Marmion. Walter Scott

       Arise, and saddle me my steed;

       And, gentle Eustace, take good heed

       Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 545

       I would not, that the prating knaves

       Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,

       That I could credit such a tale.’-

       Then softly down the steps they slid,

       Eustace the stable door undid, 550

       And, darkling, Marmion’s steed array’d,

       While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

       XXIX.

       ‘Did’st never, good my youth, hear tell,

       That on the hour when I was born,

       Saint George, who graced my sire’s chapelle, 555

       Down from his steed of marble fell,

       A weary wight forlorn?

       The flattering chaplains all agree,

       The champion left his steed to me.

       I would, the omen’s truth to show, 560

       That I could meet this Elfin Foe!

       Blithe would I battle, for the right

       To ask one question at the sprite:

       Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,

       An empty race, by fount or sea, 565

       To dashing waters dance and sing,

       Or round the green oak wheel their ring.’

       Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,

       And from the hostel slowly rode.

       XXX.

       Fitz-Eustace follow’d him abroad, 570

       And mark’d him pace the village road,

       And listen’d to his horse’s tramp,

       Till, by the lessening sound,

       He judged that of the Pictish camp

       Lord Marmion sought the round. 575

       Wonder it seem’d, in the squire’s eyes,

       That one, so wary held, and wise,--

       Of whom ’twas said, he scarce received

       For gospel, what the Church believed,-

       Should, stirr’d by idle tale, 580

       Ride forth in silence of the night,

       As hoping half to meet a sprite,

       Array’d in plate and mail.

       For little did Fitz-Eustace know,

       That passions, in contending flow, 585

       Unfix the strongest mind;

       Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,

       We welcome fond credulity,

       Guide confident, though blind.

       XXXI.

       Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 590

       But, patient, waited till he heard,

       At distance, prick’d to utmost speed,

       The foot-tramp of a flying steed,

       Come town-ward rushing on;

       First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 595

       Then, clattering on the village road,-

       In other pace than forth he yode,

       Return’d Lord Marmion.

       Down hastily he sprung from selle,

       And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 600

       To the squire’s hand the rein he threw,

       And spoke no word as he withdrew:

       But yet the moonlight did betray,

       The falcon-crest was soil’d with clay;

       And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 605

       By stains upon the charger’s knee,

       And his left side, that on the moor

       He had not kept his footing sure.

       Long musing on these wondrous signs,

       At length to rest the squire reclines, 610

       Broken and short; for still, between,

       Would dreams of terror intervene:

       Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark

       The first notes of the morning lark.