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 By bequest of 
 
 William Lukens Shoemaker 
 
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 THE SELECT 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
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 SIR WALTER SCOTT; 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
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 WITH ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES. 
 
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 GLASGOW: 
 PUBLISHED BY RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVIII. 
 
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 Gift. 
 
 W: L. Shoemaker 
 
 7 S '06 
 
THE 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 a foem, in &ix ©antos. 
 
 BY SIE WALTEE SCOTT, BAET. 
 
 
 The Poem, now offered to the Public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners which 
 anciently prevailed on the borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, living in a state partly 
 pastoral and partly warlike, and combining habits of constant depredation with the influence of a rude 
 spirit of chivalry, were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible of poetical ornament. As the descrip- 
 tion of scenery and manners was more the object of the Author, than a combined and regular narrative, 
 the plan of the ancient metrical romance was adopted, tvhich allows greater latitude in this respect than 
 would be consistent with the dignity of a regular poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it 
 permits an occasional alteration of measure, which, in some degree, authorises the changes of rythm in 
 the text. The machinery also, adopted from popular belief, would have seemed puerile in a poem, tvhich 
 did not partake of the rudeness of the old ballad, or metrical romance. 
 
 For these reasons, the poem icas put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of the race, who, 
 as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of the refinement of 
 modern poetry, ivithout losing the simplicity of his original model. The date of the tale itself is about 
 the middle of the 16th century, when most of the persons actually flourished. — The time occupied by the 
 action is three nights and three days. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold, 
 
 The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
 
 His withered cheek, and tresses gray, 
 
 Seemed to have known a better clay; 
 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
 
 Was carried by an orphan boy. 
 
 The last of all the bards was he, 
 
 Who sung of Border chivalry; 
 
 For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, 
 
 His tuneful brethren all were dead; 
 
 And he, neglected and oppressed, 
 
 Wished to be with them and at rest. 
 
 No more, on prancing palfrey borne, 
 
 He carolled, light as lark at morn; 
 
 No longer, courted and caressed, 
 
 High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
 
 He poured, to lord and lady gay, 
 
 The unpremeditated lay ; 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone, 
 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 
 
 The bigots of the iron time 
 
 Had called his harmless art a crime. 
 
 A wandering harper, scorned and poor, 
 
 He begged his bread from door to door; 
 
 And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 
 
 The harp, a King had loved to hear. 
 
 He passed where Newark's stately toAver 
 Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower; 
 The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
 No humbler resting-place was nigh, 
 With hesitating step, at last, 
 The embattled portal-arch he passed, 
 Whose ponderous grate, and massy bar, 
 Had oft rolled back the tide of war, 
 But never closed the iron door 
 Against the desolate and poor. 
 The Duchess* marked his weary pace, 
 His timid mien, and reverend face, 
 
 * Anne, Duchess of Buccleugh and Monmouth repre- 
 sentative of the ancient Lords of Buccleugh, and widow 
 of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who 
 was beheaded in 1685. 
 
 And bade her page the menials tell, 
 That they should tend the old man well ; 
 For she had knoAvn adversity, 
 Though born in such a high degree ; 
 In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
 Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb! 
 
 When kindness had his wants supplied, 
 And the old man was gratified, 
 Began to rise his minstrel pride 
 And he began to talk anon, 
 Of good earl Francis,* dead and gone, 
 And of earl Walter, f rest him God! 
 A braver ne'er to battle rode : 
 And how full many a tale he knew, 
 Of the old warriors of Buccleugh ; 
 And, would the noble Duchess deign 
 To listen to an old man's strain, 
 Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, 
 He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
 That if she loved the harp to hear, 
 He could make music to her ear 
 
 The humble boon was soon obtained; 
 The aged Minstrel audience gained, 
 But, when he reached the room of state, 
 Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
 Perchance he wished his boon denied ; 
 For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
 His trembling hand had lost the ease, 
 Which marks security to please ; 
 And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, 
 Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
 He tried to tune his harp in vain, 
 The pitying Duchess praised its chime, 
 And gave him heart, and gave him time, 
 Till every string's according glee 
 Was blended into harmony. 
 And then, he said, he would full fain 
 He could recal an ancient strain, 
 He never thought to sing again. 
 
 * Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleugh, father to the 
 duchess, 
 t Walter, grandfather to the duchess. 
 
 :® 
 
 PRINTED BY GEO. BROOK31AN,] 
 
 [FOR RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO-, GLA5G< 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto 
 
 It was not framed for village churles, 
 But for high dames and mighty earls ; 
 He had played it to King Charles the Good, 
 When he kept court at Holyrood ; 
 And much he wished, yet feared, to try 
 The long forgotten melody. 
 
 Amid the strings his fingers strayed, 
 And an uncertain warbling made, 
 And oft he shook his hoary head. 
 But when he caught the measure wild, 
 The old man raised his face, and smiled ; 
 
 And lightened up his faded eye, 
 With all a poet's ecstasy! 
 In varying cadence, soft or strong, 
 He swept the sounding chords along ; 
 The present scene, the future lot; 
 His toils, his wants, were all forgot ; 
 Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 
 In the full tide of song were lost ; 
 Each blank, in faithless memory void, 
 The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 
 And, while his harp responsive rung, 
 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 i. 
 
 & 
 
 The feast was over in Branksome tower, 
 And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower ; 
 Her bower, that was guarded by word and by 
 
 spell, 
 Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
 Jesu Maria, shield us well! 
 No living Avight, save the Ladye alone, 
 Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 
 
 II. 
 
 The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all ; 
 
 Knight, and page, and household squire, 
 Loitered through the lofty hall, 
 
 Or crowded round the ample fire. 
 The stag-hounds, weary with the chace, 
 
 Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, 
 And urged, in dreams, the forest race, 
 
 From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. 
 
 III. 
 
 Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 
 
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall ; 
 Nine-and-twenty squires of name 
 
 Brought them their steeds from bower to stall , 
 Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 
 Waited, duteous, on them all : 
 They were all knights of mettle true, 
 Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
 With belted sword, and spur on heel ; 
 They quitted not their harness bright, 
 Neither by day, nor yet by night : 
 They lay down to rest 
 With corslet laced, 
 Pillowed on buckler cold and hard ; 
 They carved at the meal 
 With gloves of steel, 
 And they drank the red wine through the hel- 
 met barred. 
 
 V. 
 Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
 Waited the beck of the warders ten. 
 Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, 
 Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
 Barbed with frontlet of steel I trow, 
 And with Jedwood-axe at saddle bow. 
 A hundred more fed free in stall — 
 Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Why do these steeds stand ready dight? 
 Why watch these warriors, armed, by night? 
 They watch, to hear the blood-hound baying ; 
 They watch, to hear the war-horn braying ; 
 To see St George's red cross streaming, 
 To see the midnight beacon gleaming, 
 
 They watch, against Southern force and guile, 
 Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers, 
 Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, 
 
 From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry Car- 
 lisle. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Such is the custom of Branksome Hall, 
 
 Many a valiant knight is here ; 
 But he, the Chieftain of them all, 
 His sword hangs rusting on the wall, 
 
 Beside his broken spear. 
 Bards long shall tell, 
 How Lord Walter fell! 
 When startled burghers fled afar, 
 The furies of the Border war ; 
 When the streets of high Dunedin 
 Saw lances gleam, and falchions redden, 
 And heard the slogan's* deadly yell — 
 Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Can piety the discord heal, 
 
 Or staunch the death-feud's enmity? 
 Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, 
 
 Can love of blessed charity? 
 No ! vainly to each holy shrine, 
 
 In mutual pilgrimage, they drew; 
 Implored, in vain, the grace divine 
 
 For chiefs, their own red falchions slew. 
 While Cess ford owns the rule of Car, 
 
 While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
 The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, 
 The havoc of the feudal war, 
 
 Shall never, never be forgot! 
 
 IX. 
 
 In sorrow, o'er lord Walter's bier 
 The warlike foresters had bent 
 And many a flower, and many a tear, 
 
 Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent: 
 But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
 The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear! 
 Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, 
 
 Had locked the source of softer woe ; 
 And burning pride, and high disdain, 
 
 Forbade the rising tear to flow; 
 Until, amid his sorrowing clan, 
 
 Her son lisped from the nurse's knee— 
 " And, if I live to be a man, 
 
 My father's death revenged shall be!" 
 Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
 To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 
 
 All loose her negligent attire 
 
 All loose her golden hair, 
 Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire, 
 
 And wept in wild despair. 
 
 * The war-cry, or gathering word, of a Border clan. 
 
 ^) 
 
CANTO I.] 
 
 But not alone the bitter tear 
 
 Had filial grief supplied; 
 * or hopeless love, and anxious fear, 
 
 Had lent their mingled tide • 
 .Nor in her mother's altered eye 
 Dared she to look for sympathy 
 
 whTr' '? ainst her fathei ' s claii, 
 ™,^ ,? ar m arms had stood, 
 When Mathouse burn to Melrose ran 
 All purple with their blood. 
 And well she knew, her mother dread, 
 Befo e lord Cranstoun she should wed, 
 Would see her on her dying bed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Of noble race the Ladye came ; 
 Her father was a clerk of fame, 
 
 Of Bethune's line of Picardie : 
 He learned the art, that none may name, 
 
 In Padua, far beyond the sea, 
 Men said he changed his mortal frame 
 
 Ky feat of magic mystery ; 
 For when, in studious mood, he paced 
 
 St Andrew's cloistered hall, 
 His form no darkening shadow traced 
 
 Upon the sunny wall ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 And, of his skill, as bards avow, 
 
 He taught that Ladye fair, 
 1 ill to her bidding she could bow 
 
 The viewless forms of air. 
 And now she sits in secret bower, 
 In old Lord David's western tower, 
 And listens to a heavy sound 
 1 hat moans the mossy turrets round 
 IsittheroarofTeviot'stide, 
 1 hat chafes against the scaur's* red side? 
 Is it the wind that swings the oaks? 
 Is it the echo from the rocks? 
 What may it be, the heavy sound, 
 That moans old Branksome's turrets round! 
 
 A U XIJI - 
 
 At the sullen, moaning sound 
 
 The ban-dogs bay and howl : 
 And, from the turrets round, 
 
 Loud whoops the startled owl. 
 In the hall, both squire and knight 
 
 Swore that a storm was near, 
 And looked forth to view the night ; 
 
 ■But the night was still and clear! 
 
 From the sound of Teviot's tide, 
 Chafing with the mountain's side, 
 *rom the groan of the wind-swung oak 
 From the sullen echo of the rock, ' 
 
 tZ t G J° ic , e 0f tlie comi "g storm, 
 The Ladye knew it well I 
 
 A«?k the n S P irit ofth * Flood that spoke 
 And he called on the Spirit of the Fell ' 
 
 XV. 
 
 River Spirit. 
 " Sleepcst thou, brother?" 
 
 Mountain Spirit. 
 On my hi„ s 57^^^ " a ^ 
 From Craik cross to Skelfhill pen, 
 By every nil, in every glen, P ' 
 Merry elves, their morrice pacing 
 To aerial minstrelsy. 1 S ' 
 Lmerald rings on brown heath tracing 
 Trip it deft and merrily. g ' 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 * Scaur > a Precipitous bank 
 
 of earth. 
 
 Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 
 Up, and list their music sweet! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 River Spirit. 
 
 " T* aiS ° f an i m P r i s oued maiden 
 Mix with my polluted stream ; 
 
 Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 
 Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 
 
 lell me thou, who view'st the stars, 
 
 When shall cease these feudal jars? 
 
 What shall be the maiden's fate ? 
 
 Who shall be the maiden's mate?" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Mountain Spirit. 
 " Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll 
 In utter darkness, round the pole : 
 The Northern Bear lowers black and grim 
 Orion's studded belt is dim ; 
 Twinkling faint, and distant far, 
 Shimmers through mist each planet star: 
 
 111 may I read their high decree : 
 But no kind influence deign they shower, 
 °hST^S b , tlde and B raiksome's tower, 
 
 nil pride be quelled, and love be free." 
 
 ™ XVIII. 
 
 The unearthly voices ceas'd, 
 
 And the heavy sound was still : 
 It died on the river's breast, 
 
 It died on the side of the hill _ 
 -out round Lord David's tower 
 The sound still floated near ; 
 *or it rung in the Ladye's bower, 
 And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
 She raised her stately head, 
 
 And her heart throbbed high with pride 
 a ? nr mount ains shall bend, 
 And your streams ascend, 
 Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride." 
 XIX. 
 Ti je L adye sought the lofty hall, 
 , Where many a bold retainer lay, 
 | And, with jocund din, among them all, 
 Her son pursued his infant play. 
 A fancied moss-trooper, the boy 
 
 The truncheon of a spear bestrode. 
 And round the hall, right merrily 
 
 In mimic foray* rode, 
 Even bearded knights, in arms grown old 
 
 Share in his frolic gambols bore, 
 Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould, 
 
 Were stubborn as the steel they wore 
 for the gay Warriors prophesied, 
 How the brave boy in future war, 
 Should tame the Unicorn's pride, 
 Lxalt the Crescent and the Star.f 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Ladye forgot her purpose high. 
 
 One moment, and no more ; 
 One moment gazed with a mother's eye, 
 
 As she paused at the arched door 
 I hen from amid the armed train, 
 She called to her William of Delorainc. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A stark moss-trooping Scott was he 
 As e er couched border lance by knee ■ 
 
 B S d 1°}T Y Sa H dS ' t] T U S h Tarra * »oss, 
 -Blindfold he knew the paths across ; 
 
 I Foray, a predatory inroad. 
 Cf t Alluding to the armorial bearings of the Scotts and 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto I. 
 
 By wily turns, "by desperate bounds, 
 Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds ; 
 In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none, 
 But he would ride them one by one ; 
 Alike to him was time, or tide, 
 December's snow, or July's pride ; 
 Alike to him was tide, or time, 
 Moonless midnight, or matin prime ; 
 Steady of heart, and stout of hand, 
 As ever drove prey from Cumberland; 
 Five times outlawed had he been, 
 By England's king and Scotland's queen. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, 
 Mount thee on the wightest steed ; 
 Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, 
 Until thou come to fair Tweedside ; 
 And in Melrose's holy pile 
 Seek thou the Monk of St Mary's aisle: 
 
 Greet the father well from me ; 
 Say, that the fated hour is come, 
 
 And to-night he shall watch with thee, 
 To win the treasure of the tomb: 
 For this will be St Michael's night 
 And though stars be dim the moon is bright . 
 And the cross of bloody red 
 Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " What he gives thee, see thou keep ; 
 Stay not thou for food or sleep. 
 Be it scroll or be it book, 
 Into it, knight, thou must not look; 
 If thou readest thou art lorn! 
 Better hadst thou ne'er been born." 
 
 XXIV. 
 " O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 
 
 Which drinks of the Teviot clear; 
 Ere break of day," the warrior 'gan say, 
 
 " Again will I be here : 
 And safer by none may thy errand be done, 
 
 Than, noble dame, by me ; 
 Letter nor line know I never a one, 
 
 Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."* 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Soon in his saddle sate he fast, 
 And soon the steep descent he past ; 
 Soon crossed the sounding barbican, f 
 And soon the Teviot side he won. 
 Eastward the wooded path he rode ; 
 Green hazels o'er his basnet nod: 
 He passed the Peel$ of Goldiland, 
 And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand, 
 Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound, 
 Where Druid shades still flitted round : 
 In Hawick twinkled many a light; 
 Behind him soon they set in night ; 
 And soon he spurred his courser keen 
 Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark ; 
 " Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark." 
 " For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoined, 
 And left the friendly tower behind. 
 He turned him now from Teviotside, 
 And, guided by the tinkling rill, 
 
 * Hairibee, the place of executing- the Border Marau- 
 ders at Carlisle. The neck verse is the beginning- of 
 
 j the 51st psalm, Miserere mei, &c. anciently read by cri- 
 
 I minals claiming the benefit of clergy. 
 
 | f Barbican, the defences of the outer gate of a feudal 
 castle. 
 
 Northward the dark ascent did ride, 
 And gained the moor at Horseliehill ; 
 Broad on the left before him lay, 
 For many a mile, the Roman way.* 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A moment now he slacked his speed, 
 A moment breathed his panting steed ; 
 Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band 
 And loosened in the sheath his brand. 
 On Minto-crags the moon-beams glint, 
 Where Bamhill hewed his bed of flint; 
 Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest, 
 Where falcons hang their giddy nest, 
 Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
 For many a league his prey could spy; 
 Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne, 
 The terrors of the robber's horn ; 
 Cliffs, which for many a later year, 
 The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
 When some sad swain shall teach the grove, 
 Ambition is no cure for love. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Unchallenged, thence past Deloraine 
 To ancient Riddell's fair domain, 
 
 Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
 Down from t)ie lakes did raving come ; 
 Each wave was crested with tawny foam, 
 
 Like the main of a chestnut steed. 
 In vain! no torrent deep or broad, 
 Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At the first plunge the horse sunk low, 
 
 And the water broke o'er the saddle boAv; 
 
 Above the foaming tide, I ween, 
 
 Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ; 
 
 For he was barded f from counter to tail, 
 
 And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
 
 Never heavier man and horse 
 
 Stemmed a midnight torrent's force ; 
 
 The warrior's very plume, I say, 
 
 Was daggled by the dashing spray; 
 
 Yet, through good heart, and our Ladye's grace, 
 
 At length he gained the landing place. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Now Bowdcn Moor the march-man Avon, 
 
 And sternly shook his plumed head, 
 As glanced his eye o'er Halidon;§ 
 For on his soul the slaughter red 
 Of that unhallowed morn arose, 
 When first the Scott and Car were foes ; 
 When royal James beheld the fray, 
 Prize to the victor of the day ; 
 When Home and Douglas in the van, 
 Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
 Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
 Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In bitter mood he spurred fast, 
 And soon the hated heath was past ; 
 And far beneath, in lustre wan, 
 Old Melrose rose, and fair Tweed ran : 
 Like some tall rock, with lichens gray, 
 Seemed, dimly huge, the dark abbaye. 
 When Hawick he passed, had curfew rung, 
 Now midnight lauds || were in Melrose sung. 
 
