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heard a faint yet shrilly tone,

       Like distant clarion feebly blown,

       That on the breeze did die;

       And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear,

       “Saint Withold, save us! What is here?

       Look at yon city cross!

       See, on its battled tower appear

       Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,

       And blazoned banners toss!”

       XXV

      Dunedin’s Cross, a pillared stone,

       Rose on a turret octagon;

       (But now is razed that monument

       Whence royal edict rang,

       And voice of Scotland’s law was sent

       In glorious trumpet-clang.

       Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead

       Upon its dull destroyer’s head! -

       A minstrel’s malison is said).

       Then on its battlements they saw

       A vision, passing Nature’s law,

       Strange, wild, and dimly seen -

       Figures that seemed to rise and die,

       Gibber and sign, advance and fly,

       While nought confirmed could ear or eye

       Discern of sound or mien.

       Yet darkly did it seem, as there

       Heralds and pursuivants prepare,

       With trumpet sound and blazon fair,

       A summons to proclaim;

       But indistinct the pageant proud,

       As fancy-forms of midnight cloud,

       When flings the moon upon her shroud

       A wavering tinge of flame;

       It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,

       From midmost of the spectre crowd,

       This awful summons came:-

       XXVI

      “Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,

       Whose names I now shall call,

       Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!

       Subjects of him who sent me here,

       At his tribunal to appear

       I summon one and all:

       I cite you by each deadly sin

       That e’er hath soiled your hearts within;

       I cite you by each brutal lust

       That e’er defiled your earthly dust -

       By wrath, by pride, by fear;

       By each o’ermastering passion’s tone,

       By the dark grave and dying groan!

       When forty days are passed and gone,

       I cite you, at your monarch’s throne,

       To answer and appear.”

       Then thundered forth a roll of names;

       The first was thine, unhappy James!

       Then all thy nobles came:-

       Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,

       Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle -

       Why should I tell their separate style?

       Each chief of birth and fame,

       Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,

       Foredoomed to Flodden’s carnage pile,

       Was cited there by name;

       And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,

       Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye;

       De Wilton, erst of Aberley,

       The selfsame thundering voice did say.

       But then another spoke:

       “Thy fatal summons I deny,

       And thine infernal lord defy,

       Appealing me to Him on high,

       Who burst the sinner’s yoke.”

       At that dread accent, with a scream.

       Parted the pageant like a dream,

       The summoner was gone.

       Prone on her face the Abbess fell,

       And fast and fast her beads did tell;

       Her nuns came, startled by the yell,

       And found her there alone.

       She marked not, at the scene aghast,

       What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

       XXVII

      Shift we the scene. The camp doth move;

       Dunedin’s streets are empty now,

       Save when, for weal of those they love,

       To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,

       The tottering child, the anxious fair,

       The grey-haired sire, with pious care,

       To chapels and to shrines repair -

       Where is the Palmer now? and where

       The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?

       Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair

       They journey in thy charge.

       Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,

       The Palmer still was with the band;

       Angus, like Lindesay, did command

       That none should roam at large.

       But in that Palmer’s altered mien

       A wondrous change might now be seen;

       Freely he spoke of war,

       Of marvels wrought by single hand

       When lifted for a native land;

       And still looked high, as if he planned

       Some desperate deed afar.

       His courser would he feed and stroke,

       And, tucking up his sable frock,

       Would first his mettle bold provoke,

       Then soothe or quell his pride.

       Old Hubert said, that never one

       He saw, except Lord Marmion,

       A steed so fairly ride.

       XXVIII

      Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,

       By Eustace governed fair,

       A troop escorting Hilda’s dame,

       With all her nuns and Clare.

       No audience had Lord Marmion sought;

       Ever he feared to aggravate

       Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate;

       And safer ‘twas, he thought,

       To wait till, from the nuns removed,

       The influence of kinsmen loved,

       And suit by Henry’s self approved,

       Her slow consent had wrought.

       His was no flickering flame, that dies

       Unless when fanned by looks and sighs,

       And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;

       He longed to stretch his wide command

       O’er luckless Clara’s ample land;

      

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