Читать книгу Marmion - Вальтер Скотт - Страница 9

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode:

The mountain path the Palmer show’d

By glen and streamlet winded still,

Where stunted birches hid the rill.

They might not choose the lowland road,                      5

For the Merse forayers were abroad,

Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey,

Had scarcely fail’d to bar their way.

Oft on the trampling band, from crown

Of some tall cliff, the deer look’d down;                  10

On wing of jet, from his repose

In the deep heath, the black-cock rose;

Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,

Nor waited for the bending bow;

And when the stony path began,                              15

By which the naked peak they wan,

Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.

The noon had long been pass’d before

They gain’d the height of Lammermoor;

Thence winding down the northern way,                      20

Before them, at the close of day,

Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

No summons calls them to the tower,

To spend the hospitable hour.

To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone;                      25

His cautious dame, in bower alone,

Dreaded her castle to unclose,

So late, to unknown friends or foes.

  On through the hamlet as they paced,

  Before a porch, whose front was graced                    30

  With bush and flagon trimly placed,

    Lord Marmion drew his rein:

  The village inn seem’d large, though rude;

  Its cheerful fire and hearty food

    Might well relieve his train.                          35

Down from their seats the horsemen sprung,

With jingling spurs the court-yard rung;

They bind their horses to the stall,

For forage, food, and firing call,

And various clamour fills the hall:                        40

Weighing the labour with the cost,

Toils everywhere the bustling host.

Soon, by the chimney’s merry blaze,

Through the rude hostel might you gaze;

Might see, where, in dark nook aloof,                      45

The rafters of the sooty roof

  Bore wealth of winter cheer;

Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,

And gammons of the tusky boar,

  And savoury haunch of deer.                              50

The chimney arch projected wide;

Above, around it, and beside,

  Were tools for housewives’ hand;

Nor wanted, in that martial day,

The implements of Scottish fray,                            55

  The buckler, lance, and brand.

Beneath its shade, the place of state,

On oaken settle Marmion sate,

And view’d around the blazing hearth.

His followers mix in noisy mirth;                          60

Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,

From ancient vessels ranged aside,

Full actively their host supplied.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast,

And laughter theirs at little jest;                        65

And oft Lord Marmion deign’d to aid,

And mingle in the mirth they made;

For though, with men of high degree,

The proudest of the proud was he,

Yet, train’d in camps, he knew the art                      70

To win the soldier’s hardy heart.

They love a captain to obey,

Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;

With open hand, and brow as free,

Lover of wine and minstrelsy;                              75

Ever the first to scale a tower,

As venturous in a lady’s bower: -

Such buxom chief shall lead his host

From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff,                            80

  Right opposite the Palmer stood;

His thin dark visage seen but half,

  Half hidden by his hood.

Still fix’d on Marmion was his look,

Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,                    85

  Strove by a frown to quell;

But not for that, though more than once

Full met their stern encountering glance,

The Palmer’s visage fell.

By fits less frequent from the crowd                        90

Was heard the burst of laughter loud;

For still, as squire and archer stared

On that dark face and matted beard,

  Their glee and game declined.

All gazed at length in silence drear,                      95

Unbroke, save when in comrade’s ear

Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

  Thus whispered forth his mind: -

‘Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight?

How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,                    100

Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light

  Glances beneath his cowl!

Full on our Lord he sets his eye;

For his best palfrey, would not I

  Endure that sullen scowl.’                              105

But Marmion, as to chase the awe

Which thus had quell’d their hearts, who saw

The ever-varying fire-light show

That figure stern and face of woe,

  Now call’d upon a squire: –                               110

‘Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,

To speed the lingering night away?

  We slumber by the fire.’-

‘So please you,’ thus the youth rejoin’d,

‘Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.                      115

Ill may we hope to please your ear,

Accustom’d Constant’s strains to hear.

The harp full deftly can he strike,

And wake the lover’s lute alike;

To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush                        120

Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,

No nightingale her love-lorn tune

More sweetly warbles to the moon.

Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,

Detains from us his melody,                                125

Lavish’d on rocks, and billows stern,

Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

Now must I venture as I may,

To sing his favourite roundelay.’

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,                          130

The air he chose was wild and sad;

Such have I heard, in Scottish land,

Rise from the busy harvest band,

When falls before the mountaineer,

On Lowland plains, the ripen’d ear.                        135

Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,

Now a wild chorus swells the song:

Oft have I listen’d, and stood still,

As it came soften’d up the hill,

And deem’d it the lament of men                            140

Who languish’d for their native glen;

And thought how sad would be such sound,

On Susquehanna’s swampy ground,

Kentucky’s wood-encumber’d brake,

Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,                          145

Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,

Recall’d fair Scotland’s hills again!