 ©= 
 
 t Peel, a Border tower. 
 
 * An ancient Roman road, crossing through part of 
 Roxburghshire. 
 
 f Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse accoutered 
 with defensive armour. 
 
 § Halidon-hill on which the battle of Melrose was i | 
 fought. 
 
 1 1 Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic church, j 
 _ _ @ 
 
CANTO II.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 :® 
 
 The sound upon the fitful gale, 
 
 In solemn wise, did rise and fail, 
 
 Like that wild harp, whose magic tone 
 
 Is wakened by the winds alone : 
 
 But when Melrose he reached, 'twas silence all ; 
 
 He meetly stabled his steed in stall, 
 
 And sought the convent's lonely wall. 
 
 Here paused the harp ; and with its swell 
 The Master's fire and courage fell : 
 Dejectedly, and low, he bowed, 
 And, gazing timid on the crowd, 
 
 He seemed to seek, in every eye, 
 If they approved his minstrelsy ; 
 And, diffident of present praise, 
 Somewhat he spoke of former days, 
 And how old age, and wandering long, 
 Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 
 
 The Duchess and her daughters fair, 
 And every gentle ladye there, 
 Each after each, in due degree, 
 Gave praises to his melody, 
 His hand was true, his voice was clear, 
 And much they longed the rest to hear, 
 Encouraged thus, the aged man, 
 After meet rest, again began. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 
 Go visit it by the pale moon light ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 
 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruined central tower ; 
 
 When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 
 When silver edges the imagery, 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave : 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St David's ruined pile ; 
 
 And, home returning, soothly swear, 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair! 
 
 II. 
 
 Short halt did Deloraine make there ; 
 
 Little recked he of the scene so fair. 
 
 With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, 
 
 He struck full loud, and struck full long, 
 
 The porter hurried to the gate — 
 
 " Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?" 
 
 " From Branksome I," the warrior cried; 
 
 And strait the wicket opened wide, 
 
 For Branksome 's chiefs had in battle stood, 
 
 To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; 
 And lands and livings, many a rood, 
 
 Had gifted the shrine for their souls' repose. 
 III. 
 Bold Deloraine his errand said; 
 The porter bent his humble head ; 
 With torch in hand, and foot unshod, 
 And noiseless step, the path he trod ; 
 The arched cloysters, far and wide, 
 Rang to the warrior's clanking stride : 
 Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
 He entered the cell of the ancient priest, 
 And lifted his barred aventayle,* 
 To hail the monk of St Mary's aisle. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " The ladye of Branksome greets thee by me ; 
 
 Says, that the fated hour is come, 
 And that to-night I shall watch with thee 
 
 To win the treasure of the tomb. 
 From sackcloth couch the monk arose, 
 
 With toil his stiffened limbs he reared; 
 A hundred years had flung their snows 
 
 On his thin locks and floating beard. 
 
 © 
 
 * Aventale, visor of the helmet. 
 
 And strangely on the knight looked he, 
 
 And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide: 
 " And, darest thou, warrior! seek to see _ 
 
 What heaven and hell alike would hide ? 
 My breast, in belt of iron pent, 
 
 With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn : 
 For threescore years, in penance spent, 
 
 My knees those flinty stones have worn: 
 Yet all too little to atone 
 For knowing what should ne'er be known, 
 
 Wouldst thou thy every future year 
 In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 
 
 Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 
 Then, daring warrior, follow me!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Penance, father, will I none ; 
 
 Prayer know I hardly one ; 
 
 For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 
 
 Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
 
 When I ride on a Border foray: 
 
 Other prayer can I none ; 
 
 So speed me my errand, and let me begone." 
 
 VII. 
 Again on the knight looked the churchman old, 
 
 And again he sighed heavily ; 
 For he had himself been a warrior bold, 
 
 And fought in Spain and Italy, 
 And he thought on the days that were long since 
 
 by, 
 When his limbs were strong, and his courage 
 
 was high: — 
 Now, slow and faint he led the way, 
 Where, cloistered round, the garden lay ; 
 The pillared arches were over their head, 
 And beneath their feet were the bones of the 
 dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, 
 Glistened with the dew of night ; 
 Nor herb nor floweret glistened there, 
 But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. 
 The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, 
 
 Then into the night he looked forth ; 
 And red and bright the streamers' light 
 
 Were glancing in the glowing north. 
 So had he seen in fair Castile, 
 
 The youth in glittering squadrons start ; 
 Sudden the flying jennet wheel, 
 And hurl the unexpected dart. 
 He knew, by the streamers that shot so bright, 
 That spirits were riding the northern light. 
 
 IX. 
 By a steel-clenched postern door, 
 They entered now the chancel tall ? 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [CANTO II. 
 
 The darkened roof rose high aloof 
 
 On pillars, lofty, and light, and small ; 
 The key-stone, that locked each ribbed aisle, 
 Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatro-feuille ; 
 The corbells * were carved grotesque and grim ; 
 And the pillars, with clustered shafts so trim, 
 With base and with capital flourished around, 
 Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had 
 bound. 
 
 X. 
 
 Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, 
 Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, 
 
 Around the screened altar's pale ; 
 And there the dying lamps did burn, 
 Before thy low and lonely urn, 
 O gallant chief of Otterburne, 
 
 And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale! 
 O fading honours of the dead! 
 
 high ambition, lowly laid! 
 
 XL 
 
 The moon on the east oriel shone, 
 Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 
 
 By foliaged tracery combined : 
 Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's hand, 
 'Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, 
 
 In many a freakish knot, had twined ; 
 Then framed a spell, when the work was done, 
 And changed the willow wreaths to stone. 
 
 The silver light, so pale and faint, 
 
 Showed many a prophet and many a saint, 
 Whose image on the glass was dyed; 
 
 Full in the midst his Cross of Red 
 
 Triumphant Michael brandished, 
 And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
 The moon-beam kissed the holy pane, 
 And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 They sate them down on a marble stone 
 
 A Scottish monarch slept below ; 
 Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone — 
 
 " I was not always a man of woe ; 
 For Paynim countries I have trod 
 And fought beneath the cross of God ; 
 Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear, 
 And their iron-clang sounds strange to mine ear. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 f * In these far climes, it was my lot 
 To meet the wondrous Michael Scott j 
 
 A wizard of such dreaded fame, 
 That when, in Salamanca's cave, 
 Him listed his magic wand to wave, 
 
 The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
 Some of his skill he taught to me ; 
 And, warrior, I could say to thee 
 The words that cleft Eildon hills in three, 
 
 And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: 
 But to speak them were a deadly sin; 
 And for having but thought them my heart 
 within, 
 
 A treble penance must be done. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " When Michael lay on his dying bed, 
 
 His conscience was awakened ; 
 
 He bethought him of his sinful deed, 
 
 And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 
 
 1 was in Spain when the morning rose, 
 But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 
 The words may not again be said, 
 That he spoke to me on death-bed laid ,• 
 
 & 
 
 * Corbells, the projections from which the arches 
 spring-, usually cut in a fantastic face, or mask. 
 
 They would rend this abbaye's massy nave, 
 And pile it in heaps above his grave. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " I swore to bury his mighty Book, 
 
 That never mortal might therein look; 
 
 And never to tell where it was hid, 
 
 Save at his chief of Branksome's need ; 
 
 And when that need was past and o'er, 
 
 Again the volume to restore. 
 
 I buried him on St Michael's night, 
 
 When the bell tolled one, and the moon was 
 
 bright, 
 And I dug his chamber among the dead, 
 When the floor of the chancel was stained red, 
 That his patron's cross might over him wave, 
 And scare the fiends from the wizard's grave. 
 
 XVI. 
 " It was a night of Avoe and dread, 
 When Michael in the tomb I laid! 
 Strange sounds along the chancel past; 
 The banners waved without a blast." — 
 —Still spoke the Monk, when the bell tolled 
 
 one ! — 
 I tell you, that a braver man 
 Than William of Deloraine, good at need, 
 Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed; 
 Yet somewhat was he chilled with dread, 
 And his hair did bristle upon his head. 
 
 XVII. 
 " Lo, warrior ; now the Cross of Red 
 Points to the grave of the mighty dead; 
 Within it burns a wondrous light, 
 To chase the spirits that love the night: 
 That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
 Until the eternal doom shall be." 
 Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone 
 Which the bloody cross was traced upon : 
 He pointed to a secret nook ; 
 An iron bar the warrior took; 
 And the Monk made a sign with his withered 
 
 hand 
 The grave's huge portals to expand. 
 
 XVIII. 
 With beating heart to the task he went ; 
 His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; 
 With bar of iron heaved amain, 
 Till the toil drops fell from his brows like rain. 
 It was by dint of passing strength, 
 That he moved the massy stone at length. 
 I would you had been there to see 
 How the light broke forth so gloriously ; 
 Streamed upward to the chancel roof, 
 And through the galleries far aloof: 
 
 No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright : 
 
 It shone like heaven's own blessed light; 
 And issuing from the tomb, 
 
 Showed the Monk's cowl, and visage pale; 
 
 Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail 
 And kissed his waving plume. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Before their eyes the Wizard lay, 
 As if he had not been dead a day; 
 His hoary beard in silver rolled, 
 He seemed some seventy winters old 
 
 A palmer's amice wrapped him round, 
 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
 Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 
 
 His left hand held his Book of might ; 
 
 A silver cross was in his right ; 
 The lamp was placed beside his knee ; 
 High and majestic was his look, 
 At which the fellest fiends had shook ; 
 And all unruffled was his face' — 
 They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 
 
CANTO II.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 ? 
 
 XX. 
 
 Often had William of Deloraine 
 Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
 And trampled down the warriors slain, 
 
 And neither known remorse nor awe ; 
 Yet now remorse and awe he own'd ; 
 His breath came quick, his head swam round, 
 
 When this strange scene of death he saw, 
 Bewildered and unnerved, he stood. 
 And the priest prayed fervently, and loud; 
 With eyes averted prayed he, 
 He might not endure the sight to see,' 
 Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 
 
 XXI. 
 And when the priest his death-prayer had prayed, 
 Thus unto Deloraine he said — 
 " Now speed thee what thou hast to do, 
 Or, warrior, we may dearly rue ; 
 For those, thou mayest not look upon, 
 Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!" — 
 Then Deloraine in terror took 
 From the cold hand the Mighty Book, 
 With iron clasped, and with iron bound: 
 He thought as he took it, the dead man frowned ; 
 But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
 Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, 
 
 The night returned in double gloom ; 
 
 For the moon had gone down, and the stars were 
 
 few; 
 And, as the Knight and Priest Avithdrew, 
 With Avavering steps and dizzy brain, 
 They hardly might the postern gain. 
 'Tis said, as through the aisles they passed, 
 They heard strange noises on the blast ; 
 And through the cloister-galleries small, 
 Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, 
 Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
 And voices unlike the voice of man; 
 As if the fiends kept holiday, 
 Because these spells were wrought to-day, 
 I cannot tell how the truth may be ; 
 I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Now, hie thee hence," the father said; 
 " And when Ave are on death-bed laid, 
 O may our dear Lady, and sAveet St John, 
 Forgive our souls for the deed Ave have done!" 
 The Monk returned him to his cell, 
 
 And many a prayer and penance sped ; 
 When the convent met at the noontide bell — 
 
 The Monk of St Mary's aisle was dead! 
 Before the cross Avas the body laid, 
 With hands clasped fast, as if still he prayed. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The knight breathed free in the morning wind. 
 
 And strove his hardihood to find: 
 
 He Avas glad when he passed the tombstones grey, 
 
 Which girdle round the fair abbaye ; 
 
 For the mystic book, to his bosom prest, 
 
 Felt like a load upon his breast; 
 
 And his joints, Avith nerves of iron twined, 
 
 Shook, like the aspen leaves, in Avind, 
 
 Full fain Avas he, Avhen the daAvn of day 
 
 Began to brighten the Cheviot gray ; 
 
 He joyed to see the cheerful light, 
 
 And he said Ave Mary, as avcII as he might. 
 
 XXV. 
 The sun had brightened Cheviot gray, 
 
 The sun had brightened the Carter's side ; 
 And soon beneath the rising day 
 
 Smiled Branksome's toAvers and Teviot's tide. 
 
 The Avild birds told their warbling tale, 
 
 And Avakened every flower that blows ; 
 And peeped forth the violet pale, 
 
 And spread her breast the mountain rose ; 
 And lovelier than the rose so red, 
 
 Yet paler than the violet pale, 
 She early left her sleepless bed, 
 
 The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Why does fair Margaret so early aAvake, 
 
 And don her kirtle so hastilie ; 
 And the silken knots which in haste she Avould 
 make, 
 
 Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ; 
 Why does she stop, and look often around, 
 
 As she glides doAvn the secret stair ; 
 And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound, 
 
 As he rouses him up from his lair ; 
 And though she passes the postern alone, 
 Why is not the Avatchman's bugle bloAvn? 
 
 XXVII. 
 The ladye steps in doubt and dread, 
 Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; 
 The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound, 
 Lest his voice should aAvaken the castle round ; 
 The Avatchman's bugle is not bloAvn, 
 For he Avas her foster father's son ; 
 And she glides through the greenwood at daAvn 
 
 of light, 
 To meet Baron Henry, her oAvn true knight. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The knight and ladye fair are met, 
 
 And under the haAvthorn's boughs are set. 
 
 A fairer pair were never seen 
 
 To meet beneath the haAvthorn green ; 
 
 He Avas stately, and young, and tall ; 
 
 Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall: 
 
 And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid, 
 
 Lent to her cheek a livelier red ; 
 
 When the half sigh her sAvelling breast 
 
 A gainst the silken ribband pressed ; 
 
 When her blue eyes their secret told, 
 
 Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
 
 Where Avould you find the peerless fair, 
 
 With Margaret of Branksome might compare ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And noAv, fair dames, methinks I see 
 
 You listen to my minstrelsy: 
 
 Your Avaving locks ye backward throw, 
 
 And sidelong bend your necks of snoAv: — , 
 
 Ye ween to hear a melting tale 
 
 Of tAvo true lovers in a dale ; 
 
 And hoAv the knight, Avith tender fire, 
 To paint his faithful passion strove ; 
 
 SAvore, he might at her feet expire, 
 But never, never cease to love; 
 And Iioav she blushed, and Iioav she sighed, 
 And, half consenting, half denied, 
 And said that she Avould die a maid — 
 Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed, 
 Henry of Cranstoun, and only he, 
 Margaret of Branksome's choice should be. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Alas! fair dames, your hopes are vain! 
 My harp has lost the enchanting strain ; 
 
 Its lightness Avould my age reprove: 
 My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, 
 My heart is dead, my veins are cold — 
 
 i may not, must not, sing of love. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld, 
 The Baron's DAvarf his courser held, 
 And held his crested helm and spear: 
 
 -.-; 
 
Cdr. 
 
 8 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [CANTO III. 
 
 That Dwarf was scarcely an earthly man, 
 If the tales were true that of him ran 
 
 Through all the Border, far and near. 
 'Twas said, when the Baron a hunting rode 
 Through Redesdale's glens, but rarely trod, 
 He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! lost!" 
 And, like tennis-ball by racket tossed, 
 
 A leap, of thirty feet and three, 
 Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
 Distorted like some dwarfish ape, 
 
 And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee, 
 Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed; 
 'Tis said that five good miles he rade, 
 To rid him of his company ; 
 But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf ran 
 
 four, 
 And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Use lessens marvel, it is said, 
 
 This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid ; 
 
 Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
 
 Nor mingled with the menial flock : 
 
 And oft apart his arms he tossed, 
 
 And often muttered "Lost! lost! lost!" 
 He was waspish, arch, and lifcherlie, 
 But well Lord Cranstoun served he : 
 
 And he of his service was full fain ; 
 
 For once he had been ta'en or slain, 
 An' it had not been his ministry. 
 
 All, between Home and Hermitage, 
 
 Talked of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 For the Baron went on pilgrimage, 
 And took with him this elvish Page, 
 
 To Mary's chapel of the Lowes : 
 For there, beside Our Ladye's lake, 
 An offering he had sworn to make, 
 
 And he would pay his vows. 
 But the Ladye of Branksome gathered a band 
 Of the best that would ride at her command ; 
 
 The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
 
 Wat of Harden came thither amain, 
 And thither came John of Thirlestaine, 
 
 They were three hundred spears and three. 
 Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, 
 Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
 They came to St Mary's lake ere day ; 
 But the chapel was void, and the Baron away, 
 They burned the chapel for very rage, 
 And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 And now, in Branksome 's good green wood, 
 As under the aged oak he stood, 
 The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
 As if a distant noise he hears. 
 The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on high, 
 And signs to the lovers to part and fly ; 
 No time was then to vow or sigh. 
 Fair Margaret, through the hazel grove, 
 Flew like the startled cushat-dove ;* 
 The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein : 
 Vaulted the knight on his steed amain, 
 And, pondering deep that morning's scene, 
 Rode eastward through the hawthorns green. 
 
