Marmion (ed. Henry Morley) | Page 9

built this fort,
Few holy brethren here resort;

Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege we have not
seen:
The mass he might not sing or say,
Upon one stinted meal a
day;
So safe he sat in Durham aisle,
And prayed for our success the
while.
Our Norham vicar, woe betide,
Is all too well in case to ride;

The priest of Shoreswood--he could rein
The wildest war-horse in
your train;
But then, no spearman in the hall

Will sooner swear, or
stab, or brawl.
Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:
A blithesome
brother at the can,
A welcome guest in hall and bower,
He knows

each castle, town, and tower,
In which the wine and ale is good,

'Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood.
But that good man, as ill befalls,

Hath seldom left our castle walls,
Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede,

In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed,
To teach Dame Alison her creed.

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;
And John, an enemy to
strife,
Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath
deeply swore
That if again he venture o'er,
He shall shrive penitent
no more.
Little he loves such risks, I know;
Yet in your guard,
perchance, will go."
XXII.
Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carved to his uncle and that lord,

And reverently took up the word.
"Kind uncle, woe were we each
one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful
speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach;
Full well at tables can
he play,
And sweep at bowls the stake away.
None can a lustier
carol bawl;
The needfullest among us all,
When time hangs heavy
in the hall,
And snow comes thick at Christmas-tide,
And we can
neither hunt, nor ride
A foray on the Scottish side.
The vowed
revenge of Bughtrig rude,
May end in worse than loss of hood.
Let
Friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Roast
hissing crabs, or flagons swill:
Last night to Norham there came one,

Will better guide Lord Marmion."
"Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my
fay,
Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say."
XXIII.
"Here is a holy Palmer come
From Salem first, and last from Rome:

One that hath kissed the blessed tomb,

And visited each holy
shrine
In Araby and Palestine;
On hills of Armenie hath been,

Where Noah's ark may yet be seen;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,

Which parted at the prophet's rod;
In Sinai's wilderness he saw

The Mount where Israel heard the law,
Mid thunder-dint and flashing

levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.
He shows Saint
James's cockle-shell;
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;
And of that grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and
eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.
XXIV.
"To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,
Saint Thomas, too, of
Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham, and Saint Bede,
For his sins'
pardon hath he prayed.
He knows the passes of the North,
And
seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;
Little he eats, and long will wake,

And drinks but of the stream or lake.
This were a guide o'er moor
and dale
But when our John hath quaffed his ale,
As little as the
wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or
cares, which way he goes."
XXV.
"Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion,
"Full loth were I that Friar John,

That venerable man, for me
Were placed in fear or jeopardy.
If
this same Palmer will me lead
From hence to Holyrood,
Like his good saint I'll pay his meed,

Instead of cockle-shell or bead
With angels fair and good.
I love such holy ramblers; still
They
know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay:
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some
lying legend, at the least,
They bring to cheer the way."

XXVI.
"Ah! noble sir," young Selby said,
And finger on his lip he laid,

"This man knows much--perchance e'en more
Than he could learn by
holy lore.
Still to himself he's muttering,
And shrinks as at some
unseen thing.
Last night we listened at his cell;
Strange sounds we
heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmured on till morn, howe'er
No
living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,

As other voices spoke again.
I cannot tell--I like it not -
Friar John
hath told us it is wrote,
No conscience clear, and void of wrong,

Can rest awake, and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his
beads
Have marked ten aves, and two creeds."
XXVII.
"Let pass," quoth Marmion; "by my fay,
This man shall guide me on
my way,
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn
themselves of company.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This
Palmer to the castle-hall."
The summoned Palmer came in place;

His sable cowl o'erhung his face;
In his black mantle was he clad,

With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,
On his broad shoulders wrought;
The scallop-shell his cap did deck;

The crucifix around his neck
Was from Loretto brought;
His sandals were with travel tore,
Staff,
budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;
The faded palm-branch in his hand

Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.
XXVIII.
Whenas the Palmer came in hall,
Nor lord, nor knight, was there
more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or looked more high and keen;
For

no saluting did he wait,
But strode across