“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.