 While thus he poured the lengthened tale, 
 The Minstrel's voice began to fail : 
 Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
 And gave the withered hand of age 
 A goblet, crowned with mighty wine, 
 The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
 He raised the silver cup on high, 
 And, while the big drop filled his eye, 
 Prayed God to bless the Duchess long, 
 And all who cheered a son of song. 
 The attending maidens smiled to see, 
 How long, how deep, how zealously, 
 The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed! 
 And he, emboldened by the draught, 
 Looked gaily back to them, and laughed, 
 The cordial nectar of the bowl 
 Swelled his old veins, and cheered his soul ; 
 A lighter, livelier prelude ran, 
 Ere thus his tale again began. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 © 
 
 And said I that my limbs were old ; 
 And said I that my blood was cold, 
 And that my kindly fire was fled, 
 And my poor withered heart was dead, 
 
 And that I might not sing of love ? — 
 How could I to the dearest theme, 
 That ever warmed a minstrel's dream, 
 
 So foul, so false, a recreant prove ; 
 How could I name love's very name, 
 Nor wake my harp to notes of flame ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 
 
 In Avar, he mounts the warrior's steed; 
 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 
 
 In hamlets, dances on the green, 
 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 
 And men below, and saints above ; 
 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 
 
 III. 
 
 So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, 
 While, pondering deep, the tender scene, 
 He rode through Branksome's hawthorn green. 
 But the page shouted wild and shrill — 
 And scarce his helmet could he don, 
 When downward from the shady hill 
 A stately knight came pricking on. 
 
 That warrior's steed, so dapple gray, 
 
 Was dark with sweat, and splashed with clay ; 
 
 His armour red with many a stain: 
 He seemed in such a weary plight, 
 As if he had ridden the live-long night; 
 
 For it was William of Deioraine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But no whit weary did he seem, 
 
 When, dancing in the sunny beam, 
 
 He marked the crane on the Baron's crest; 
 
 For his ready spear was in his rest. 
 
 Few were the words, and stern, and high, 
 That marked the foeman's feudal hate ; 
 
 For question fierce, and proud reply, 
 Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
 Their very coursers seemed to know 
 That each was other's mortal foe ; 
 And snorted fire, when wheeled around, 
 To give each knight his vantage ground. 
 
 V. 
 
 In rapid round the Baron bent ; 
 
 He sighed a sigh, and prayed a prayer: 
 The prayer was to his patron saint, 
 
 The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
 
 * Wood pigeon. 
 
CANTO III. J 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 Stout Deloraine nor sighed, nor prayed, 
 
 Nor saint, nor ladye, called to aid ; 
 
 But he stooped his head, and couched his spear, 
 
 And spurred his steed to full career. 
 
 The meeting of these champions proud, 
 
 Seemed like the bursting thunder-cloud. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Stem was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
 
 The stately Baron backwards bent, 
 
 Bent backwards to his horse's tail, 
 
 And his plumes went scattering on the gale; 
 
 The tough ash spear, so stout and true, 
 
 Into a thousand flinders flew, 
 
 But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, 
 
 Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's mail J 
 
 Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, 
 
 Deep in his bosom, broke at last. 
 
 Still sate the warrior saddle fast, 
 
 Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
 
 Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
 
 Hurled on a heap lay man and horse. 
 
 The Baron onward passed his course ; 
 
 Nor knew — so giddy rolled his brain — 
 
 His foe lay stretched upon the plain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But when he reined his courser round, 
 And saw his foeman on the ground 
 
 Lie senseless as the bloody clay, 
 He bade his Page to stanch the wound, 
 
 And there beside the warrior stay, 
 And tend him in his doubtful state, 
 And lead him to Branksome castle-gate ; 
 His noble mind was inly moved 
 For the kinsman of the maid he loved, 
 " This shalt thou do without delay; 
 No longer here myself may stay: 
 Unless the swifter I speed away, 
 Short shrift will be at my dying day." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode ; 
 
 The Goblin-Page behind abode: 
 
 His Lord's command he ne'er withstood, 
 
 Though small his pleasure to do good 
 
 As the corslet oft' he took, 
 
 The Dwarf espied the Mighty Book! 
 
 Much he marvelled a knight of pride, 
 
 Like a book-bosomed priest, should ride : 
 
 He thought not to search or stanch the wound, 
 
 Until the secret he had found. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The iron band, the iron clasp, 
 
 Resisted long the elfin grasp ; 
 
 For when the first he had undone, 
 
 It closed as he the next begun. 
 
 Those iron clasps, that iron band, 
 
 Would not yield to unchristened hand, 
 
 Till he smeared the cover o'er 
 
 With the Borderer's curdled gore; 
 
 A moment then the volume spread, 
 
 And one short spell therein he read. 
 
 It had much of glamour* might, 
 
 Could make a ladye seem a knight ; 
 
 The cobwebs, on a dungeon wall, 
 
 Seem tapestry in lordly hall ; 
 
 A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, 
 
 A sheelingf seem a palace large, 
 
 And youth seem age, and age seem youth — 
 
 All was delusion, nought was truth. 
 
 He had not read another spell, 
 When on his cheek a buffet fell, 
 
 * Magical delusion. 
 
 f A shepherd's hut. 
 
 So fierce, it stretched him on the plain, 
 
 Beside the wounded Deloraine. 
 
 From the ground he rose dismayed, 
 
 And shook his huge and matted head ; 
 
 One word he muttered, and no more — 
 
 " Man of age, thou smitest sore!" 
 
 No more the Elfin Page durst try 
 
 Into the wondrous book to pry ; 
 
 The clasps, though smeared with Christian gore, 
 
 Shut faster than they were before, 
 
 He hid it underneath his cloak.' — 
 
 Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
 
 I cannot tell, so mot I thrive ; 
 
 It was not given by man alive. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Unwillingly himself he addressed, 
 
 To do his master's high behest : 
 
 He lifted up the living corse, 
 
 And laid it on the weary horse ; 
 
 He led him into Branksome hall, 
 
 Before the beards of the warders all ; 
 
 And each did after swear and say, 
 
 There only passed a wain of hay. 
 
 He took him to Lord David's tower, 
 
 Even to the Ladye's secret bower; 
 
 And, but that stronger spells were spread, 
 
 And the door might not be opened, 
 
 He had laid him on her very bed. 
 
 Whate'er he did of gramarye,* 
 
 Was always done maliciously, 
 
 He flung the warrior on the ground, 
 
 And the blood welled freshly from the wound. 
 
 XII. 
 
 As he repassed the outer court, 
 
 He spied the fair young child at sport ; 
 
 He thought to train him to the wood; 
 
 For, at a word, be it understood, 
 
 He was always for ill, and never for good. 
 
 Seemed to the boy, some comrade gay 
 
 Led him forth to the woods to play ; 
 
 On the draw-bridge the warders stout 
 
 Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He Jed the boy o'er bank and fell, 
 
 Until they came to a woodland brook ; 
 The rumiing stream dissolved the spell, 
 
 And his own elvish shape he took. 
 Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
 He had crippled the joints of the noble child ; 
 Or, with his fingers long and lean, 
 Had strangled him in fiendish spleen : 
 But his awful mother he had in dread, 
 And also l»s power was limited ; 
 So he but scowled on the startled child, 
 And darted through the forest wild : 
 The woodland brook he bounding crossed, 
 And laughed and shouted "Lost! lost! lost." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Full sore amazed at the wondrous change, 
 
 And frightened, as a child might be, 
 At the wild yell and visage strange, 
 
 And the dark words of gramarye. 
 The child, amidst the forest bower, 
 Stood rooted like a lilye flower ; 
 
 And when at length, with trembling pace, 
 He sought to find where Branksome lay, 
 
 He feared to see that grisly face 
 Glare from some thicket on his way. 
 Thus, starting oft, he journeyed on, 
 And deeper in the wood is gone ; 
 For aye the more he sought his way, 
 The farther still he went astray, 
 
©-- 
 
 10 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [CANTO III. 
 
 :® 
 
 Until he heard the mountains round 
 Ring to the baying of a hound. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And hark! and hark! the deep-mouthed bark 
 
 Comes nigher still, and nigher ; 
 Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, 
 His tawny muzzle tracked the ground, 
 
 And his red eye shot fire. 
 Soon as the wildered child saw he, 
 He flew at him right furiouslie. 
 I ween you would have seen with joy 
 The bearing of the gallant boy, 
 When, worthy of his noble sire, 
 His wet cheek glowed 'twixt fear and ire! 
 He faced the blood-hound manfully, 
 And held his little bat on high ; 
 So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, 
 At cautious distance hoarsely bayed, 
 
 But still in act to spring ; 
 When dashed an archer through the glade, 
 And when he saw the hound was stayed, 
 
 He drew his tough bow-string ; 
 But a rough voice cried, ". Shoot not, hoy! 
 Ho! shoot not, Edward — 'tis a boy!" 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The speaker issued from the wood, 
 And check'd his fellow's surly mood, 
 
 And quell'd the ban-dog's ire : 
 He was an English yeoman good, 
 
 And born in Lancashire ! 
 Well could he hit a fallow deer 
 
 Five hundred feet him fro ; 
 With hand more true, and eye more clear, 
 
 No archer bended bow. 
 His coal-black hair, shorn round and close, 
 
 Set off his sun-bumed face ; 
 Old England's sign, St George's cross, 
 
 His barret-cap did grace ; 
 His bugle-horn hung by his side, 
 
 All in a wolf-skin baldric tied: 
 And his short falchion, sharp and clear, 
 Had pierced the throat of many a deer. 
 
 XVII, 
 
 His kirtle, made of forest green, 
 Reached scantly to his knee ; 
 And, at his belt, of arrows keen 
 
 A furbished sheaf bore he ; 
 His buckler scarce in breadth a span, 
 
 No larger fence had he ; 
 He never counted him a man, 
 
 Would strike below the knee ; 
 His slackened bow was in his hand, 
 And the leash that was his blood-hound's band. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He would not do the fair child harm, 
 But held him with his powerful arm, 
 That he might neither fight nor flee ; 
 For when the Red-Cross spied he, 
 The boy strove long and violently. 
 " Now, by St George," the archer cries, 
 u Edward, methinks we have a prize! 
 This boy's fair face, and courage free, 
 Shows he is come of high degree." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Yes! I am come of high degree, 
 
 For I am the heir of bold Buccleugh ; 
 And if thou dost not set me free, 
 
 False Suthron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 
 For Walter of Harden shall come with speed, 
 And William of Deloraine, good at need, 
 And every Scott from Esk to Tweed ; 
 
 My 
 
 And if thou dost not let me go, 
 
 Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
 
 I'll have thee hanged to feed the crow!" 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Gramercy, for thy good will, fair boy! 
 My mind was never set so high ; 
 But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
 And art the son of such a man, 
 And ever comest to thy command, 
 
 Our wardens had need to keep good order; 
 bow of yew to a hazel wand, 
 
 Thou'lt make them work upon the Border. 
 Meantime, be pleased to come with me, 
 For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ; 
 I think our work is well begun, 
 When we have taken thy father's son. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Although the child was led away 
 In Branksome still he seemed to stay, 
 For so the Dwarf his part did play ; 
 And, in the shape of that young boy, 
 He wrought the castle much annoy. 
 The comrades of the young Buccleugh 
 He pinched, and beat, and overthrew! 
 Nay, some of them he well nigh slew. 
 He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire: 
 And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire, 
 He lighted the match of the bandelier,* 
 And woefully scorched the hackbutteer.*}* 
 It may be hardly thought or said, 
 The mischief that the urchin made, 
 Till many of the castle guessed, 
 That the young Baron was possessed ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Well I ween the charm he held 
 The noble Ladye had soon dispelled ; 
 But she was deeply busied then 
 To tend the wounded Deloraine. 
 
 Much she wondered to find him lie, 
 
 On the stone threshold stretched along ; 
 
 She thought some spirit of the sky 
 Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong ; 
 Because, despite her precept dread, 
 Perchance he in the book had read ; 
 But the broken lance in his bosom stood, 
 And it was earthly steel and wood. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She drew the splinter from the wound, 
 
 And with a charm she stanched the blood, 
 She bade the gash be cleansed and bound : 
 
 No longer by his couch she stood ; 
 But she has ta'en the broken lance, 
 
 And washed it from the clotted gore, 
 " And salved the splinter o'er and o'er, 
 William of Deloraine, in trance, 
 . Whene'er she turned it round and round, 
 •' Twisted, as if she galled his wound, 
 Then to her maidens she did say, 
 
 That he should be whole man and sound, 
 Within the course of a night and day. 
 Full long she toiled ; for she did rue 
 Mishap to friend so stout and true. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So passed the day — the evening fell, 
 'Twas near the time of curfew bell ; 
 The air was mild, the wind was calm, 
 The stream was smooth, the dew was balm ; 
 E'en the rude watchmen on the tower, 
 Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour. 
 
 * Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition, 
 f Hackbutteer, musketeer. 
 
©■ 
 
 CANTO III. J 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 11 I 
 
 Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed 
 The hour of silence and of rest. 
 On the high turret, sitting lone, 
 She waked at times the lute's soft tone ; 
 Touched a wild note, and all between 
 Thought of the bower of hawthorns green; 
 Her golden hair streamed free from band, 
 Her fair cheek rested on her hand, 
 Her blue eyes sought the west afar, 
 For lovers love the western star. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen 
 
 That rises slowly to her ken, 
 
 And, spreading broad its wavering light, 
 
 Shakes its loose tresses on the night? 
 
 Is yon red glare the western star? 
 
 O, 'tis the beacon blaze of war! — 
 
 Scarce could she draw her tightened breath ; 
 
 For well she knew the fire of death ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The warder viewed it blazing strong, 
 And blew his war-note loud and long, 
 Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
 Rock, wood, and river, rung around; 
 The blast alarmed the festal hall, 
 And startled forth the warriors all ; 
 Far downward, in the castle-yard, 
 Full many a torch and cresset glared; 
 And helms and plumes, confusedly tossj 1, 
 Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost; 
 And spears in wild disorder shook, 
 Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
 
 Was reddened by the torches' glare, 
 
 Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, 
 
 And issued forth his mandates loud. — 
 
 " On Penchryst glows a bale* of fire, 
 
 And three are kindling on Priesthaughswire ; 
 
 Hide out, ride out, 
 
 The foe to scout! 
 Mount, mount for Branksome, •{• every man! 
 Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 
 
 That ever are true and stout. — 
 Ye need not send to Liddesdale ; 
 For when they see the blazing bale, 
 Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
 Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life! 
 And warn the Warden of the strife. 
 Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, 
 Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fair Margaret, from the turret head, 
 Heard, far below, the courser's tread, 
 
 While loud the harness rung, 
 As to their seats, with clamour dread, 
 
 The ready horsemen sprung ! 
 And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
 And leaders' voices, mingled notes, 
 And out! and out! 
 In hasty route, 
 
 The horsemen galloped forth ; 
 Dispersing to the south to scout, 
 
 And east, and west, and north, 
 To view their coming enemies, 
 And warn their vassals and allies. 
 
 * Bale, beacon-faggot. 
 
 t Mount for Branksome was the gathering word of the 
 Scotts. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The ready page, the hurried hand, 
 Awaked the need-fire'sj slumbering brand, 
 
 And ruddy blushed the heaven : 
 For a sheet of flame, from the turret high, 
 Waved like a blood-flag on the sky, 
 
 All flaring and uneven ; 
 And soon a score of fires, I ween, 
 From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen ; 
 Each with warlike tidings fraught ; 
 Each from each the signal caught ; 
 Each after each they glanced to sight, 
 As stars arise upon the night. 
 They gleamed on many a dusky tarn,|| 
 Haunted by the lonely earn ; § 
 On many a cairn's 1T gray pyramid, 
 Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid; 
 Till high Dunedin the blazes saw, 
 From Soltra and Dumpender Law; 
 And Lothian heard the regent's order, 
 That all should bowne** them for tne Border. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The livelong night in Branksome rang 
 
 The ceaseless sound of steel ; 
 The castle-bell, with backward clang, 
 
 Sent forth the alarum peal ; 
 Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
 Where massy stone and iron bar 
 Were piled on echoing keep and tower, 
 To whelm the foe with deadly shower ; 
 Was frequent heard the changing guard, 
 And watch-word from the sleepless ward; 
 While, wearied by the endless din, 
 Blood-hound and ban-dog veiled within. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The noble dame, amid the broil, 
 Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil, 
 And spoke of danger with a smile ; 
 Cheered the young knights, and council sage 
 Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
 No tidings of the foe were brought, 
 Nor of his numbers knew they ought, 
 Nor in what time the truce he sought. 
 
 Some said that there were thousands ten ; 
 And others weened, that it was nought 
 
 But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, 
 Who came to gather in black mail ; 
 And Liddesdale, with small avail, 
 
 Might drive them lightly back agen. 
 So passed the anxious night away, 
 And welcome was the peep of day. 
 
