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Himself he saw, amid the field,

On high his brandished war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his car;
While all around the shadowy kings
Denmark's grim ravens cowered their wings.
Tis said, that, in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight,
Fore-showing future conquests far,
When our sons' sons wage northern war;
A royal city, tower, and spire,
Reddened the midnight sky with fire,
And shouting crews her navy bore
Triumphant to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

"The joyful king turned home again,
Headed his host, and quelled the Dane;
But yearly, when returned the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,
His wound must bleed and smart;
Lord Gifford then would gibing say,
Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start."

Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave,
King Alexander fills his grave,

Our lady give him rest!

Yet still the mighty spear and shield
The elfin warrior doth wield,

Upon the brown hill's breast;8

And many a knight hath proved his chance,
In the charmed ring to break a lance,
But all have foully sped;
Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.-
Gentles, my tale is said."-

XXVI.

The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong,
And on the tale the yeoman-throng,
Had made a comment sage and long,

But Marmion gave a sign;

And, with their lord, the squires retire;
The rest, around the hostel fire,

Their drowsy limbs recline;
For pillow, underneath each head,
The quiver and the targe were laid.
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,
Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore:
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows strange.
XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen
The foldings of his mantle green:
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,
Of sport by thicket, or by stream,
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion's voice he knew.
XXVIII.

"Fitz-Eustace! rise,-I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast,

A wooden cup, composed of staves hooped together.

And graver thoughts have chafed my mood.
The air must cool my feverish blood;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed,
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;
I would not that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale."
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable-door undid,

And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed,
While, whispering, thus the baron said:
XXIX.

"Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell
That on the hour when I was born,
St. George, who graced my sire's chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,

A weary wight forlorn?

The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me.
1 would, the omen's truth to show,
That I could meet this elfin foe!
Blith would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite:-
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea,
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring."
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.
XXX.
Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,
And marked him pace the village road,
And listened to his horse's tramp,
Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp

Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes,
That one, so wary held, and wise,-
Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received
For gospel what the church believed,-
Should, stirred by idle tale,
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,

Arrayed in plate and mail.
For little did Fitz-Eustace know,
That passions, in contending flow

Unfix the strongest mind;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,

Guide confident, though blind.
XXXI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,
But, patient, waited till he heard,
At distance, pricked to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed,

Come town-ward rushing on:
First, dead, as if on turf it trod,
Then clattering on the village road,
In other pace than forth he yode,"
Returned lord Marmion.

Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, well nigh he fell;
To the squire's hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But yet the moonlight did betray,
The falcon crest was soiled with clay;

Used by old poets for went.

And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger's knee,
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines
Broken and short; for still, between,
Would dreams of terror intervene:
Eustace did ne'er so blithly mark
The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO IV.

TO JAMES SKENE, Esq.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

Ax ancient minstrel sagely said,
"Where is the life which late we led?"
That motely clown, in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,
Not even that clown could amplify,
On this trite text, so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand;

And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone;

And though deep marked, like all below,
With chequered shades of joy and wo;

Though thou o'er realms, and seas hast ranged,
Marked cities lost, and empires changed,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fevered the progress of these years,

Yet now days, weeks, and months, but seem
The recollection of a dream;

So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day,
Since first I turned this idle lay;
A task so often thrown aside,
When leisure graver cares denied,
That now, November's dreary gale,
Whose voice inspired my opening tale,
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.
Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again;
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mixed with the rack, the snow-mists fly;
The shepherd, who, in summer sun,
Has something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;
He who, outstretched the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
Viewed the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumbered o'er his tattered book,
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o'er the lessened tide;
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun,
Through heavy vapours dank and dun;

When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain,
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal, and to dangerous task.
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.
Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid:
His flock he gathers, and he guides
To open downs and mountain sides,
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells,
Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back, while, streaming far,
His cottage window seems a star,-
Loses its feeble gleam,-and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain:1
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their wo,
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek, to break his rest.
Who envies now the shepherd's lot,
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree,
His rustic kirn's* loud revelry,
His native hill-notes, tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithsome eye;
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia's golden creed?

Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene?
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage,
Against the winter of our age:
As he, the ancient chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy;
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Called ancient Priam forth to arms.
Then happy those-since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain.
Then happy those, beloved of heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief,
Whose joys are chastened by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou of late wert doomed to twine,-
Just when thy bridal hour was by,-
The cypress with the myrtle tie.
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And blessed the union of his child,

The Scottish harvest-home.

When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions, next his end,
Speak more the father than the friend:
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid2
The tribute to his minstrel's shade;
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator's heart was cold-
Far we may search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!
But not around his honoured urn,
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;
The thousand eyes his care had dried,
Pour at his name a bitter tide;
And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty's attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
"The widow's shield, the orphan's stay."
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme;
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
"Thy father's friend forget thou not:"
And grateful title may I plead, 1
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:-
T's little-but 'tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;
When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,-
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely labouring to portray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray;
I spelling o'er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, ycleped the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous, each other's motions viewed,
And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily
Under the blossomed bough, than we.

And blithsome nights, too, have been ours,
When winter stript the summer's bowers.
Careless we heard, what now I hear,
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay;
And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer missed, bewailed the more;
And thou, and I, and dear loved R-
And one whose name I may not say,-
For not Mimosa's tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-
In merry chorus well combined,

With Jaughter drowned the whistling wind.

Mirth was within; and care, without,
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.
Such nights we've had; and, though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field day, or the drill,
Seem less important now-yet still
Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

CANTO IV.

THE CAMP.

I.

EUSTACE, I said, did blithly mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sung shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And, with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came, and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part

Of something disarranged.

Some clamoured loud for armour lost;
Some brawled and wrangled with the host;
"By Becket's bones," cried one, "I fear
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!"
Young Blount, lord Marmion's second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,—
Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:

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To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he loves so well?"-
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,-
"What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by friar Rush. "3+

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And as the charge he cast and paid, "Ill thou deserv'st thy hire," he said;

The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill;
There narrower closed, till over head
A vaulted screen the branches made.
"A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said;
"Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed."-
He spoke to cheer lord Marmion's mind;
Perchance to show his lore designed;
For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome
Of Caxton or De Worde.

Therefore he spoke,-but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answered nought again.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasped his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know,
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band
Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees, receding, showed
A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward pressed,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest;

Though inly chafed at this delay, Lord Marmion bears it as he may,

The palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,
Sought to take leave in vain:
Strict was the lion-king's command,
That none who rode in Marmion's band
Should sever from the train:
"England has here enow of spies
In lady Heron's witching eyes:"
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,
But fair pretext to Marmion made.
The right hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.
X.

At length up that wild dale they wind,
Where Crichtoun-castles crowns the bank;
For there the lion's care assigned

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne;

And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist, and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude and tottered keep
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.

Still rises unimpaired, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
Where oft whilome were captives pent,
The darkness of thy massy-more:*

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun showed,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
For none were in the castle then
But women, boys, or aged men,

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came;
Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffered the baron's rein to hold;
For each man that could draw a sword
Had marched that morning with their lord,
• The pit, or prison vault.-See Note.

Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died
On Flodden by his sovereign's side.
Long may his lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-dear
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest,
With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the king's own guest;-

Such the command of royal James,
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit
Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit:
And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise
Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,
And policies of war and peace.

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SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE.
"Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blith the blackbird's lay!

The wild buck bells*s from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take

To see all nature gay.

But June is to our sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.9
Wo to the traitors who could bring
The princely boy against his king!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as lent,

King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.
"When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The king, as wont, was praying;
While for his royal father's soul,
The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The bishop mass was saying
For now the brought round again
luckless king was slain
The day the

• An ancient word for the cry of deer.-See Note.

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