Marmion: A Tale Of Flodden Field

Marmion: A Tale Of Flodden Field

To Richard Heber, Esq. Mertoun House, Christmas. Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, Well keep our Christmas merry still. Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; Een, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew; Then in his low and pine-built hall, Where shields and axes decked the wall, They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; Caroused in seas of sable beer; While round, in brutal jest, were thrown The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone; Or listened all, in grim delight, While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, While wildly-loose their red locks fly, And dancing round the blazing pile, They make such barbarous mirth the while, As best might to the mind recall The boistrous joys of Odins hall. And well our Christian sires of old Loved, when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honour to the holy night; On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung; That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry men go, To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the barons hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of post and pair. All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, And general voice, the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, Went roaring up the chimney wide; The huge hall tables oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn, By old blue-coated serving-man; Then the grim boars head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell, How, when, and where, the monster fell: What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high tide, her savoury goose. Then came the merry maskers in, And carols roared with blithesome din; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery; White shirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made; But oh! what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale; Twas Christmas told the merriest tale: A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor mans heart through half the year. Still linger, in our Northern clime, Some remnants of the good old time; And still, within our valleys here, We hold the kindred title dear, Even when, perchance, its far-fetched claim To Southern ear sounds empty name; For course of blood, our proverbs deem, Is warmer than the mountain-stream. And thus my Christmas still I hold Where my great grandsire came of old, With amber beard, and flaxen hair, And reverend apostolic air The feast and holy-tide to share, And mix sobriety with wine, And honest mirth with thoughts divine: Small thought was his in after time Eer to be hitched into a rhyme. The simple sire could only boast, That he was loyal to his cost; The banished race of kings revered, And lost his landbut kept his beard. In these dear halls, where welcome kind Is with fair liberty combined; Where cordial friendship gives the hand, And flies constraint the magic wand Of the fair dame that rules the land. Little we heed the tempest drear, While music, mirth, and social cheer, Speed on their wings the passing year. And Mertouns halls are fair een now, When not a leaf is on the bough. Tweed loves them well, and turns again, As loth to leave the sweet domain, And holds his mirror to her face, And clips her with a close embrace: Gladly as he, we seek the dome, And as reluctant turn us home. How just that, at this time of glee, My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! For many a merry hour weve known, And heard the chimes of midnights tone. Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, And leave these classic tomes in peace! Of Roman and of Grecian lore Sure mortal brain can hold no more. These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, Were pretty fellows in their day; But time and tide oer all prevail On Christmas eve a Christmas tale, Of wonder and of warProfane! What! leave the loftier Latian strain, Her stately prose, her verses charms, To hear the clash of rusty arms: In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, To jostle conjuror and ghost, Goblin and witch! Nay, Heber dear, Before you touch my charter, hear; Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, My cause with many-languaged lore, This may I say:in realms of death Ulysses meets Alcides wraith; neas, upon Thracias shore, The ghost of murdered Polydore; For omens, we in Livy cross, At every turn, locutus Bos. As grave and duly speaks that ox, As if he told the price of stocks Or held in Rome republican, The place of common-councilman. All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria lookthe peasant see Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun the spirits blasted tree. The Highlander, whose red claymore The battle turned on Maidas shore, Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, If asked to tell a fairy tale: He fears the vengeful elfin king, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Didst eer, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchmont, Which, like an eagles nest in air, Hang oer the stream and hamlet fair; Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, A mighty treasure buried lay, Amassed through rapine and through wrong, By the last Lord of Franchmont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A huntsman sits, its constant guard; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: And twere not for his gloomy eye, Whose withering glance no heart can brook, As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle eer in brake did sound, Or ever hallooed to a hound. To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged necromantic priest: It is an hundred years at least, Since twixt them first the strife begun, And neither yet has lost nor won. And oft the conjurors 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 opened, 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 clenched the spell, When Franchmont locked the treasure cell. A hundred years are past 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 warned, in Lithgow, Scotlands king, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the monk of Durhams tale, Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, Who told of Giffords 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 Franchmont chest, While gripple owners still refuse To others what they cannot use; Give them the priests whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfered 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 owners 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! ......Buy Now (To Read More)

Product details

Ebook Number: 4010
Author: Scott, Walter
Release Date: May 1, 2003
Format: eBook
Language: English

Contributors

Editor: Morley, Henry, 1822-1894