 Ceased the high sound — the listening throng 
 
 Applaud the Master of the Song ; 
 
 And marvel much, in helpless age, 
 
 So hard should be his pilgrimage. 
 
 Had he no friend — no daughter dear, 
 
 His wandering toil to share and cheer ; 
 
 No son, to be his father's stay, 
 
 And guide him on his rugged way? — 
 
 " Aye! once he had — but he was dead!" 
 
 Upon the harp he stooped his head, 
 
 And busied himself the strings withal, 
 
 To hide the tear that fain would fall, 
 
 In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
 
 Arose a father's notes of woe. 
 
 t Need-fire, beacon. 
 || Tarn, a mountain lake. 
 IT Cairn, a pile of stones. 
 
 § Earn, a Scottish eagle. 
 * * Bowne, make ready. 
 
 : D 
 
m 
 
 12 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto IV. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide 
 
 The glaring balefires blaze no more, 
 No longer steel-clad warriors ride 
 
 Along thy wild and willowed shore ; 
 Where'er thou windst by dale or hill, 
 All, all is peaceful, all is still, 
 
 As if thy waves, since time Avas born, 
 Since first they rolled upon the Tweed, 
 Had only heard the shepherd's reed, 
 
 Nor started at the bugle-horn. 
 
 Unlike the tide of human time, 
 
 Which, though it change in ceaseless flow, 
 Retains each grief, retains each crime, 
 
 Its earliest course was doomed to know, 
 And, darker as it downward bears, 
 Is stained with past and present tears. 
 
 Low as that tide has ebbed with me, 
 It still reflects to memory's eye 
 The hour, my brave, my only boy, 
 
 Fell by the side of great Dundee. 
 Why, when the volleying musket played 
 Against the bloody Highland blade, 
 Why was not I beside him laid!— 
 Enough— he died the death of fame ; 
 Enough— he died with conquering Grame. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now over Border dale and fell, 
 
 Full wide and far, was terror spread ; 
 For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 
 
 The peasant left his lowly shed, 
 The frightened flocks and herds were pent 
 Beneath the peel's rude battlement ; 
 And maids and matrons dropped the tear, 
 While ready warriors seized the spear. 
 From Branksome's towers, the watchman's eye 
 Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, 
 Which, curling in the rising sun, 
 Showed southern ravage was begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried— 
 
 ." Prepare ye all for blows and blood! 
 Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddle side, 
 
 Comes wading through the flood. 
 Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock 
 At his lone gate, and prove the lock ; 
 It was but last St Barnabright 
 They sieged him a whole summer night, 
 But fled at morning ; well they knew, 
 In vain he never twanged the yew, 
 Right sharp has been the evening shower, 
 That drove him from his Liddle tower; 
 And, by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
 " I think 'twill prove a warden raid."* 
 
 While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 
 Entered the echoing barbican. 
 He led a small and shaggy nag, 
 That through a bog, from hag to hag.f 
 Could bound like any Bilhope stag ; 
 It bore his wife and children twain; 
 A half-clothed serf was all their train: 
 His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed, 
 Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 
 Laughed to her friends among the crowd. 
 
 * in inroad commanded by the warden in person, 
 t l^e broken ground in a bog. 
 
 He was of stature passing tall, 
 
 But sparely formed, and lean withal ; 
 
 A battered morion on his brow ; 
 
 A leathern jack, as fence enow, 
 
 On his broad shoulders loosely hung ; 
 
 A border-axe behind was slung; 
 
 His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
 
 Seemed newly died with gore ; 
 His shafts and bow, of wondrous strength, 
 
 His hardy partner bore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus to the ladye did Tinlinn show 
 
 The tidings of the English foe — 
 
 " Belted Will Howard is marching here, 
 
 And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear, 
 
 And all the German hagbut men, 
 
 Who have long lain at Askerten: 
 
 They crossed the Liddle at curfew hour, 
 
 And burned my little lonely tower ; 
 
 The fiend receive their souls therefor! 
 
 It had not been burned this year and more. 
 
 Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, 
 
 Served to guide me on my flight ; 
 
 But I was chased the live-long night. 
 
 Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus Grseme, 
 
 Fast -upon my traces came, 
 
 Until 1 turned at Priesthaugh-Serogg, 
 
 And shot their horses in the bog, 
 
 Slew Fergus with my lance outright ; 
 
 I had him long at high despite: 
 
 He drove my cows last Fastern's night." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, 
 Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale ; 
 As far as they could judge by ken, 
 
 Three hours would bring to Teviot's strand 
 Three thousand armed Englishmen. — 
 Meanwhile, full many a warlike band, 
 From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade, 
 Came in, their Chief's defence to aid. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 From fair St Mary's silver wave, 
 
 From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky height, 
 His ready lances Thirlestane brave 
 
 Arrayed beneath a banner bright. 
 The tressured fleur-de-luce he claims 
 To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
 Encamped by Fala's mossy wave, 
 The proud distinction grateful gave, 
 
 For faith mid feudal jars ; 
 What time, save Thirlestane alone, 
 Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 
 
 Would march to southern wars ; 
 And hence, in fair remembrance worn, 
 Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne, 
 Hence his high motto shines revealed, 
 " Ready, aye ready," for the field. 
 
 IX. 
 
 An aged knight, to danger steeled, 
 
 With many a moss-trooper, came on : 
 And azure in a golden field, 
 The stars and crescent graced his shield, 
 
 Without the bend of Murdieston. 
 Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower, 
 And wide round haunted Castle Ower ; 
 High over Borthwick's mountain flood, 
 His wood-embosomed mansion stood ; 
 In the dark glen, so deep below, 
 The herds of plundered England low; 
 
 ^=© 
 
©' 
 
 CANTO IV.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 13 
 
 ©: 
 
 His bold retainers' daily food, 
 And bought with danger, blows, and blood. 
 Marauding chief! his sole delight 
 The moonlight raid, the morning fight: 
 Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms, 
 In youth, might tame his rage for arms ; 
 And still hisVows the helmet pressed, 
 Albeit the blanched locks below 
 Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow: 
 
 Five stately warriors drew the sword 
 Before their father's band ; 
 
 A braver knight than Harden's lord 
 Ne'er belted on a brand. 
 
 X. 
 
 Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, 
 And warriors more than I may name ; 
 From Yarrow-cleuch to Hindhaugh-swair, 
 
 From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, 
 Trooped man and horse, and bow and spear; 
 
 Their gathering word was Bellenden ; 
 And better hearts o'er Border sod 
 To siege or rescue never rode. 
 
 The Ladye marked the aids come in, 
 And high her heart of pride arose ; 
 She bade her youthful son attend, 
 That he might know his father's friend, 
 
 And learn to face his father's foes. 
 " The boy is ripe to look on war ; 
 
 I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff", 
 And his true arrow struck afar 
 The raven's nest upon the cliff; 
 The Red Cross, on a southern breast, 
 Is broader than the raven's nest, 
 Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his weapon to 
 
 wield, 
 And o'er him hold his father's shield." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Well may you think the wily Page 
 
 Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 
 
 He counterfeited childish fear, 
 
 And shrieked, and shed full many a tear, 
 
 And moaned and plained in manner wild. 
 The attendants to the Ladye told, 
 
 Some fairy, sure, had changed the child, 
 That wont to be so free and bold. 
 Then wrathful was the noble dame ; 
 She blushed blood-red for very shame — 
 " Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view ; 
 Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch; 
 Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
 To Rangleburn's lonely side 
 Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line, 
 That coward should e'er be son of mine!" 
 
 XII. 
 
 A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had 
 To guide the counterfeited lad. 
 Soon as his palfrey felt the weight 
 Of that ill-omen'd elvish freight, 
 He bolted, sprung, and reared amain, 
 Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. 
 It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil 
 To drive him but a Scottish mile ; 
 
 But, as a shallow brook they crossed, 
 The elf, amid the running stream, 
 His figure changed, like form in dream, 
 And fled, and shouted, " Lost! lost! lost!" 
 Full fast the urchin ran and laughed, 
 But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
 Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew, 
 And pierced his shoulder through and through; 
 Although the imp might not be slain, 
 And though the wound soon healed again, 
 Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain ; 
 And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast, 
 Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood, 
 That looks o'er Branksome' s towers and wood ; 
 And martial murmurs, from below, 
 Proclaimed the approaching southern foe. 
 Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
 Were Border-pipes and bugles blown ; 
 The courser's neighing he could ken, 
 And measured tread of marching men ; 
 While broke at times the solemn hum, 
 The Almayn's sullen kettle dr'— » ; 
 
 And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 
 Above the copse appear ; 
 
 And, glistening through the hawthorns green, 
 Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Light forayers first, to view the ground, 
 Spurred their fleet coursei's loosely round; 
 
 Behind, in close array and fast, 
 The Kendal archers, all in green, 
 
 Obedient to the bugle-blast, 
 
 Advancing from the wood were seen. 
 To back and guard the archer band, 
 Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand; 
 A hardy race, on Irthing bred, 
 With kirtles white, and crosses red, 
 Arrayed beneath the banner tall, 
 That streamed o'er Acre's conquered wall ; 
 And minstrels, as they marched in order, 
 Played, "Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on the 
 Border." 
 
 XV. 
 Behind the English bill and bow, 
 The mercenaries, firm and slow, 
 
 Moved on to fight, in dark array, 
 By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
 Who brought the band from distant Rhine, 
 
 And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
 The camp their home, their law the sword, 
 They knew no country, owned no lord ; 
 They were not armed like England's sons, 
 But bore the levin-darting guns ; 
 Buff-coats, all frounced and 'broidered o'er, 
 And morsing horns* and scarfs tht j y wore ; 
 Each better knee was bared, to aid 
 The warriors in the escalade ; 
 All, as they marched, in rugged tongue, 
 Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But louder still the clamour grew, 
 
 And louder still the minstrels blew, 
 
 When, from beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry; 
 
 His men at arms, with glaive and spear, 
 
 Brought up the battle's glittering rear. 
 
 There many a youthful knight, full keen 
 
 To gain his spurs, in arms was seen ; 
 
 With favour in his crest or glove, 
 
 Memorial of his ladye-love. 
 
 So rode they forth in fair array, 
 
 Till full their lengthened lines display; 
 
 Then called a halt, and made a stand, 
 
 And cried, " St George, for merry England!" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now every English eye, intent, 
 
 On Branksome's armed towers was bent ; 
 
 So near they were, that they might know 
 
 The straining harsh of each cross bow ; 
 
 On battlement and bartizan 
 
 Gleamed axe, and spear, and partizan: 
 
 Falcon and culver, on each tower, 
 
 Stood prompt, their deadly hail to shower; 
 
 * Powder flasks. 
 
 :© 
 
14 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto IV 
 
 •f) 
 
 And flashing armour frequent broke 
 From eddying whirls of sable smoke, 
 Where, upon tower and turret head, 
 The seething pitch and molten lead 
 Reeked, like a witch's caldron red. 
 While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
 The wicket opes, and from the wall 
 Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. 
 
 XVIII. 
 Armed he rode, all save the head, 
 His white beard o'er his breast-plate spread; 
 Unbroke by age, erect his seat, 
 He ruled his eager courser's gait; 
 Forced him, Avith chastening fire, to prance, 
 And, high curvetting, slow advance ; 
 In sign of truce, his better hand 
 Displayed a peeled willow wand ; 
 His squire, attending in the rear, 
 Bore high a gauntlet on a spear. 
 When they espied him riding out, 
 Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 
 Sped to the front of their array, 
 To hear what this old knight should say. 
 
 XIX. 
 " Ye English warden lords, of you 
 Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch. 
 Why, 'gainst the truce of border-tide, 
 In hostile guise ye dare to ride 
 With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, 
 And all your mercenary band, 
 Upon the bounds of fair Scotland? 
 My Ladye redes you swith return; 
 And, if but one poor straw you burn, 
 Or do our towers so much molest, 
 As scare one swallow from her nest, 
 St Mary! but we'll light a brand, 
 Shall warm your hearts in Cumberland." 
 
 n XX. 
 
 A wrathful man was Dacre's lord, 
 But calmer Howard took the word — 
 " May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal, 
 To seek the castle's outward wall ; 
 Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show, 
 Both why we came, and when we go." 
 The message sped, the noble Dame 
 To the wall's outward circle came ; 
 Each chief around leaned on his spear, 
 To see the pursuivant appear ; 
 All in Lord Howard's livery dressed, 
 The lion argent decked his breast. 
 He led a boy of blooming hue — 
 O sight to meet a mother's view! 
 It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
 Obeisance meet the herald made, 
 And thus his master's will he said. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 
 'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords; 
 But yet they may not tamely see, 
 All through the western wardenry, 
 Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, 
 And burn and spoil the Border-side : 
 And ill beseems your rank and birth 
 To make your towers a flemens firth.* 
 We claim from thee William of Deloraine, 
 That he may suffer march-treason pain : 
 It was but last St Cuthbert's even 
 He pricked to Stapleton on Leven, 
 Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
 And slew his brother by dint of glaive ; 
 Then, since a lone and widowed Dame 
 These restless riders may not tame, 
 
 * An asylum for outlaws. 
 
 Either receive within thy towers 
 Two hundred of my master's powers, 
 Or straight they sound their warison, 
 And storm and spoil thy garrison ; 
 And this fair boy to London led, 
 Shall good king Edward's page be bred." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He ceased — and loud the boy did cry, 
 And stretched his little arms on high ; 
 Implored for aid each well-known face, 
 And strove to seek the Dame's embrace. 
 A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, 
 Gushed to her eye the unbidden tear: 
 She gazed upon the leaders, round, 
 And dark and sad each warrior frowned ; 
 Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
 She locked the struggling sigh to rest ; 
 Unaltered and collected stood, 
 And thus replied in dauntless mood. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Say to your Lords of high emprize, 
 
 Who war on women and on boys, 
 
 That either William of Deloraine [stain. 
 
 Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-treason 
 
 Or else he will the combat take 
 
 'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake. 
 
 No knight in Cumberland so good, 
 
 But William may count with him kin and blood ; 
 
 Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword, 
 
 When English blood swelled Ancram ford ; 
 
 And but that Lord Dacre's steed was wight, 
 
 And bare him ably in the flight, 
 
 Himself had seen him dubbed a knight, 
 
 For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
 
 God be his aid, and God be mine ; 
 
 Through me no friend shall meet his doom ; 
 
 Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
 
 Then if thy lords their purpose urge, 
 Take our defiance loud and high ; 
 
 Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge, 
 Our moat the grave where they shall lie." 
 XXIV. 
 Proud she looked round, applause to claim — 
 Then lightened Thirlestane's eye of flame ; 
 
 His bugle Wat of Harden blew ; 
 Pensils and pennons wide were flung, 
 To heaven the Border slogan rung, 
 
 " St Mary for the young Buccleuch!" 
 The English war-cry answered wide, 
 
 And forward bent each southern spear ; 
 Each Kendal archer made a stride, 
 
 And drew the bow-string to his ear ; 
 Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown ;— 
 But ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 
 
 A horseman galloped from the rear. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Ah! noble lords!" he, breathless, said, 
 
 " What treason has your march betrayed? 
 
 What make you here, from aid so far, 
 
 Before yon walls, around you war? 
 
 Your foemen triumph in the thought, 
 
 That in the toils the lion's caught. 
 
 Already on dark Ruberslaw 
 
 The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ; 
 
 The lances, waving in his train, 
 
 Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain ; 
 
 And on the Liddle's northern strand, 
 
 To bar retreat to Cumberland, 
 
 Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good 
 
 Beneath the eagle and the rood ; 
 
 And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale 
 Have to proud Angus come ; 
 
 And all the Merse and Lauderdale 
 Have risen with haughty Home. 
 
Q: 
 
 CANTO IV.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 •n 
 
 15 
 
 An exile from Northumberland, 
 In Liddesdale I've wandered long; 
 
 But still my heart was with merry England, 
 And cannot brook my country's wrong ; 
 And hard I've spurred all night to show 
 The mustering of the coming foe." 
 
 XXVI. 
 " And let them come!" fierce Dacre cried; 
 " For soon yon crest, my father's pride, 
 That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
 And waved in gales of Galilee, 
 From Branksome's highest towers displayed, 
 Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid! — 
 Level each harquebuss on roAv ; 
 Draw, merry archers, draw the bow ; 
 Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
 Dacre for England, win or die!" 
 
 XXVII. 
 " Yet hear," quoth Howard, " calmly hear, 
 Nor deem my words the words of fear: 
 For who in field or foray slack 
 Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back? 
 But thus to risk our Border flower 
 In strife against a kingdom's power, 
 Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands three, 
 Certes, were desperate policy. 
 Nay, take the terms the Ladye made, 
 E'er conscious of the advancing aid: 
 Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 
 In single fight: and if he gain. 
 He gains for us; but if he's crossed, 
 'Tis but a single Avarrior lost ; 
 The rest retreating as they came, 
 Avoid defeat, and death, and shame." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Ill could the haughty Dacre brook 
 His brother-warden's sage rebuke ; 
 And yet his forward step he staid, 
 And slow and sullenly obeyed ; 
 But ne'er again the Border side 
 Did these two lords in friendship ride ; 
 And this slight discontent, men say, 
 Cost blood upon another day. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The pursuivant-at-arms again 
 
 Before the castle took his stand ; 
 His trumpet called, with parleying strain, 
 
 The leaders of the Scottish band ; 
 And he defied in Musgrave's right, 
 Stout Deloraine to single fight ; 
 A gauntlet at their feet he laid, 
 And thus the terms of fight he said: — 
 " If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 
 
 Vanquish the knight of Deloraine, 
 Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's lord, 
 
 Shall hostage for his clan remain : 
 If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
 The boy his liberty shall have. 
 
