DAY set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone;The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone.The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky, Seemed forms of giant height: Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light.II.Saint George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading rayLess bright, and less, was flung;The evening gale had scarce the powerTo wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung.The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred;Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march, The warder kept his guard;Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering song.III.A distant trampling sound he hears;He looks abroad, and soon appearsO'er Horncliff Hill a plump of spears, Beneath a pennon gay;A horseman, darting from the crowd,3Like lightning from a summer cloud, Spurs on his mettled courser proud, Before the dark array.Beneath the sable palisadeThat closed the castle barricade, His bugle-horn he blew;The warder hasted from the wall, And warned the captain in the hall, For well the blast he knew;And joyfully that knight did call, To sewer, squire, and seneschal.IV."Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, Bring pasties of the doe, And quickly make the entrance free, And bid my heralds ready be, And every minstrel sound his glee, And all our trumpets blow;And, from the platform, spare ye notTo fire a noble salvo-shot: Lord Marmion waits below!"Then to the castle's lower wardSped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates unbarred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred, And let the drawbridge fall.V.Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, Proudly his red-roan charger trode, His helm hung at the saddlebow;Well by his visage you might knowHe was a stalwart knight, and keen, And had in many a battle been;The scar on his brown cheek revealedA token true of Bosworth field;His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;Yet lines of thought upon his cheekDid deep design and counsel speak.His forehead, by his casque worn bare,4His thick moustache, and curly hair, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, But more through toil than age;His square-turned joints, and strength of limb, Showed him no carpet knight so trim, But in close figh