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He turned aside, and down his cheek

       A burning tear there stole.

       His hand the monarch sudden took;

       That sight his kind heart could not brook:

       “Now, by the Bruce’s soul,

      Angus, my hasty speech forgive!

       For sure as doth his spirit live,

       As he said of the Douglas old,

       I well may say of you -

       That never king did subject hold

       In speech more free, in war more bold,

       More tender and more true:

       Forgive me, Douglas, once again.”

       And while the king his hand did strain,

       The old man’s tears fell down like rain.

       To seize the moment Marmion tried,

       And whispered to the king aside:

       “Oh! let such tears unwonted plead

       For respite short from dubious deed!

       A child will weep a bramble’s smart,

       A maid to see her sparrow part,

       A stripling for a woman’s heart:

       But woe awaits a country when

       She sees the tears of bearded men.

       Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,

       When Douglas wets his manly eye!”

       XVII

      Displeased was James, that stranger viewed

       And tampered with his changing mood.

       “Laugh those that can, weep those that may,”

       Thus did the fiery monarch say,

       “Southward I march by break of day;

       And if within Tantallon strong,

       The good Lord Marmion tarries long,

       Perchance our meeting next may fall

       At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.”

       The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,

       And answered, grave, the royal vaunt:-

       “Much honoured were my humble home

       If in its halls King James should come;

       But Nottingham has archers good,

       And Yorkshire-men are stern of mood;

       Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.

       On Derby hills the paths are steep;

       In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep;

       And many a banner will be torn,

       And many a knight to earth be borne,

       And many a sheaf of arrows spent,

       Ere Scotland’s king shall cross the Trent:

       Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.”

       The monarch lightly turned away,

       And to his nobles loud did call,

       “Lords, to the dance—a hall! a hall!”

       Himself his cloak and sword flung by,

       And led Dame Heron gallantly;

       And minstrels, at the royal order,

       Rung out “Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.”

       XVIII

      Leave we these revels now, to tell

       What to Saint Hilda’s maids befell,

       Whose galley, as they sailed again

       To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.

       Now at Dunedin did they bide,

       Till James should of their fate decide;

       And soon, by his command,

       Were gently summoned to prepare

       To journey under Marmion’s care,

       As escort honoured, safe, and fair,

       Again to English land.

       The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,

       Nor knew which saint she should implore;

       For when she thought of Constance, sore

       She feared Lord Marmion’s mood.

       And judge what Clara must have felt!

       The sword that hung in Marmion’s belt

       Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.

       Unwittingly, King James had given,

       As guard to Whitby’s shades,

       The man most dreaded under heaven

       By these defenceless maids:

       Yet what petition could avail,

       Or who would listen to the tale

       Of woman, prisoner, and nun,

       ‘Mid bustle of a war begun?

       They deemed it hopeless to avoid

       The convoy of their dangerous guide.

       XIX

      Their lodging, so the king assigned,

       To Marmion’s, as their guardian, joined;

       And thus it fell that, passing nigh,

       The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye,

       Who warned him by a scroll

       She had a secret to reveal

       That much concerned the Church’s weal

       And health of sinner’s soul;

       And with deep charge of secrecy

       She named a place to meet,

       Within an open balcony

       That hung from dizzy pitch, and high

       Above the stately street;

       To which, as common to each home,

       At night they might in secret come.

       XX

      At night, in secret, there they came,

       The Palmer and the holy dame.

       The moon among the clouds rose high,

       And all the city hum was by.

       Upon the street, where late before

       Did din of war and warriors roar,

       You might have heard a pebble fall,

       A beetle hum, a cricket sing,

       An owlet flap his boding wing

       On Giles’s steeple tall.

       The antique buildings, climbing high,

       Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,

       Were here wrapt deep in shade;

       There on their brows the moonbeam broke

       Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,

       And on the casements played.

       And other light was none to see,

       Save torches gliding far,

       Before some chieftain of degree,

       Who left the royal revelry

       To bowne him for the war.

       A solemn scene the Abbess chose;

       A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.

       XXI

      “O holy Palmer!” she began -

      

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