Minstrels and trumpeters were there,
The gunner held his linstock yare,
   For welcome-shot prepared:
Entered the train, and such a clang,
As then through all his turrets rang,
   Old Norham never heard.

X.

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced,
   The trumpets flourished brave,
The cannon from the ramparts glanced,
   And thundering welcome gave.
A blithe salute, in martial sort,
   The minstrels well might sound,
For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court,
   He scattered angels round.
“Welcome to Norham, Marmion!
   Stout heart, and open hand!
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,
   Thou flower of English land!”

XI.

Two pursuivants, whom tabarts deck,
With silver scutcheon round their neck,
   Stood on the steps of stone,
By which you reach the donjon gate,
And there, with herald pomp and state,
   They hailed Lord Marmion:
They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
   Of Tamworth tower and town;
And he, their courtesy to requite,
Gave them a chain of twelve marks’ weight,
   All as he lighted down.
“Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,
   Knight of the crest of gold!
A blazoned shield, in battle won,
   Ne’er guarded heart so bold.”

XII.

They marshalled him to the castle-hall,
   Where the guests stood all aside,
And loudly flourished the trumpet-call,
   And the heralds loudly cried—
“Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion,
   With the crest and helm of gold!
Full well we know the trophies won
   In the lists at Cottiswold:
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
   ’Gainst Marmion’s force to stand;
To him he lost his lady-love,
   And to the king his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,
   A sight both sad and fair;
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
   And saw his saddle bare;
We saw the victor win the crest
   He wears with worthy pride;
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed,
   His foeman’s scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!
   Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquered in the right,
   Marmion of Fontenaye!”

XIII.

Then stepped, to meet that noble lord,
   Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell and of Ford,
   And captain of the hold.
He led Lord Marmion to the dais,
   Raised o’er the pavement high,
And placed him in the upper place—
   They feasted full and high:
The whiles a Northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,
   “How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all,
      Stout Willimondswick,
      And Hardriding Dick,
   And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o’ the Wall,
   Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,
   And taken his life at the Deadman’s-shaw.”
Scantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook
   The harper’s barbarous lay;
Yet much he praised the pains he took,
   And well those pains did pay:
For lady’s suit and minstrel’s strain,
By knight should ne’er be heard in vain.

XIV.

“Now, good Lord Marmion,” Heron says,
   “Of your fair courtesy,
I pray you bide some little space
   In this poor tower with me.
Here may you keep your arms from rust,
   May breathe your war-horse well;
Seldom hath passed a week but just
   Or feat of arms befell:
The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
   And love to couch a spear;
St. George! a stirring life they lead,
   That have such neighbours near.
Then stay with us a little space,
   Our Northern wars to learn;
I pray you for your lady’s grace!”
   Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

XV.

The captain marked his altered look,
   And gave a squire the sign;
A mighty wassail-bowl he took,
   And crowned it high with wine.
“Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:
   But first I pray thee fair,
Where hast thou left that page of thine,
That used to serve thy cup of wine,
   Whose beauty was so rare?
When last in Raby towers we met,
   The boy I closely eyed,
And often marked his cheeks were wet,
   With tears he fain would hide:
His was no rugged horse-boy’s hand,
To burnish shield or sharpen brand,
   Or saddle battle-steed;
But meeter seemed for lady fair,
To fan her cheek or curl her hair,
Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
   The slender silk to lead:
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
   His bosom—when he sighed—
The russet doublet’s rugged fold
   Could scarce repel its pride!
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
   To serve in lady’s bower?
Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
   A gentle paramour?”

XVI.

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;
   He rolled his kindling eye,
With pain his rising wrath suppressed,
   Yet made a calm reply:
“That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,
He might not brook the Northern air.
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarne:
Enough of him.  But, Heron, say,
Why does thy lovely lady gay
Disdain to grace the hall to-day?
Or has that dame, so fair and sage,
Gone on some pious pilgrimage?”
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame
Whispered light tales of Heron’s dame.

XVII.

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt,
   Careless the knight replied,
“No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt
   Delights in cage to bide;
Norham is grim and grated close,
Hemmed in by battlement and fosse,
   And many a darksome tower;
And better loves my lady bright
To sit in liberty and light,
   In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.
We hold our greyhound in our hand,
   Our falcon on our glove;
But where shall we find leash or band
   For dame that loves to rove?
Let the wild falcon soar her swing,
She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.”

XVIII.

“Nay, if with royal James’s bride
The lovely Lady Heron bide,
Behold me here a messenger,
Your tender greetings prompt to bear;
For to the Scottish court addressed,
I journey at our King’s behest,
And pray you, of your grace, provide
For me and mine, a trusty guide.
I have not ridden in Scotland since
James backed the cause of that mock-prince,
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.
Then did I march with Surrey’s power,
What time we razed old Ayton Tower.”

XIX.

“For such-like need, my lord, I trow,
Norham can find you guides enow;
For here be some have pricked as far,
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,
And given them light to set their hoods.”

XX.

“Now, in good sooth,” Lord Marmion cried,
“Were I in warlike wise to ride,
A better guard I would not lack
Than your stout forayers at my back;
But as in form of peace I go,
A friendly messenger, to know
Why through all Scotland, near and far,
Their King is mustering troops for war.
The sight of plundering Border spears
Might justify suspicious fears,
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,