NOT far advanced was morning day, When Marmion did his troop array To Surrey’s camp to ride. He had safe-conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide. The ancient earl, with stately grace, Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whispered in an undertone, “Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.” The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: “Though something I might ’plain,” he said, “Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your king’s behest, While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble earl, receive my hand.” But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: “My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign’s will, To each one whom he lists, howe’er Unmeet to be the owner’s peer; My castles are my king’s alone, From turret to foundation-stone,— The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—“This to me!” he said;— “An ’twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared To cleave the Douglas’ head! And first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England’s message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And Douglas, more, I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou ’rt defied! And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!” On the earl’s cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth, “And dar’st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms! What, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.” Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!— And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

St. Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried; “Bold can he speak and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle walls.