Song

Where shall the lover rest,

  Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden’s breast,                            150

  Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

  Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

  Under the willow.                                        155

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

  Cool streams are laving;

There, while the tempests sway,

  Scarce are boughs waving;                                160

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

  Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

  Never, O never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!                            165

Where shall the traitor rest,

  He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden’s breast,

  Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,                                        170

  Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war’s rattle

  With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap                              175

  O’er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

  Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit

  By his grave ever;                                      180

Blessing shall hallow it, -

Never, O never.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

It ceased, the melancholy sound;

And silence sunk on all around.                            185

The air was sad; but sadder still

  It fell on Marmion’s ear,

And plain’d as if disgrace and ill,

  And shameful death, were near.

He drew his mantle past his face,                          190

  Between it and the band,

And rested with his head a space,

Reclining on his hand.

His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,

That, could their import have been seen,                  195

The meanest groom in all the hall,

That e’er tied courser to a stall,

Would scarce have wished to be their prey,

For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

High minds, of native pride and force,                    200

Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,

Thou art the torturer of the brave!

Yet fatal strength they boast to steel

Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,                  205

Even while they writhe beneath the smart

Of civil conflict in the heart.

For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,

And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,

‘Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,                      210

Seem’d in mine ear a death-peal rung,

Such as in nunneries they toll

For some departing sister’s soul?

  Say, what may this portend?’-

Then first the Palmer silence broke,                      215

(The livelong day he had not spoke)

  ‘The death of a dear friend.’

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye

Ne’er changed in worst extremity;

Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,                  220

Even from his King, a haughty look;

Whose accents of command controll’d,

In camps, the boldest of the bold-

Thought, look, and utterance fail’d him now,

Fall’n was his glance, and flush’d his brow:              225

  For either in the tone,

Or something in the Palmer’s look,

So full upon his conscience strook,

  That answer he found none.

Thus oft it haps, that when within                        230

They shrink at sense of secret sin,

  A feather daunts the brave;

A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,

And proudest princes vail their eyes

  Before their meanest slave.                              235

Well might he falter! – By his aid

Was Constance Beverley betray’d.

Not that he augur’d of the doom,

Which on the living closed the tomb:

But, tired to hear the desperate maid                      240

Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid;

And wroth, because, in wild despair,

She practised on the life of Clare;

Its fugitive the Church he gave,

Though not a victim, but a slave;                          245

And deem’d restraint in convent strange

Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge,

Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,

Held Romish thunders idle fear,

Secure his pardon he might hold,                          250

For some slight mulct of penance-gold.

Thus judging, he gave secret way,

When the stern priests surprised their prey.

His train but deem’d the favourite page

Was left behind, to spare his age;                        255

Or other if they deem’d, none dared

To mutter what he thought and heard:

Woe to the vassal, who durst pry

Into Lord Marmion’s privacy!

His conscience slept-he deem’d her well,                  260

And safe secured in yonder cell;

But, waken’d by her favourite lay,

And that strange Palmer’s boding say,

That fell so ominous and drear,

Full on the object of his fear,                            265

To aid remorse’s venom’d throes,

Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose;

And Constance, late betray’d and scorn’d,

All lovely on his soul return’d;

Lovely as when, at treacherous call,                      270

She left her convent’s peaceful wall,

Crimson’d with shame, with terror mute,

Dreading alike escape, pursuit,

Till love, victorious o’er alarms,

Hid fears and blushes in his arms.                        275

‘Alas!’ he thought, ‘how changed that mien!

How changed these timid looks have been,

Since years of guilt, and of disguise,

Have steel’d her brow, and arm’d her eyes!

No more of virgin terror speaks                            280

The blood that mantles in her cheeks;

Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,

Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;

And I the cause-for whom were given

Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven! –                 285

Would,’ thought he, as the picture grows,

‘I on its stalk had left the rose!

Oh, why should man’s success remove

The very charms that wake his love! -

Her convent’s peaceful solitude                            290

Is now a prison harsh and rude;

And, pent within the narrow cell,

How will her spirit chafe and swell!

How brook the stern monastic laws!

The penance how-and I the cause! –                         295

Vigil, and scourge-perchance even worse!’-

And twice he rose to cry, ‘To horse!’