 Howe'er it falls, the English band, 
 Unharming Scots, by Scots unharmed, 
 In peaceful march, like men unarmed, 
 
 Shall straight retreat to Cumberland." 
 XXX. 
 Unconscious of the near relief, 
 The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, 
 
 Though much the Ladye sage gainsayed: 
 For though their hearts were brave and true, 
 From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, 
 - How tardy was the regent's aid; 
 And you may guess the noble Dame 
 
 Durst not the secret prescience own, 
 Sprung from the art she might not name, 
 
 By which the coming help was known. 
 
 Closed was the compact, and agreed 
 That lists should be enclosed with speed 
 
 Beneath the castle, on a lawn, 
 They fixed the morrow for the strife, 
 On foot with Scottish axe and knife, 
 
 At the fourth hour from peep of dawn ; 
 When Deloraine, from sickness freed, 
 Or else a champion in his stead, 
 Should for himself and chieftain stand, 
 Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 
 
 XXXI. 
 I know right well, that, in their lay, 
 Full many minstrels sing and say, 
 
 Such combat should be made on horse, 
 On foaming steed, in full career, 
 With brand to aid, when as the spear 
 
 Should shiver in the course : 
 But he, the jovial Harper taught 
 Me, yet a youth, how it was fought 
 
 In guise which now I say ; 
 He knew each ordinance and clause 
 Of black Lord Archibald's battle laws, 
 
 In the old Douglas' day. 
 He brooked not, he, that scoffing tongue 
 Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, 
 
 Or call his song untrue : 
 For this when they the goblet plied, 
 And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, 
 
 The bard of Reull he slew. 
 On Teviot's side, in fight, they stood, 
 And tuneful hands were stained with blood: 
 Where still the thorn's white branches wave, 
 Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 
 
 XXXII. 
 Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
 That dragged my master to his tomb ; 
 
 How Ouseman's maidens tore their hair, 
 Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, 
 And rung their hands for love of him, 
 
 Who died at Jedwood Air? 
 He died! — his scholars one by one, 
 To the cold silent grave are gone ; 
 And I, alas! survive alone, 
 To muse o'er rivalries of yore, 
 And grieve that I shall hear no more 5 
 For, with my minstrel brethren fled, 
 My jealousy of song is dead. 
 
 He paused — the listening dames again 
 Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain; 
 With many a word of kindly cheer, 
 In pity half, and half sincere. 
 Marvelled the Duchess how so well 
 His legendary song could tell — 
 Of ancient deeds so long forgot ; 
 Of feuds, whose memory Avas not ; 
 Of forests, now laid Avaste and bare ; 
 Of towers, Avhich harbour noAv the hare ; 
 Of manners, long since changed and gone ; 
 Of chiefs, who under their gray stone 
 So long had slept, that fickle fame 
 Had blotted from her rolls their name, 
 And tAvined round some neAv minion's head 
 The fading Avreath for Avhich they bled — 
 In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse 
 Could call them from their marble hearse. 
 
 The Harper smiled, well pleased ; for ne'er 
 Was flattery lost on poet's ear; 
 A simple race! they waste their toil 
 For the vain tribute of a smile ; 
 E'en when in age their flame expires, 
 Her dulcet breath can fan its fires ; 
 Their drooping fancy Avakes at praise, 
 And strives to trim the short-lived blaze. 
 
 Smiled then, well pleased, the Aged Man, 
 And thus his tale continued ran. 
 
16 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto v. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 Call it not vain — they do not err, 
 Who say, that, when the poet dies, 
 
 Mute Nature mouns her worshipper, 
 And celebrates his obsequies ; 
 Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, 
 For the departed bard make moan ; 
 That mountains weep in crystal rill ; 
 That flowers in tears of balm distil ; 
 Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, 
 And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; 
 And rivers teach their rushing wave 
 To murmur dirges round his grave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn 
 
 Those things inanimate can mourn : 
 
 But that the stream, the wood, the gale, 
 
 Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
 
 Of those, who, else forgotten long, 
 
 Lived in the poet's faithful song, 
 
 And with the poet's parting breath, 
 
 Whose memory feels a second death. 
 
 The maid's pale shade who wails her lot, 
 
 That love, true love, should be forgot, 
 
 From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
 
 Upon the gentle minstrel's bier; 
 
 The phantom knight, his glory fled, 
 
 Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead: 
 
 Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, 
 
 And shrieks along the battle-plain ; 
 
 The chief, Avhose antique crownlet long 
 
 Still sparkled in the feudal song, 
 
 Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 
 
 Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
 
 His ashes undistinguished lie, 
 
 His place, his power, his memory die: 
 
 His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
 
 His tears of rage impel the rill: 
 
 All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, 
 
 Their name unknown, their praise unsung. 
 
 III. 
 
 Scarcely the hot assault was staid, 
 
 The terms of truce were scarcely made, 
 
 When they could spy, from Branksome's towers 
 
 The advancing march of martial powers ; 
 
 Thick clouds of dust afar appeared, 
 
 And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; 
 
 Bright lances, above the columns dun, 
 
 Glanced momentary to the sun; 
 
 And feudal banners fair displayed 
 
 The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 
 
 IV. 
 Vails not to tell each hardy clan, 
 
 From the fair Middle Marches came ; 
 The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
 
 Announcing Douglas, dreaded name! 
 Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, 
 Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne 
 
 Their men in battle order set ; 
 And Swinton laid the lance in rest, 
 That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 
 
 Of Clarence's Plantagenet. 
 Nor vails to tell what hundred more, 
 From the rich Merse and Lammermore, 
 And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, 
 Beneath the crest of old Dunbar, 
 
 And Hepburn's mingled banners, come, 
 Down the steep mountain glittering far, 
 
 And shouting still, " a Home, a Home!" 
 
 V. 
 
 Now squire and knight, from Branksome sent, 
 On many a courteous message went ; 
 (5) 
 
 To every chief and lord they paid 
 
 Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid ; 
 
 And told them, — how a truce was made, 
 
 And how a day of fight was ta'en *- : : 
 
 'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; 
 And how the Ladye prayed them dear, 
 
 That all would stay the fight to see, 
 
 And deign, in love and courtesy, 
 To taste of Branksome cheer. 
 Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
 Were England's noble Lords forgot ; 
 Himself, the hoary Seneschal, 
 Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 
 Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. 
 Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
 Was never dubbed, more bold in fight ; 
 Nor, when from war and armour free, 
 More famed for stately courtesy : 
 But angry Dacre rather chose 
 In his pavilion to repose. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now, noble Dame, perchance ye ask, 
 
 How these two hostile armies met? 
 Deeming it were no easy task 
 
 To keep the truce which here was set; 
 Where martial spirits all on fire, 
 Breathed only blood and mortal ire,—. 
 — By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
 By liabit, and by nation, foes, 
 
 They met on Teviot's strand: 
 They met, and sate them mingled down, 
 Without a threat, without a frown, 
 
 As brothers meet in foreign land. 
 The hands, the spear that lately grasped, 
 Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped, 
 
 Were interchanged in greeting dear ; 
 Visors were raised, and faces shown, 
 And many a friend, to friend made known, 
 
 Partook of social cheer. 
 Some drove the jolly bowl about ; 
 
 With dice and draughts some chased the day j 
 And some, with many a merry shout, 
 In riot, revelry and rout, 
 
 Pursued the foot-ball play. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, 
 
 Or sign of war been seen; 
 Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
 Those hands, so frankly interchanged, 
 
 Had dyed with gore the green: 
 The merry shout by Teviot-side. 
 Had sunk in war-cries wild' and wide, 
 
 And in the groan of death ; 
 And whingers*, now in friendship bare, 
 The social meal to part and share, 
 
 Had found a bloody sheath. 
 'Twixt truce and war such sudden change, 
 Was not unfrequent, nor held strange, 
 
 In the old Border-day ; 
 But yet on Branksome's towers and town, 
 In peaceful merriment sunk down, 
 
 The sun's declining ray. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The blithesome signs of wassel gay 
 Decayed not with the dying day £ 
 Soon through the latticed Avindows tall, 
 Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, 
 
 * A sort of knife or poniard. 
 
 :© 
 
fc 
 
 CANTO V.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 17 
 
 Divided square by shafts of stone, 
 Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone ; 
 Nor less the gilded rafters rang 
 With merry harp and beakers' clang ; 
 
 And frequent, on the darkening plain, 
 Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran, 
 
 As bands, their stragglers to regain, 
 
 Give the shrill Avatch-word of their clan ; 
 And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim 
 Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 
 
 At length the various clamours died; 
 And you might hear, from Branksome hill, 
 
 No sound but Teviot's rushing tide ; 
 Save, when the changing sentinel 
 The challenge of his watch could tell ; 
 And save, where, through the dark profound, 
 The clanging axe and hammer's sound 
 
 Rung from the nether lawn ; 
 For many a busy hand toiled there, 
 Strong pales to shape, and beams to square, 
 The list's dread barriers to prepare, 
 
 Against the morrow's dawn. 
 
 X. 
 
 Margaret from hall did soon retreat, 
 
 Despite the Dame's reproving eye ; 
 Nor marked she, as she left her seat, 
 
 Full many a stifled sigh. 
 For many a noble warrior strove 
 To win the Flower of Teviot's love, 
 
 And many a bold ally. 
 "With throbbing head and anxious heart, 
 All in her lonely bower apart, 
 
 In broken sleep she lay ; 
 By times, from silken couch she rose, 
 While yet the bannered hosts repose, 
 
 She viewed the dawning day. 
 Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
 First woke the loveliest and the best. 
 
 XL 
 
 She gazed upon the inner court, 
 
 Which in the tower's tall shadow lay ; 
 Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and snort, 
 
 Had rung the live-long yesterday ; 
 Now still as death — till, stalking slow — 
 
 The jingling spurs announced his tread — 
 A stately warrior passed below ; 
 
 But when he raised his plumed head — 
 
 Blessed Mary! can it be? 
 Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, 
 He walks through Branksome's hostile towers, 
 
 With fearless step and free. 
 She dare not sign, she dare not speak— 
 Oh! if one page's slumbers break, 
 
 His blood the price must pay! 
 Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, 
 Not Margaret's yet more precious tears, 
 Shall buy his life a day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet was his hazard small— for well 
 You may bethink you of the spell 
 
 Of that sly urchin Page; 
 This to his lord he did impart, 
 And made him seem, by glamour art, 
 
 A knight from Hermitage. 
 Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post, 
 The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed, 
 
 For all the vassalage: 
 But, O what magic's quaint disguise 
 Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes! 
 
 She started from her seat ; 
 
 While with surprise and fear she strove, 
 And both could scarcely master love — 
 Lord Henry's at her feet. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
 That foul malicious urchin had 
 
 To bring this meeting round ; 
 For happy love's a heavenly sight, 
 And by a vile malignant sprite 
 
 In such no joy is found ; 
 And oft I've deemed, perchance he thought 
 Their erring passion might have wrought 
 
 Sorrow, and sin, and shame ; 
 And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 
 And to the gentle Ladye bright, 
 
 Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
 But earthly spirit could not tell 
 The heart of them that loved so well ; 
 True love's the gift which God has given 
 To man alone beneath the heaven. 
 
 It is not Fantasy's hot fire, 
 
 Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; 
 
 It liveth not in fierce desire, 
 
 With dead desire it doth not die ; 
 It is the secret sympathy, 
 The silver link, the silken tie, 
 Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, 
 In body and in soul can bind. — 
 Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, 
 To tell you of the approaching fight. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Their warning blast the bugles blew, 
 
 The pipe's shrill port aroused each clan ; 
 In haste the deadly strife to view, 
 The trooping warriors eager ran. 
 Thick round the lists their lances stood, 
 Like blasted pines in Ettricke wood ; 
 To Branksome many a look they threw, 
 The combatants' approach to view, 
 And bandied many a word of boast, 
 About the knight each favoured most. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Meantime full anxious was the Dame ; 
 
 For now arose disputed claim. 
 
 Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
 
 'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestaine ; 
 They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, 
 And frowning brow on brow was bent; 
 But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! 
 Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
 Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain, 
 In armour sheathed from top to toe, 
 
 Appeared, and craved the combat due. 
 
 The Dame her charm successful knew, 
 
 And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When for the lists they sought the plain, 
 The stately Ladye's silken rein 
 
 Did noble Howard hold; 
 Unarmed by her side he walked, 
 And much, in courteous phrase, they talked 
 
 Of feats of arms of old. 
 Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
 Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, 
 
 With satin slashed, and lined; 
 Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
 His cloak was all of Poland fur, 
 
 His hose with silver twined; 
 His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, 
 Hung in a broad and studded belt ; 
 Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still 
 Called Noble Howard, Belted Will. 
 
 :<§> 
 
I 18 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto v. 
 
 --<& 
 
 @ 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, 
 Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, 
 
 Whose foot-cloth swept the ground ; 
 White was her wimple, and her veil, 
 And her loose locks a chaplet pale 
 
 Of whitest roses hound ; 
 The lordly Angus, by her side, 
 In courtesy to cheer her tried ; 
 Without his aid, her hand in vain 
 Had strove to guide her broidered rein. 
 He deemed she shuddered at the sight 
 Of warriors met for mortal fight ; 
 But cause of terror, all unguessed, 
 Was fluttering in her gentle breast, 
 When, in their chairs of crimson placed, 
 The Dame and she the barriers graced. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch 
 An English knight led forth to view; 
 Scarce rued the boy his present plight, 
 So much he longed to see the fight. 
 Within the lists, in knightly pride, 
 High Home and haughty Dacre ride; 
 Their leading staffs of steel they wield, 
 As marshals of the mortal field ; 
 While to each knight their care assigned 
 Like vantage of the sun and wind: 
 Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, 
 In king and queen, and wardens' name, 
 
 That none, while lasts the strife, 
 Should dare by look, or sign, or word, 
 Aid to a champion to afford, 
 
 On peril of his life ; 
 And not a breath the silence broke, 
 Till thus the alternate heralds spoke : 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ENGLISH HERALD. 
 
 Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, 
 
 Good knight and true, and freely born, 
 Amends from Deloraine to crave, 
 
 For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. 
 He sayeth, that William of Deloraine 
 
 Is traitor false by Border laws ; 
 This with his sword he will maintain, 
 
 So help him God, and his good cause ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 SCOTTISH HERALD. 
 
 Here standeth William of Deloraine, 
 Good knight and true, of noble strain, 
 Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain 
 Since he bore arms, ne'er soiled his coat, 
 And that, so help him God above, 
 He will on Musgrave's body prove, 
 He lyes most foully in his throat, 
 
 LORD DACRE. 
 
 Forward, brave champions, to the fight! 
 Sound trumpets . 
 
 LORD HOME. 
 
 1 " God defend the right !— 
 
 Then, Teviot! how thine echoes rang, 
 When bugle-sound and trumpet clang 
 
 Let loose the mortal foes, 
 And in mid list, with shield poised high, 
 And measured step and wary eye, 
 
 The combatants did close. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ill would it suit your gentle ear, 
 
 Ye lovely listeners, to hear 
 
 How to the axe the helms did sound, 
 
 And blood poured down from many a wound : 
 
 For desperate was the strife, and long, 
 And either warrior fierce and strong. 
 But, were each dame a listening knight, 
 I well could tell how warriors fight ; 
 For I have seen Avar's lightning flashing, 
 Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, 
 Seen through red blood the war-horse dashing, 
 And scorned, amid the reeling strife, 
 To yield a step for death or life. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'Tis done, 'tis done! that fatal blow 
 Has stretched him on the bloody plain ; 
 
 He strives to rise> — Brave Musgrave, no: 
 Thence never shalt thou rise again ! 
 
 He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 
 
 Undo the visor's barred band, 
 
 Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, 
 
 And give him rbom for life to gasp! — 
 
 O, bootless aid — haste, holy friar, 
 
 Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! 
 
 Of all his guilt let him be shriven, 
 
 And smooth his path from earth to heaven ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 In haste the holy friar sped, 
 
 His naked foot was dyed with red, 
 
 As through the lists he ran ; 
 Unmindful of the shouts on high, 
 That hailed the conqueror's victory, 
 
 He raised the dying man ; 
 Loose waved his silver beard and hair, 
 As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer; 
 And still the crucifix on high, 
 He holds before his darkening eye, 
 And still he bends an anxious ear, 
 His faltering penitence to hear ; 
 
 Still props him from the bloody sod, 
 Still, even when soul and body part, 
 Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 
 
 And bids him trust in God! 
 Unheard he prays ; the death pang's o'er! 
 Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As if exhausted in the fight, 
 
 Or musing o'er the piteous sight, 
 
 The silent victor stands ; 
 His beaver did he not unclasp, 
 Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp 
 
 Of gratulating hands. 
 When lo! strange cries of wild surprise, 
 Mingled with seeming terror, rise 
 
 Among the Scottish bands ; 
 And all, amid the thronged array, 
 In panic haste gave open way 
 To a half-naked ghastly man, 
 Who downward from the castle ran ; 
 He crossed the barriers at a bound, 
 
 And wild and haggard loaissd around, 
 As dizzy, and in pain ; 
 
 And all, upon the armed ground, 
 Knew William of Deloraine ! 
 Each ladye sprung from seat with speed! 
 Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 
 
 "And who art thou," they cried, 
 "Who hast this battle fought and won?" 
 His plumed helm was soon undone — 
 
 "Cranstoun of Teviotside! 
 For this fair prize I've fought and won,"— 
 And to the Ladye led her son. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Full oft the rescued boy she kissed, 
 And often pressed him to her breast ; 
 For, under all her dauntless show, 
 Her heart had throbb'd at every blow ; 
 
» - — 
 
 j CANTO V.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 =29 
 
 19 I 
 
 Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet, 
 Though low he kneeled at her feet,— 
 Me lists not tell what words were made, 
 What Douglas, Home, and Howard said— . 
 
