Marmion. Вальтер СкоттЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The Captain mused a little space,

      And pass’d his hand across his face.

      -’Fain would I find the guide you want,

      But ill may spare a pursuivant,

      The only men that safe can ride                            330

      Mine errands on the Scottish side:

      And though a bishop built this fort,

      Few holy brethren here resort;

      Even our good chaplain, as I ween,

      Since our last siege, we have not seen:                    335

      The mass he might not sing or say,

      Upon one stinted meal a-day;

      So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,

      And pray’d for our success the while.

      Our Norham vicar, woe betide,                              340

      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.                      345

      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,                        350

      ‘Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.

      But that good man, as ill befalls,

      Hath seldom left our castle walls,

      Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,

      In evil hour, he cross’d the Tweed,                        355

      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,                      360

      That, if again he venture o’er,

      He shall shrieve penitent no more.

      Little he loves such risks, I know;

      Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.’

      Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,                      365

      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,                            370

      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,                              375

      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 vow’d revenge of Bughtrig rude,                        380

      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,                      385

      Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-

      ‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,

      Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-

      ‘Here is a holy Palmer come,

      From Salem first, and last from Rome;                      390

      One, that hath kiss’d 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;                          395

      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,                      400

      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,                      405

      From all the youth of Sicily,

        Saint Rosalie retired to God.

      ‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,

      Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,

      Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,                        410

      For his sins’ pardon hath he pray’d.

      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.                      415

      This were a guide o’er moor and dale;

      But, when our John hath quaff’d his ale,

      As little as the wind that blows,

      And warms itself against his nose,

      Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.’–                  420

      ‘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                          425

        From hence to Holy-Rood,

      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                          430

      They know to