And twice his Sovereign’s mandate came,

Like damp upon a kindling flame;

And twice he thought, ‘Gave I not charge                  300

She should be safe, though not at large?

They durst not, for their island, shred

One golden ringlet from her head.’

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove

Repentance and reviving love,                              305

Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway

I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,

Their Host the Palmer’s speech had heard,

And, talkative, took up the word:

  ‘Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray                    310

From Scotland’s simple land away,

  To visit realms afar,

Full often learn the art to know

Of future weal, or future woe,

  By word, or sign, or star;                              315

Yet might a knight his fortune hear,

If, knight-like, he despises fear,

Not far from hence; – if fathers old

Aright our hamlet legend told.’-

These broken words the menials move,

(For marvels still the vulgar love,)                      320

And, Marmion giving license cold,

His tale the host thus gladly told: -

The Host’s Tale

‘A Clerk could tell what years have flown

Since Alexander fill’d our throne,                        325

(Third monarch of that warlike name,)

And eke the time when here he came

To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:

A braver never drew a sword;

A wiser never, at the hour                                330

Of midnight, spoke the word of power:

The same, whom ancient records call

The founder of the Goblin-Hall.

I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay

Gave you that cavern to survey.                            335

Of lofty roof, and ample size,

Beneath the castle deep it lies:

To hew the living rock profound,

The floor to pave, the arch to round,

There never toil’d a mortal arm,                          340

It all was wrought by word and charm;

And I have heard my grandsire say,

That the wild clamour and affray

Of those dread artisans of hell,

Who labour’d under Hugo’s spell,                          345

Sounded as loud as ocean’s war,

Among the caverns of Dunbar.

‘The King Lord Gifford’s castle sought,

Deep labouring with uncertain thought;

Even then he mustered all his host,                        350

To meet upon the western coast;

For Norse and Danish galleys plied

Their oars within the Frith of Clyde.

There floated Haco’s banner trim,

Above Norweyan warriors grim,                              355

Savage of heart, and large of limb;

Threatening both continent and isle,

Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.

Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,

Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,                            360

And tarried not his garb to change,

But, in his wizard habit strange,

Came forth, – a quaint and fearful sight;

His mantle lined with fox-skins white;

His high and wrinkled forehead bore                        365

A pointed cap, such as of yore

Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore:

His shoes were mark’d with cross and spell,

Upon his breast a pentacle;

His zone, of virgin parchment thin,                        370

Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin,

Bore many a planetary sign,

Combust, and retrograde, and trine;

And in his hand he held prepared,

A naked sword without a guard.                            375

‘Dire dealings with the fiendish race

Had mark’d strange lines upon his face;

Vigil and fast had worn him grim,

His eyesight dazzled seem’d and dim,

As one unused to upper day;                                380

Even his own menials with dismay

Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire,

In his unwonted wild attire;

Unwonted, for traditions run,

He seldom thus beheld the sun. –                           385

“I know,” he said, – his voice was hoarse,

And broken seem’d its hollow force, -

“I know the cause, although untold,

Why the King seeks his vassal’s hold:

Vainly from me my liege would know                        390

His kingdom’s future weal or woe;

But yet, if strong his arm and heart,

His courage may do more than art.

‘“Of middle air the demons proud,

Who ride upon the racking cloud,                          395

Can read, in fix’d or wandering star,

The issue of events afar;

But still their sullen aid withhold,

Save when by mightier force controll’d.

Such late I summon’d to my hall;                          400

And though so potent was the call,

That scarce the deepest nook of hell

I deem’d a refuge from the spell,

Yet, obstinate in silence still,

The haughty demon mocks my skill.                          405

But thou, – who little know’st thy might,

As born upon that blessed night

When yawning graves, and dying groan,

Proclaim’d hell’s empire overthrown, -

With untaught valour shalt compel                          410

Response denied to magic spell.”-

“Gramercy,” quoth our Monarch free,

“Place him but front to front with me,

And, by this good and honour’d brand,

The gift of Coeur-de-Lion’s hand,                          415

Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,

The demon shall a buffet bide.”-

His bearing bold the wizard view’d,

And thus, well pleased, his speech renew’d: -

“There spoke the blood of Malcolm! – mark:                  420

Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,

The rampart seek, whose circling crown

Crests the ascent of yonder down:

A southern entrance shalt thou find;

There halt, and there thy bugle wind,                      425

And trust thine elfin foe to see,

In guise of thy worst enemy:

Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed-

Upon him! and Saint George to speed!

If he go down, thou soon shalt know                        430

Whate’er these airy sprites can show: -