 For Howard was a generous foe 
 And how the clan united prayed, 
 
 The Ladye would the feud forego, 
 And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
 Of Cranstoun's Lord and Teviot's Flower. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 She looked to river, looked to hill, 
 
 Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
 Then broke her silence stern and still, — 
 
 "Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me ; 
 Their influence kindly stars may shower 
 On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, 
 
 For pride is quelled, and love is free." 
 She took fair Margaret by the hand, 
 Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might stand ; 
 
 That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she. 
 '•'As I am true to thee and thine, 
 Do thou be true to me and mine ! 
 
 This clasp of love our bond shall be; 
 For this is your betrothing day. 
 And all these noble lords shall stay, 
 
 To grace it with their company." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 All as they left the listed plain, 
 
 Much of the story she did gain, 
 
 How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, 
 
 And of his Page, and of the Book, 
 
 Which from the wounded knight he took; 
 
 And how he sought her castle high, 
 
 That morn, by help of gramaiye : 
 
 How, in Sir William's armour dight, 
 
 Stolen by his Page, while slept the knight, 
 
 He took on him the single fight. 
 
 But half his tale he left unsaid, 
 
 And lingered till he joined the maid. — 
 
 Cared not the Ladye to betray, 
 
 Her mystic arts in view of day! 
 
 But well she thought, ere midnight came, 
 
 Of that strange Page the pride to tame, 
 
 From his foul hands the Book to save, 
 
 And send it back to Michael's grave — 
 
 Needs not to tell each tender word 
 
 'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's lord ; 
 
 Nor how she told of former woes, 
 
 And how her bosom fell and rose, 
 
 While he and Musgrave bandied blows — 
 
 Needs not these lovers' joys to tell ; 
 
 One day, fair maids, you'll know them well. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 William of Deloraine, some chance 
 Had wakened from his deathlike trance ; 
 
 And taught that, in the listed plain, 
 Another in his arms and shield, 
 Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, 
 
 Under the name of Deloraine. 
 Hence to the field, unarmed, he ran, 
 And hence his presence scared the clan, 
 Who held him for some fleeting wraith, 
 And not a man of blood and breath. 
 Not much this new ally he loved, 
 Yet, when he saw what hap had proved, 
 
 He greeted him right heartilie: 
 He would not waken old debate, 
 For he was void of rancorous hate, 
 Though rude, and scant of courtesy; 
 In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
 Unless when men at arms withstood, 
 Or, as was meet, for deadly feud. 
 
 He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, 
 Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe : 
 And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now, 
 
 When on dead Musgrave he looked down ; 
 Grief darkened on his rugged brow, 
 Though half disguised with a frown ; 
 And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
 His foeman's epitaph he made : — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here! 
 
 I ween my deadly enemy.; 
 For if I slew thy brother dear, 
 
 Thou slewest a sister's son to me ; 
 And when I lay in dungeon dark, 
 
 Of Naworth castle, long months three, 
 Till ransomed for a thousand mark, 
 
 Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
 And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, 
 
 And thou wert now alive, as I, 
 No mortal man should us divide, 
 
 Till one, or both of us, did die ; 
 Yet, rest thee God! for well I know, 
 I ne'er shall find a nobler foe! 
 In all the northern counties here, 
 Whose word is Snafle, spur, and spear, 
 Thou wert the best to follow gear. 
 'Twas pleasure, as we looked behind,. 
 To see how thou the chase could wind, 
 Cheer the dark blood hound on his way, 
 And with the bugle rouse the fray! 
 I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
 Dark Musgrave were alive again." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So mourned he, till Lord Dacre's band 
 Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
 They raised brave Musgrave from the field, 
 And laid him on his bloody shield ; 
 On levelled lances, four and four, 
 By turns the noble burden bore, 
 Before, at times, upon the gale, 
 Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail ; 
 Behind, four priests, in sable stole, 
 Sung requiem for the warrior's soul ; 
 Around, the horsemen slowly rode ; 
 With trailing pikes the spearmen trod; 
 And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
 Through Liddesdale, to Leven's shore! 
 Thence to Holme Coltrane's lofty nave, 
 And laid him in his father's grave. 
 
 The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song, 
 
 The mimic march of death prolong ; 
 
 Now seems it far, and now a-near, 
 
 Now meets, and now eludes, the ear; 
 
 Now seems some mountain's side to sweep, 
 
 Now faintly dies in valley deep ; 
 
 Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, 
 
 Now the sad requiem loads the gale ; 
 
 Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, 
 
 Rung the full choir in choral stave. 
 
 Alter due pause, they bade him tell, 
 Why he, who touched the harp so Avell, 
 Should thus, with ill rewarded toil, 
 Wander a poor and thankless soil, 
 When the more generous southern land 
 Would well requite his skilful hand. 
 
 The Aged Harper, howsoe'er 
 His only friend, his harp, was dear, 
 Liked not to hear it ranked so high 
 Above his flowing poesy! 
 Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 
 Misprized the land he loved so dear ; 
 High was the sound, as thus again 
 The Bard resumed his minstrel strain :- 
 
 J 
 
20 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 [canto VI. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned, 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ; 
 If such there breathe, go mark him well ; 
 For him no Minstrel's raptures swell ; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
 And doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. 
 
 II. 
 O Caledonia! stern and wild, 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child! 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 Land of the mountain and the flood, 
 Land of my sires! what mortal hand 
 Can e'er untie the filial band, 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand! 
 Still, as I view each well known scene, 
 Think what is now, and what hath been, 
 Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left! 
 And thus I love them better still, 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettricke break, 
 Although it chill my withered cheek ; 
 Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 
 Though there forgotten and alone, 
 The Bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 III. 
 Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall 
 The Minstrels came, at festive call ; 
 Trooping they came from near and far, 
 The jovial priests of mirth and war; 
 Alike for feasts and fight prepared, 
 Battle and banquet both they shared, 
 Of late before each martial clan 
 They blew their death-note in the van, 
 But now, for every merry mate, 
 Rose the portcullis' iron grate ! 
 They sound the pipe, they strike the string, 
 They dance, they revel, and they sing, 
 Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 
 IV. 
 
 Me lists not at this tide declare 
 The splendour of the spousal rite, 
 
 How mustered in the chapel fair 
 
 Both maid and matron, squire and knight ; 
 
 Me lists not tell of owches rare, 
 
 Of mantles green, and braided hair, 
 
 And kirtles furred with miniver ; 
 
 What plumage waved the altar round, 
 
 How spurs, and ringing chainlets, sound: 
 
 And hard it were for bard to speak 
 
 The changeful hue of Margai-et's cheek; 
 
 That lovely hue, which comes and flies, 
 
 As awe and shame alternate rise. 
 V. 
 
 Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 
 
 Chapel or altar came not nigh, 
 
 Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, 
 So much she feared each holy place. 
 False slanders these — I trust right well, 
 She wrought not by forbidden spell ; 
 For mighty words and signs have power 
 O'er sprites in planetary hour: 
 Yet scarce I praise their venturous part, 
 Who tamper with such dangerous art. 
 
 But this for faithful truth 1 say, 
 The Ladye by the altar stood, 
 
 Of sable velvet her array, 
 And on her head a crimson hood, 
 With pearls embroidered and entwined, 
 Guarded with gold, with ermine lined 
 A merlin sat upon her wrist, 
 Held by a leash of silken twist. 
 
 VI. 
 The spousal rites were ended soon ; 
 'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
 And in the lofty-arched hall 
 Was spread the gorgeous festival : 
 Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
 Marshalled the rank of every guest : 
 Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
 The mighty meal to carve and share: 
 O'er capon, heron-sheAv, and crane, 
 And princely peacock's gilded train, 
 And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave 
 And cygnet from St Mary's wave ; 
 O'er ptarmigan and venison, 
 The priest had spoke his benison. 
 Then rose the riot and the din, 
 Above, beneath, without, within! 
 For, from the lofty balcony, 
 Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery ; 
 Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffed, 
 Loudly they spoke, and loudly laughed ; 
 Whispered young knights, in tone more mild, 
 To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
 The hooded hawks, high perched on beam, 
 The clamour joined with whistling scream, 
 And flapped their wings, and shook their bells, 
 In concert with the staghound's yells. 
 Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, 
 From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine ; 
 Their tasks the busy sewers ply 
 And all is mirth and revelry. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Goblin Page, omitting still 
 
 No opportunity of ill, 
 
 Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, 
 
 To rouse debate and jealousy ; 
 
 Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 
 
 By nature fierce, and warm with wine. 
 
 And now in humour highly crossed, 
 
 About some steeds his band had lost, 
 
 High Avords to words succeeding still, 
 
 Smote with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill; 
 
 A hot and hardy Rutherford, 
 
 Whom men called Dickon Draw^the-sword, 
 
 He took it on the Page's saye, 
 
 Hunthill had driven these steeds away. 
 
 Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, 
 
 The kindling discord to compose : 
 
 Stern Rutherford right little said, 
 
 But bit his glove, and shook his head — 
 
 A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 
 
 Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood, 
 
 His bosom gored with many a wound, 
 
 Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found: 
 
3= 
 
 CANTO VI.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 21 
 
 m 
 
 & 
 
 Unknown the manner of his death, 
 Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; 
 But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
 That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 
 
 VIII. 
 The Dwarf, who feared his master's eye 
 Might his foul treachery espie, 
 Now sought the castle buttery, 
 Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 
 Revelled as merrily and well 
 As those, that sate in lordly selle. 
 Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise 
 The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-braes ; 
 And he, as by his breeding bound, 
 To Howard's merry-men sent it round. 
 To quit them, on the English side, 
 Red Roland Forste'r loudly cried, 
 " A deep carouse to yon fair bride!" 
 At every pledge, from vat and pail, 
 Foamed forth, in floods the nut-brown ale ; 
 While shout the riders every one, 
 Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their clan, 
 Since old Buckleuch the name did gain, 
 When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The wily Page, with vengeful thought, 
 Remembered him of Tinlinn's yew, 
 
 And swore, it should be dearly bought, 
 That ever he the arrow drew. 
 
 First, he the yeoman did molest, 
 
 With bitter gibe and taunting jest: 
 
 Told how he fled at Solway strife, 
 
 And how Hob Armstrong cheered his wife ; 
 
 Then, shunning still his powerful arm, 
 
 At unawares he wrought him harm ; 
 
 From trencher stole his choicest cheer 
 
 Dashed from his lips his can of beer, 
 
 Then, to his knee sly creeping on, 
 
 With bodkin pierced him to the bone: 
 
 The venomed wound, and festering joint, 
 
 Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
 
 The startled yeoman swore and spurned, 
 
 And board and flagons overturned : 
 
 Riot and clamour Avild began ; 
 
 Back to the hall the urchin ran ; 
 
 Took in a darkling nook his post, 
 
 And grinned and muttered, " Lost! lost! lost!" 
 
 X. 
 
 By this, the Dame, lest further fray 
 
 Should mar the concord of the day, 
 
 Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. 
 
 And first stept forth old Albert Graeme, 
 
 The Minstrel of that ancient name: 
 
 Was none who struck the harp so well, 
 
 Within the Land Debatable ; 
 
 Well friended too, his hardy kin, 
 
 Whoever lost were sure to win ; 
 
 They sought the beeves, that made their broth, 
 
 In Scotland and in England both. 
 
 In homely guise, as nature bade, 
 
 His simple song the Borderer said: — 
 
 XI. 
 
 ALBERT GR.&ME. 
 
 It was an English ladye bright, 
 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 And she would marry a Scottish knight, 
 For Love will still be lord of all. 
 
 Blithely they saw the rising sun, 
 When he shone fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 But they were sad ere day was done, 
 Though Love was still the lord of all! 
 
 Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 Her brother gave but a flask of wine 
 For ire that Love was lord of all ! 
 
 For she had lands, both meadow and lea, 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 And he swore her death, ere he would see 
 A Scottish knight the lord of all ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 That wine she had not tasted well, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall ; 
 
 When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell, 
 For Love was still the lord of all ! 
 
 He pierced her brother to the heart, 
 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall!- 
 
 So perish all, would true love part, 
 That Love may still be lord of all ! 
 
 And then he took the cross divine, 
 
 Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, 
 
 And died for her sake in Palestine, 
 So Love was still the lord of all ! 
 
 Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 
 The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,' 
 
 Pray for their souls Avho died for love, 
 For Love shall still be lord of all ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 As ended Albert's simple lay, 
 
 Arose a bard of loftier port! 
 For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 
 
 Renowned in haughty Henry's court ; 
 There rung thy harp, unrivalled long, 
 Fitztraver of the silver song. 
 
 The gentle Surrey loved his lyre' — 
 Who has not heard of Surrey's fame ? 
 
 His was the hero's soul of fire, 
 
 And his the bard's immortal name, 
 And his was love, exalted high 
 By all the glow of chivalry. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 They sought, together, climes afar, 
 
 And oft, within some olive grove, 
 When evening came, with twinkling star, 
 
 They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
 His step the Italian peasant staid, 
 
 And deemed, that spirits from on high, 
 Round where some hermit saint was laid, 
 
 Were breathing heavenly melody ; 
 So sweet did harp and voice combine, 
 To praise the name of Geraldine. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Fitztraver ! what tongue may say 
 The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, 
 
 When Surrey, of the deathless lay, 
 Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew? 
 
 Regardless of the tyrant's frown, 
 
 His harp called wrath and vengeance down.' 
 
 He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 
 
 Windsor's green glades, and courtly bowers, 
 
 And, faithful to his patron's name, 
 
 With Howard still Fitztraver came ; 
 
 Lord William's foremost favourite he, 
 
 And chief of all his minstrelsy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 FITZTRAVER. 
 
 'Twas : All-soul's eve, and Surrey's heart beat 
 
 high, [start, 
 
 He heard the midnight-bell with anxious 
 
 Which told the mystic hour, approaching ni gh, 
 
 When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, 
 
 =t3> 
 
» 
 
 22 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 % 
 
 [canto VI. 
 
 ©: 
 
 To show to him the'ladye of his heart, 
 
 Albeit betwixt them roared the ocean grim ; 
 Yet so the sage had hight to play his part, 
 That he should see her form in life and 
 limb; 
 And mark, if still she loved, and still she thought 
 of him. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, 
 
 To which the wizard led the gallant knight, 
 Save that before a mirror, huge and high, 
 
 A hallowed taper shed a glimmering light 
 On mystic implements of magic might, 
 
 On cross, and character, and talisman, 
 And almagest, and altar, nothing bright: 
 
 For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan, 
 As watch-light by the bed of some departing 
 man. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But soon within that mirror, huge and high, 
 
 Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ; 
 And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy, 
 
 Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream, 
 Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem 
 
 To form a lordly and a lofty room, 
 Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, 
 
 Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, " 
 And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid hi 
 gloom. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fair all the pageant — but how passing fair 
 
 The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind ! 
 O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel hair, 
 Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined ; 
 All in her night-robe loose, she lay reclined, 
 
 And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine 
 Some strain, that seemed her inmost soul to 
 find— 
 :>:__ That favoured strain was Surrey's raptured 
 
 line 
 That fair and lovely form, the Ladye Geraldine. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely form, 
 
 And swept the goodly vision all away — 
 So royal envy rolled the murky storm 
 
 O'er my beloved Master's glorious day. 
 Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay 
 
 On thee, and on thy children's latest line, 
 The wild caprice of thy despotic sway, 
 
 The gory bridal bed, the plundered shrine, 
 The murdered Surrey's blood, the tears of Ge- 
 raldine ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Both Scotts, and Southern chiefs, prolong 
 
 Applauses of Fitztraver's song ; 
 
 These hated Henry's name as death, 
 
 And those still held the ancient faith. 
 
 Then, from his seat, with lofty air, 
 
 Rose Harold, bard of brave St Clair ; 
 
 St Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
 
 Had with that lord to battle come. 
 
 Harold was born where restless seas 
 
 Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 
 
 Where erst St Clairs held princely sway, 
 
 O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ; 
 
 Still nods their palace' to its fall, 
 
 Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall! — 
 
 Thence oft he marked fierce Pentland rave, 
 
 As if grim Odin rode her. wave ; 
 
 And watched, the whilst, with visage pale, ! 
 
 And throbbing heart, the struggling sail; 
 
 For all of wonderful and wild, 
 
 Had rapture for the lonely child. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And much of wild and wonderful, 
 
 In these rude isles, might fancy cull ; 
 
 For thither came, in times afar, 
 
 Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, 
 
 The Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood, 
 
 Skilled to prepare the raven's food ; 
 
 Kings of the main their leaders brave, 
 
 Their barks the dragons of the wave. 
 
