“Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, Whose names I now shall call, Scottish, or foreigner, give ear! Subjects of him who sent me here, At his tribunal to appear I summon one and all: I cite you by each deadly sin That e’er hath soiled your hearts within; I cite you by each brutal lust That e’er defiled your earthly dust— By wrath, by pride, by fear; By each o’er-mastering passion’s tone, By the dark grave and dying groan! When forty days are passed and gone, I cite you, at your monarch’s throne, To answer and appear.” Then thundered forth a roll of names; The first was thine, unhappy James! Then all thy nobles came:— Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle— Why should I tell their separate style? Each chief of birth and fame, Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, Foredoomed to Flodden’s carnage pile, Was cited there by name; And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward and Scrivelbaye; De Wilton, erst of Aberley, The self-same thundering voice did say. But then another spoke: “Thy fatal summons I deny, And thine infernal lord defy, Appealing me to Him on high, Who burst the sinner’s yoke.” At that dread accent, with a scream. Parted the pageant like a dream, The summoner was gone. Prone on her face the Abbess fell, And fast and fast her beads did tell; Her nuns came, startled by the yell, And found her there alone. She marked not, at the scene aghast, What time, or how, the Palmer passed. XXVII. Shift we the scene. The camp doth move; Dunedin’s streets are empty now, Save when, for weal of those they love, To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, The tottering child, the anxious fair, The grey-haired sire, with pious care, To chapels and to shrines repair— Where is the Palmer now? and where The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare? Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair They journey in thy charge. Lord Marmion rode on his right hand, The Palmer still was with the band; Angus, like Lindesay, did command That none should roam at large. But in that Palmer’s altered mien A wondrous change might now be seen; Freely he spoke of war, Of marvels wrought by single hand When lifted for a native land; And still looked high, as if he planned Some desperate deed afar. His courser would he feed and stroke, And, tucking up his sable frock, Would first his mettle bold provoke, Then soothe or quell his pride. Old Hubert said, that never one He saw, except Lord Marmion, A steed so fairly ride. XXVIII.