THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Instead of cockleshell 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 archfiend 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 the hall of state,

       And fronted Marmion where he sate,

       As he his peer had been.

       But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;

       His cheek was sunk, alas, the while!

       And when he struggled at a smile

       His eye looked haggard wild:

       Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,

       If she had been in presence there,

       In his wan face and sunburned hair,

       She had not known her child.

       Danger, long travel, want, or woe,

       Soon change the form that best we know -

       For deadly fear can time outgo,

       And blanch at once the hair;

       Hard toil can roughen form and face,

       And want can quench the eye’s bright grace,

       Nor does old age a wrinkle trace

       More deeply than despair.

       Happy whom none of these befall,

       But this poor Palmer knew them all.

       XXIX

      Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;

       The Palmer took on him the task,

       So he would march with morning tide,

       To Scottish court to be his guide.

       “But I have solemn vows to pay,

       And may not linger by the way,

       To fair St. Andrews bound,

       Within the ocean-cave to pray,

       Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,

       From midnight to the dawn of day,

       Sung to the billows’ sound;

       Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,

       Whose springs can frenzied dreams dispel,

       And the crazed brain restore:

       Saint Mary grant that cave or spring

       Could back to peace my bosom bring,

       Or bid it throb no more!”

       XXX

      And now the midnight draught of sleep,

       Where wine and spices richly steep,

       In massive bowl of silver deep,

       The page presents on knee.

       Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,

       The captain pledged his noble guest,

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