 And there, in many a stormy vale, 
 
 The Scald had told his wondrous tale ; 
 
 And many a Runic column high 
 
 Had Avitnessed grim idolatry. 
 
 And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
 
 Learned many a Saga's rhyme uncouth, 
 
 Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curled, 
 
 Whose monstrous circle girds the world ; 
 
 Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell 
 
 Maddens the battle's bloody swell ; 
 
 Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom, 
 
 By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
 
 Ransacked the graves of warriors old, 
 
 Their falchions wrenched from corpses' hold, 
 
 Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
 
 And bade the dead arise to arms! 
 
 With war and wonder all on flame, 
 
 To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, 
 
 Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, 
 
 He learned a milder minstrelsy ; 
 
 Yet something of the Northern spell 
 
 Mixed with the softer numbers well. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 listen, listen, ladies gay! 
 
 No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
 Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 
 
 That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 ■ — " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 
 
 And gentle ladye, deign to stay! 
 Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
 
 Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 
 
 " The blackening wave is edged with white ; 
 
 To inch* and rock the sea-mews fly : 
 The fishers have heard the Water Sprite, 
 
 Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. 
 
 Last night the gifted seer did view, 
 A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ; 
 
 Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch: 
 Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?" — 
 
 " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
 
 To night at Roslin leads the ball, 
 But that my Ladye-mother there 
 
 Sits lonely in her castle hall. 
 
 " 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
 And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
 
 But that my sire the wine will chide, 
 If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." 
 
 O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
 
 A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 
 
 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light, 
 And redder than the blight moon-beam. 
 
 It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
 It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 
 
 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
 And seen from caverned Hawthornden. 
 
 Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie ; 
 
 * Inch, Isle. 
 
 :© 
 
©- 
 
 CANTO VI.] 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 23 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply. 
 
 Seemed all on fire within, around, 
 
 Deep sacristy and altar's pale : 
 Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 
 
 And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 
 
 Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
 Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 
 
 So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
 The lordly line of high St Clair. 
 
 There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
 Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
 
 Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
 But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 
 
 And each St Clair was buried there, . ! 
 
 With candle, with book, and with knell : 
 But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
 
 The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 
 
 Scarce marked the guests the darkened hall 
 Though, long before the sinking day, 
 
 A wondrous shade involved them all ; 
 It was not eddying mist or fog, 
 Drained by the sun from fen or bog ; 
 
 Of no eclipse had sages told; 
 And yet, as it came on apace, 
 Each one could scarce his neighbour's face, 
 
 Could scarce his own stretched hand behold. 
 A secret horror checked the feast, 
 And chilled the soul of every guest ; 
 Even the high Dame stood half aghast, 
 She knew some evil on the blast ; 
 The elvish Page fell to the ground, 
 And, shuddering, muttered, "Found! found! 
 found!" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Then sudden through the darkened air 
 
 A flash of lightning came! 
 So broad, so bright, so red the glare, 
 
 The castle seemed on flame ; 
 Glanced every rafter of the hall, 
 Glanced every shield upon the wall. 
 Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone, 
 Were instant seen, and instant gone ; 
 Full through the guests' bedazzled band 
 Resistless flashed the levin-brand, 
 And filled the hall with smouldering smoke, 
 As on the elvish Page it broke ; 
 
 It broke, with thunder long and loud, 
 
 Dismayed the brave, appalled the proud, 
 From sea to sea the larum rung : 
 
 On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal, 
 To arms the startled wardens sprung. 
 When ended was the dreadful roar, 
 The elvish Dwarf was seen no more! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, 
 Some saw a sight, not seen by all ; 
 That dreadful voice was heard by some, 
 Cry, with loud summons, " Gylbyn, Come!" 
 
 And on the spot where burst the brand, 
 Just where the Page had flung him down, 
 
 Some saw an arm, and some a hand, 
 And some the waving of a gown. 
 The guests in silence prayed and shook, 
 4.nd terror dimmed each lofty look: 
 But none of all the astonished train 
 Was so dismayed as Deloraine ; 
 His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 
 'Twas feared his mind would ne'er return ; 
 
 For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, 
 Like him of whom the story ran, 
 "Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. 
 At length, by fits, he darkly told, 
 With broken hint, and shuddering cold— > 
 That he had seen, right certainly, 
 A shape, with amice Avrapped around, 
 With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
 Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 
 And knew — but how it mattered not — 
 It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The anxious crowd, with horror pale, 
 All trembling, heard the wondrous tale: 
 
 No sound was made, no word was spoke, 
 
 Till noble Angus silence broke ; 
 And he a solemn sacred plight 
 
 Did to St Bryd of Douglas make, 
 
 That he a pilgrimage would take 
 
 To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 
 Of Michael's restless sprite. 
 Then each, to ease his troubled breast, 
 To some blessed saint his prayers addressed; 
 Some to St Modan made their vows, 
 Some to St Mary of the Lowes, 
 Some to the holy Rood of Lisle, 
 Some to our Lady of the Isle ; 
 Each did his patron witness make, 
 That he such pilgrimage would take, 
 And monks should sing, and bells should toll, 
 All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
 While vows were ta'en, and prayers were prayed, 
 'Tis said the noble Dame, dismayed, 
 Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Nought of the bridal will I tell, 
 
 Which after in short space befel ; 
 
 Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
 
 Blessed Teviot's flower and Cranstoun's heir ; 
 
 After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain 
 
 To wake the note of mirth again ; 
 
 More meet it were to mark the day 
 
 Of penitence and prayer divine, 
 When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array, 
 
 Sought Melrose' holy shrine. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, 
 
 And arms enfolded on his breast, 
 
 . Did every pilgrim go ; 
 
 The standers-by might hear uneath, 
 
 Footstep, or voice, or high drawn-breath, 
 
 Through all the lengthened row : 
 No lordly look, no martial stride, 
 Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, 
 
 Forgotten their renown ; 
 Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide 
 To the high altar's hallowed side, 
 
 And there they kneel them down: 
 Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
 The banners of departed brave. 
 Beneath the lettered stones were laid 
 The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
 From many a garnished niche around, 
 Stern saints and tortured martyrs frowned. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And slow up the dim aisle afar, 
 With sable cowl and scapular, 
 And snow-white stoles, in order due, 
 The holy fathers, two and two, 
 
 In long procession came ; 
 Taper, and host, and book they bare, 
 And holy banner, flourished fair 
 
 With the Redeemer's name ; 
 
24 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 t) 
 
 [canto yj. 
 
 Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
 The mitred abbot stretched his hand, 
 
 And blessed them as they kneeled ; 
 With holy cross he signed them all, 
 And prayed they might be sage in hall, 
 
 And fortunate in field. 
 Then mass was sung, and prayers were said, 
 And solemn requiem for the dead, 
 And bells tolled out their mighty peal, 
 For the departed spirit's weal ; 
 And ever in the office close 
 The hymn of intercession rose ; 
 And far the echoing aisles prolong 
 The awful burthen of the song. 
 
 Dies ir;e, dies illa, 
 solvet sieclum in fav1lla ; 
 While the peeling organ rung ; 
 Were it meet with sacred strain 
 To close my lay, so light and vain, 
 Thus the holy fathers sung : — 
 
 ^krnnn for tfje &?a&. 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
 What power shall be the sinner's stay? 
 How shall he meet that dreadful day? 
 
 When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll ; 
 When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
 Swells the high trump that wakes the dead. 
 
 ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
 When man to judgment wakes from clay, 
 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 
 Hushed is the harp — the Minstrel gone, 
 And did he wander forth alone? 
 Alone, in indigence and age, 
 To linger out his pilgrimage? 
 No — close beneath proud Newark's towei-j 
 Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower ; 
 A simple hut' — but there was seen 
 The little garden hedged with green, 
 The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
 There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze, 
 Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
 For much he loved to ope his door, 
 And give the aid he begged before. 
 So passed the winter's day — but still, 
 When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
 And July's eve, with balmy breath, 
 Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath ; 
 When throstles hung on Hare-head shaw ; 
 And corn waved green on Carterhaugh, 
 And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
 The aged Harper's soul awoke! 
 Then would he sing achievements high, 
 And circumstance of chivalry, 
 Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
 Forgetful of the closing day ; 
 And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
 Forsook the hunting of the deer; 
 And Yarrow, as he rolled along, 
 Bore burden to the Minstrel's song, 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 The feast was over in Branksome tower.— Stanza i. 
 
 The barony of Branksome, or Branxholm, lay 
 upon the Teviot, about three miles above Ha- 
 wick, and was at an early period the principal 
 seat of the Buccleugh family. It continued to 
 be so while security was any object in their 
 choice of a mansion. It has been the residence 
 of the commissioners or chamberlains of the 
 family. — From the various alterations which the 
 building has undergone, it is not only greatly 
 restricted in its dimensions, but retains little of 
 the castellated form, if we except one square 
 tower of massy thickness, being the only part of 
 the original building which now remains. The 
 extent of the ancient edifice can still be traced 
 by some vestiges of its foundation, and its 
 strength is obvious from the situation, on a deep 
 bank surrounded by the Teviot, and flanked by 
 a deep ravine, formed by a precipitous brook. 
 
 Bards long shall tell 
 
 How Lord Walter fell. — Stanza vii. 
 
 Walter Scott, of Buccleugh, succeeded to his 
 grandfather, Sir David, in 1492. He was a 
 brave and powerful baron, .and warden of the 
 west marches of Scotland. His death was the 
 consequence of a feud betwixt the Scotts and 
 Kerrs. 
 
 In the year 1526, in the words of Pitscottie, 
 " The Earl of Angus, and the rest of the Doug- 
 lasses, ruled all which they liked, and no man 
 durst say the contrary: wherefore the king 
 
 (James V. then a minor,) was heavily displeased, 
 and would fain have been out of their hands, if 
 he might by any way: And to that effect wrote 
 a quiet and secret letter with his own hand, and 
 sent it to the laird of Buccleuch, beseeching 
 him that he would come with his kin and friends, 
 and all the force that he might be, and meet him 
 at Melross, at his home-passing, and there to 
 take him out of the Douglasses hands. This 
 letter was received very thankfully by the laird 
 of Buccleuch, and he convened all his kin and 
 friends, to ride with him to Melross, when he 
 knew of the king's home-coming. And so he 
 brought with him six hundred spears, of Liddis- 
 dale, and Annandale, and held themselves quiet 
 while that of the king returned out of Jedburgh, 
 and came to Melrose, to remain there all that 
 night. But when the Lord Hume, Cessfoord, 
 and Fernyhirst (the chiefs of the clan of Kerr,) 
 took their leave of the king, and returned home, 
 then appeared the lord of Buckleuch and his 
 company with him, in an arrayed battle, intend- 
 ing to have fulfilled the king's petition, and 
 therefore came stoutly forward on the back side 
 of Halidenhill. By that the Earl of Angus, 
 with George Douglas his brother, marvelled 
 what the matter meant ; while at the last they 
 knew the laird of Buccleuch, with a certain 
 company of the thieves of Annandale ; with him 
 they were less affeared, and made them manfully 
 to the field contrary them, and said to the king 
 in this manner, " Sir, yon is Buccleuch, and 
 thieves of Annandale with him, to unbeset your 
 
 & 
 
NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 25 
 
 I grace from the gate fi. e. interrupt your passage). 
 
 I I vow to God they shall either fight or flee ; and 
 J ye shall tarry hereon this know, and my brother 
 I George with you, with any other company you 
 | please ; and I shall pass, and put yon thieves off 
 the ground." The king tarried still, as was 
 j devised: and George Douglas with him, and 
 sundry other lords, such as the earl of Lennox 
 and the Lord Erskine, and some of the king's 
 own servants ; but all the lave (rest) past with 
 the earl of Angus to the field against the laird 
 of Buccleuch, who joyned and countered cruelly 
 both the said parties in the field of Darnelinvir, 
 either against other, with uncertain victory. 
 But at the last, the Lord Hume, hearing word 
 of that matter how it stood, returned again to 
 the king in all possible haste, with him the 
 lairds of Cessfoord and Fairnyhirst, to the num- 
 ber of fourscore spears, and set freshly on the 
 lap and wing of the laird of Buccleuch's field, 
 and shortly bare them backward to the ground ; 
 which caused the laird of Buccleuch, and the 
 rest of his friends, to go back and flee, whom 
 they followed and chased ; and especially the 
 lairds of Cessfoord and Fairnihirst followed furi- 
 ouslie, till at the foot of a path the laird of Cess- I 
 foord was slain by the stroke of a spear by an 
 Elliot, who was then servant to the laird of Buc- 
 cleuch. But when the laird of Cessfoord was 
 slain, the chase ceased. The earl of Angus re- 
 turned again with great merriness and victory, 
 and thanked God that he saved him from that 
 chance, and past with the king to Melross, 
 where they remained all that night. On the 
 morn they past to Edinburgh with the king, who 
 was very sad anidolorous of the slaughter of the 
 laird of Cessfoord, and many other gentlemen 
 and yeomen slain by the laird of Buccleuch, 
 containing the number of fourscore and fifteen, 
 which died in defence of the king, and at the 
 command of his writing." 
 
 In consequence of the battle of Melrose, there 
 ensued a deadly feud betwixt the names of Scott 
 and Kerr, which, in spite of all means used to 
 bring about an agreement, raged for many years 
 upon the Borders. The most signal act of vio- 
 lence, to which this quarrel gave rise, was, the 
 murder of Sir Walter himself, who was slain by 
 the Kerrs in the streets of Edinburgh, in 1552. 
 This is the event alluded to in Stanza VII. ; and 
 the poem is supposed to open shortly after it had 
 taken place. 
 
 Before Lord Cranstouu she should wed. — Stanza x. 
 The Cranstouns, Lord Cranstoun, are an an- 
 cient Border family, whose chief seat was at 
 Crailing in Teviotdale. They were at this time 
 at feud with the clan of Scott, for it appears 
 that the Lady of Buccleuch, in 1557, beset the 
 laird of Cranstoun, seeking his life. — Neverthe- 
 less, the same Cranstoun, or perhaps his son, 
 was married to a daughter of the same lady. 
 
 His form no darkening- shadow traced 
 Upon the sunny wall ! — Stanza xi. 
 The shadow of a necromancer is independent 
 of the sun. Glycas informs us, that Simon 
 Magus caused his shadow to go before him, 
 making people believe it was an attendant spirit. 
 Heywood's Hierarchic, p. 475. — The vulgar 
 conceive, that when a class of students have 
 made a certain progress in their mystic studies, 
 they are obliged to run through a subterraneous 
 hall, where the devil literally catches the hind- 
 most in the race, unless he crosses the hall so 
 speedily, that the arch enemy can only appre- 
 hend his shadow. In the latter case, the person 
 
 to 
 
 of the sage never after throws any shade ; and 
 those, who have thus lost their shadow, always 
 prove the best magicians. 
 
 A fancied mosstrooper, &c— Stanza xix. 
 This was the usual appellation of the maraud- 
 ers upon the Border; a profession diligently 
 pursued by the inhabitants on both sides, and 
 by none more actively and successfully than by 
 Buccleuch's clan. Long after the union of the 
 crowns, the moss-troopers, although sunk in re- 
 putation, and no longer enjoying the pretext of 
 national hostility, continued to pursue their 
 calling. 
 
 William of Deloraine.— Stanza xx. 
 The lands of Deloraine are joined to those of 
 Buccleuch, in Ettricke Forest. They were im- 
 memorially possessed by the Buccleuch family 
 under the strong title of occupancy, although no 
 charter was obtained from the crown until 1545. 
 Like other possessions, the lands of Deloraine 
 were occasionally granted by them to vassals or 
 kinsmen, for Border-service. 
 
 As glanced his eye o'er Halidon.— Stanza xxx. 
 Halidon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs of 
 Cessford, now demolished. About a quarter of 
 a mile to the northward lay the field of battle 
 betwixt Buccleuch and Angus, which is called 
 to this day the Skirmish field. 
 
 Old Melrose rose, and fair Tweed ran Stanza xxxi. 
 
 The ancient and beautiful monastery of Mel- 
 rose was founded by King David I. Its ruins 
 afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture, 
 and Gothic sculpture, which Scotland can boast. 
 The stone, of which it is built, though it has re- 
 sisted the weather for many ages, retains perfect 
 sharpness, so that even the most minute orna- 
 ments seem as entire as when newly wrought. 
 In some of the cloisters, as is hinted in the next 
 Canto, there are representations of flowers, vege- 
 tables, &c, carved in stone, with accuracy and 
 precision so delicate, that we almost distrust our 
 senses, when we consider the difficulty of sub- 
 jecting so hard a substance to such intricate and 
 exquisite modulation. This superb convent was 
 dedicated to St Mary, and fhe monks were of 
 the Cistercian order. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 . Thy low and lonely urn, 
 
 O gallant chief of Otterburn.— Stanza x. 
 
 The famous and desperate battle of Otterburne 
 was fought 15th August, 1388, betwixt Henry 
 Percy, called Hotspur, and James Earl of Doug- 
 las. Both these renowned champions were at 
 the head of a chosen body of troops, and they 
 were rivals in military fame. The issue of the 
 conflict is well known: Percy was made prisoner 
 and the Scots won the day, dearly purchased by 
 the death of their gallant general, the Earl of 
 Douglas, who was slain in the action. He was 
 buried at Melrose beneath the high altar. 
 
