his broad shoulders wrought;

      The scallop shell his cap did deck;                        465

      The crucifix around his neck

        Was from Loretto brought;

      His sandals were with travel tore,

      Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;

      The faded palm-branch in his hand                          470

      Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.

      When as the Palmer came in hall,

      Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,

      Or had a statelier step withal,

        Or look’d more high and keen;                            475

      For no saluting did he wait,

      But strode across the hall of state,

      And fronted Marmion where he sate,

        As he his peer had been.

      But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;                    480

      His cheek was sunk, alas the while!

      And when he struggled at a smile,

        His eye look ‘d haggard wild:

      Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,

      If she had been in presence there,                        485

      In his wan face, and sun-burn’d hair,

        She had not known her child.

      Danger, long travel, want, or woe,

      Soon change the form that best we know-

      For deadly fear can time outgo,                            490

        And blanch at once the hair;

      Hard toil can roughen form and face,

      And want can quench the eye’s bright grace,

      Nor does old age a wrinkle trace

        More deeply than despair.                                495

      Happy whom none of these befall,

      But this poor Palmer knew them all.

      Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;

      The Palmer took on him the task,

      So he would march with morning tide,                      500

      To Scottish court to be his guide.

      ‘But I have solemn vows to pay,

      And may not linger by the way,

        To fair St. Andrews bound,

      Within the ocean-cave to pray,                            505

      Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,

      From midnight to the dawn of day,

        Sung to the billows’ sound;

      Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,

      Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,                  510

        And the crazed brain restore:

      Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring

      Could back to peace my bosom bring,

        Or bid it throb no more!’

      And now the midnight draught of sleep,                    515

      Where wine and spices richly steep,

      In massive bowl of silver deep,

        The page presents on knee.

      Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,

      The Captain pledged his noble guest,                      520

      The cup went through among the rest,

        Who drain’d it merrily;

      Alone the Palmer pass’d it by,

      Though Selby press’d him courteously.

      This was a sign the feast was o’er;                        525

      It hush’d the merry wassel roar,

        The minstrels ceased to sound.

      Soon in the castle nought was heard,

      But the slow footstep of the guard,

        Pacing his sober round.                                  530

      With early dawn Lord Marmion rose:

      And first the chapel doors unclose;

      Then, after morning rites were done,

      (A hasty mass from Friar John,)

      And knight and squire had broke their fast,                535

      On rich substantial repast,

      Lord Marmion’s bugles blew to horse:

      Then came the stirrup-cup in course:

      Between the Baron and his host,

      No point of courtesy was lost;                            540

      High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,

      Solemn excuse the Captain made,

      Till, filing from the gate, had pass’d

      That noble train, their Lord the last.

      Then

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