 Dark knight of Liddesdale — Stanza x. 
 
 William Douglas, called the knight of Lid- 
 desdale, flourished during the reign of David II. ; 
 and was so distinguished by his valour, that he 
 was called the Flower of Chivalry. Neverthe- 
 less, he tarnished his renown by the cruel mur- 
 der of Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie, 
 originally his friend and brother in arms. The 
 king had conferred upon Ramsay the sheriffdom 
 of Teviotdale, to which Douglas pretended some 
 claim. In revenge of this preference, the knight 
 
 © 
 
26 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 -@ 
 
 of Liddesdale came down upon Ramsay, while 
 he was administering justice at Hawick, seized, 
 and carried him off to his remote and inacces- 
 sible castle of Hermitage, where he threw his 
 unfortunate prisoner, horse and man, into a dun- 
 geon, and left him to perish of hunger. It is 
 said, the miserable captive prolonged his exis- 
 tence for several days by the corn which fell 
 from a granary above the vault in which he was 
 confined. So weak was the royal authority, that 
 David, though highly incensed at this atrocious 
 murder, found himself obliged to appoint the 
 knight of Liddesdale successor to his victim, as 
 sheriff of Teviotdale. But he was soon after 
 slain, while hunting in Ettricke Forest, by his 
 own god-son and chieftain, William, Earl of 
 Douglas, in revenge, according to some authors, 
 of Ramsay's murder. The place where the 
 knight of Liddesdale was killed, is called from 
 his name, William's cross, upon the ridge of a 
 hill called William-hape, betwixt Tweed and 
 Yarrow. His body, according to Godscroft, was 
 carried to Lindean church the first night after 
 his death, and thence to Melrose, where he was 
 interred with great pomp, and where his tomb is 
 still shown. 
 
 A Scottish monarch slept below.— Stanza xii. 
 
 A large marble stone, in the chancel of Mel- 
 rose, is pointed out as the monument of Alexan- 
 der II., one of the greatest of our early kings; 
 others say it is the resting place of Waldeve, 
 one of the early abbots, who died in the odour 
 of sanctity. 
 
 . The wondrous Michael Scott.— Stanza xiii. 
 
 Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished 
 during the thirteenth century: and was one of 
 the ambassadors sent to bring the Maid of Nor- 
 way to Scotland upon the death of Alexander 
 III. By a poetical anachronism, he is here 
 placed in a later era. He was a man of much 
 learning, chiefly acquired in foreign countries. 
 Dempster informs us, that he remembers to have 
 heard' in his youth, that the magic books of 
 Michael Scott were still in existence, but could 
 not be opened without danger, on account of the 
 fiends who were thereby invoked. The memory 
 of Sir Michael Scott survives in many a legend ; 
 and in the south of Scotland, any work of great 
 labour and antiquity is ascribed, either to the 
 agency of Auld Michael, of Sir William Wallace, 
 or of the devil. Tradition varies concerning 
 the place of his burial ; some contend for Holme 
 Coltrame, in Coltrame in Cumberland; others 
 for Melrose Abbey. But all agree, that his 
 books of magic were interred in his grave, or 
 preserved in the convent where he died. 
 Salamanca's cave. — Stanza xiii. 
 
 Spain, from the reliques, doubtless, of Arabian 
 learning and superstition, was accounted a fa- 
 vourite residence of- magicians.' — There were 
 public schools, where magic, or rather the 
 sciences supposed to involve its mysteries, were 
 regularly taught, at Toledo, Seville, and Sala- 
 manca. In the latter city, they were held in a 
 deep cavern ; the mouth of which was walled up 
 by Queen Isabella, wife of King Ferdinand. 
 
 The bells would ring- in Notre Dame.— Stanza xiii. 
 
 Michael Scott was chosen, it is said, to go 
 upon an embassy, to obtain from the king of 
 France satisfaction for certain piracies commit- 
 ted by his subjects upon those of Scotland. 
 Instead of preparing a new equipage and splen- 
 did retinue, the ambassador retreated to his 
 study, opened his book, and evoked a fiend in 
 the shape of a huge black horse, mounted upon 
 
 Iris back, and forced him to fly through the 
 air towards France. When he arrived at Paris, 
 he tied his horse at the gate of the palace, en- 
 tered, and boldly delivered his message. An 
 ambassador, with so little of the pomp and cir- 
 cumstance of diplomacy, was not received with 
 much respect ; and the king was about to return 
 a contemptuous refusal to his demand, when 
 Michael besought him to suspend his resolution 
 till he had seen his horse stamp three times. 
 The first stamp shook every steeple in Paris, 
 and caused all the bells to ring ; the second threw 
 down three of the towers of the palace ; and the 
 infernal steed had lifted his hoof to give the 
 third stamp, when the king rather chose to dis- 
 miss Michael with the most ample concessions, 
 than to stand to the probable consequences. 
 Upon another occasion, the magician, having 
 studied so long in. the mountains that he became 
 faint for the want of food, sent his servant to 
 procure some from the nearest farm-house. The 
 attendant received a churlish denial from the 
 farmer. — Michael commanded him to return to 
 this rustic Nabal, and lay down his cap, or 
 bonnet, repeating these words, 
 
 Maister Michael Scott's man 
 
 Sought meat, and gat nane. 
 When this was done and said, the enchanted 
 bonnet became suddenly inflated, and began to 
 run round the house with great speed, pursued 
 by the farmer, his wife, his servants, and the 
 reapers, who were on the neighbouring har'st 
 rigg. No one had the power to resist the fas- 
 cination, or refrain from joining in pursuit of 
 the bonnet, until they were totally exhausted 
 with their ludicrous exercise.^ Michael, like 
 his predecessor Merlin, fell at"ast a victim to 
 female art. His wife, or concubine, elicited out 
 of him the secret, that his art could ward off 
 any danger except the poisonous qualities of 
 broth, made of the flesh of a breme sow. Such 
 a mess she accordingly administered to the 
 wizard, who died in consequence of eating it; 
 surviving, however, long enough to put to death 
 his treacherous confidant. 
 
 The words, that cleft Eildon hills in three, 
 And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone. 
 
 Stanza xiii. 
 
 Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much 
 embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under 
 the necessity of finding constant employment. 
 He commanded him to build a cauld, or dam- 
 head, across the Tweed at Kelso; it was accom- 
 plished in one night, and still does honour to the 
 infernal architect. Michael next ordered, that 
 Eildon hill, which was then a uniform cone, 
 should be divided into three. Another night 
 was sufficient to part its summit into the three 
 picturesque peaks which it now bears. At 
 length the enchanter conquered this indefatiga- 
 ble daemon, by employing him in the hopeless 
 and endless task of making ropes out of sea-sand. 
 The Baron's Dwarf his courser held.— Stanza xxxf. 
 
 The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page is 
 taken from a being called Gilpin Horner, who 
 appeared, and made some stay, at a farm-house 
 among the Border-mountains. " The only cer- 
 tain, at least most probable, account, that ever 
 I heard of Gilpin Horner, was from an old man 
 who was born in Eskedale-muir, the place where 
 Gilpin appeared and staid for some time. He 
 said there were two men, late in the. evening, 
 when it was growing dark, employed in fastening 
 the horses upon the uttermost part of their 
 ground, when they heard a voice, at some dis- 
 tance, crying « tint! tint! tint!' (lost.) One of 
 
NOTES TO CANTO IV, 
 
 a© 
 
 27 
 
 the men, named Moffat, called out, ' What de'il 
 has tint you? Come here.' Immediately a 
 creature of something like a human form ap- 
 peared. It was surprisingly little, distorted in 
 features, and mis-shapen in limbs. As soon as 
 the two men could see it plainly, they ran home 
 in a great fright, imagining they had met with 
 some goblin. By the way Moffat fell, and it ran 
 over him, and was at the house as soon as any 
 of them, and staid there a long time. It was 
 real flesh and blood, and ate and drank, was fond 
 of cream, and when it could get at it, would 
 destroy a great deal. It seemed a mischievous 
 creature ; and any of the children whom it could 
 master, it would beat and scratch without mercy. 
 It was once abusing a child belonging to Moffat, 
 and he, in a passion, struck it so violent a blow 
 upon the side of the head, that it tumbled upon 
 the ground: but it was not stunned; for it set 
 up its head directly, and exclaimed, « Ah hah, 
 Will o' Moffat, you strike sair!' (viz. sore). 
 After it had staid there long, one evening it was 
 playing among the children, when suddenly they 
 heard a loud shrill voice cry, three times, Gilpin 
 Horner! It started, and said, ' That is me, I 
 must aicay;' and instantly disappeared, and was 
 never heard of more." Besides constantly re- 
 peating the word tint! tint! Gilpin Horner was 
 often heard to call upon Peter Bertram, or Be- 
 te-ram, as he pronounced the word ; and when 
 the shrill voice called Gilpin Horner, he im- 
 mediately acknowledged it was the summons of 
 the said Peter Bertram, who seems therefore to 
 have been the devil who had tint, or lost, the 
 little imp. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 He marked the crane on the Baron's crest.— Stanza iv. 
 
 The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion to 
 their name, is a crane dormant, holding a stone 
 in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto, 
 Thou shalt icant ere I want. 
 Like a book-bosomed priest, should ride.— Stanza viii. 
 
 "At Unthank, two miles N. E. from the 
 church (of Ewes,) there are the ruins of a chap- 
 pie for divine service, in time of popery. There 
 is a tradition, that friars were wont to come 
 from Melrose, or Jedburgh, to baptize and 
 marry in this parish ; and, from being in use to 
 carry the mass-book in their bosomes, they were 
 called by the inhabitants Book a-bosomes. There 
 is a man yet alive, who knew old men who had 
 been baptized by these Book a-bosomes, and who 
 says one of them called Hair, used this parish 
 for a long time." — Account of Parish of Ewes, 
 apud Macfarlane's MSS. 
 The running stream dissolved the spell.— Stanza xiii. 
 
 It is a firm article of popular faith, that no 
 enchantment can subsist in a living stream. 
 Nay, if you can interpose a brook betwixt you, 
 and witches, spectres, or even fiends, you are in 
 perfect safety. Burns's inimitable Tarn o' Shanter 
 turns entirely upon such a circumstance. The 
 belief.seems to be of antiquity. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 Great Dundee.— Stanza ii. 
 The viscount of Dundee, slain in the battle 
 of Killycrankie. 
 
 For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 
 The peasant left his lowly shed — Stanza iii. 
 
 The morasses were the usual refuge of the 
 
 Q- 
 
 Border herdsmen, on the approach of an English 
 army. Caves, hewed in the most dangerous 
 and inaccessible places, also afforded an occa- 
 sional retreat. Such caverns may be seen in 
 the precipitous banks of the Teviot at Sunlaws 
 and Ancram, upon the Jed at Hundalee, and in 
 many other places upon the Border. The banks 
 of the Eske, at Gorton and Hawthornden, are 
 hollowed into similar recesses. But even these 
 dreary dens were not always secure places of 
 concealment. 
 
 Wat Tinlinn — Stanza iv. 
 
 This person was, in my younger days, the 
 theme of many a fireside tale. He was a re- 
 tainer of the Buccleuch family, and held for his 
 Border service a small tower on the frontiers of 
 Liddesdale. Wat was by profession, a sutor, 
 but, by inclination and practice, an archer and 
 warrior. Upon one occasion, the Captain of 
 Bewcastle, military governor of that wild dis- 
 trict of Cumberland, is said to have made an 
 incursion into Scotland, in which he was de- 
 feated, and forced to fly. Wat Tinlinn pursued 
 him closely through a dangerous morass: the 
 captain however, gained the firm ground ; and 
 seeing Tinlinn dismounted, and floundering in 
 the bog, used these words of insult ; " Sutor 
 Wat, ye cannot sew your boots ; the heels risp, 
 [creak], and the seems rive, [tear]." " If I can- 
 not sew," retorted Tinlinn, discharging a shaft 
 which nailed the captain's thigh to his saddle, 
 ■ — " If I cannot sew, I can yerk."* 
 
 Of silver brooch and bracelet proud.— Stanza v. 
 
 As the Borderers were indifferent about the 
 furniture of their habitations, so much exposed 
 to be burned and plundered, they were propor- 
 tionally anxious to display splendour in decora- 
 ting and ornamenting their females. 
 
 Belted Will Howard.— Stanza vi. 
 
 Lord William Howard was warden of the 
 Western Marches ; and, from the rigour with 
 which he repressed the Border excesses, the 
 name of Belted Will Howard is still famous in 
 our traditions. In the castle of Naworth, his 
 apartments, containing a bed-room, oratory, and 
 library, are still shown. They impress us with 
 an unpleasing idea of the life of a lord warden 
 of the marches. Three or four strong doors, 
 separating these rooms from the rest of the 
 castle, indicate apprehensions of treachery from 
 his garrison ; and the secret winding passages, 
 through which he could privately descend into 
 the guard-room, or even into the dungeons, 
 imply the necessity of no small degree of secret 
 superintendance on the part of the governor. 
 As the ancient books and furniture have re- 
 mained undisturbed, the venerable appearance 
 of these apartments, and the armour scattered 
 around the chamber- almost lead us to expect 
 the arrival of the warden in person. Naworth 
 castle is situated near Brampton, in Cumber- 
 land. Lord William Howard is ancestor of the 
 earls of Carlisle- 
 Lord Dacre.— Stanza vi. 
 
 The well-known name of Dacre is derived 
 from the exploits of one of their ancestors at the 
 siege of Acre or Ptolemais, under Richard Coeur 
 de Lion. There were two powerful branches of 
 that name. The first family, called Lord Dacres 
 of the south, held the castle of the same name, 
 and are ancestors to the present Lord Dacre. 
 The other family, descended from the same 
 
 * Yerk— to twitch, as shoemakers do, in securing the 
 stitches of their work 
 
®= 
 
 28 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 ■■© 
 
 stock, were called Lord Dacres of the north, 
 and were barons of Gilsland and Graystock. A 
 chieftain of the latter branch was warden of the 
 west marches during the reign of Edward VI. 
 He was a man of a hot and obstinate character, 
 as appears from some particulars of Lord Sur 
 rey's letter to Henry VIII., giving an account 
 of his behaviour at the siege of Jedburgh. 
 The German hagbut-m en.— Stanza vi. 
 
 In the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII. and 
 his successors employed numerous bands of mer- 
 cenary troops. At the battle of Pinky, there 
 were in the English army 600 hack-butters on 
 foot, and 200 on horseback, composed chiefly of 
 foreigners. 
 
 His ready lances Thirlestane brave 
 Arrayed beneath a banner bright — Stanza viii. 
 
 Sir John Scott of Thirlestaine flourished in 
 the reign of James V., and possessed the estates 
 of Thirlestaine, Gamescleuch, &c, lying upon 
 the river of Ettricke. It appears, that when 
 James had assembled his nobility, and their 
 feudal followers, at Fala, with the purpose of 
 invading England, and was disappointed by the 
 obstinate refusal of his peers, this baron alone 
 declared himself ready to follow the king wher- 
 ever he should lead. In memory of his fidelity, 
 James granted to his family a charter of arms, 
 entitling them to bear a border of fleurs-de-luce, 
 with a bundle of spears for the crest; motto, 
 Ready, aye ready. 
 
 Without the bend of Murdieston. — Stanza ix. 
 
 The family of Harden are descended from a 
 younger son of the laird of Buccleugh, who 
 flourished before the estate of Murdieston was 
 acquired by the marriage of one of those chief- 
 tains with the heiress, in 1296. Hence they 
 bear the cognisance of the Scotts upon the 
 field : whereas those of the Buccleuch are dis- 
 posed upon a bend dexter, assumed in conse- 
 quence of that marriage. 
 
 Their gathering word was Bellenden. — Stanza ix. 
 
 Bellenden is situated near the head of Borth- 
 wick water, and, being in the centre of the pos- 
 sessions of the Scotts, was frequently used as 
 their place of rendezvous and gathering word. 
 A gauntlet on a spear. — Stanza xviii. 
 
 A glove upon a lance was the emblem of faith 
 among the ancient borderers, who were wont, 
 when any one broke his word, to expose this 
 emblem, and proclaim him a faithless villain at 
 the first Border meeting. This ceremony was 
 much dreaded. 
 When English blood swelled Ancram ford.— St. xxiii. 
 
 The battle of Ancram Moor, or Peniel-heuch, 
 was fought A. D. 1545. The English com- 
 manded by Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian 
 Latoun, were totally routed, and both their, 
 leaders slain in the action. The Scottish army 
 was commanded by Archibald Douglas, Earl of 
 Angus, assisted by the laird of Buccleuch and 
 Norman Lesly. — See note page 35. 
 
 The blanch lion.— Stanza xxvii. 
 
 This was the cognisance of the noble house of 
 Howard in all its branches. The crest, or bear- 
 ing, of a warrior, was often used as a nomme de 
 guerre. Thus, Richard III. acquired his well- 
 known epithet, the Boar of York. 
 
 m 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO V. 
 
 'The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
 Announcing Douglas, dreaded name !— Stanza lv. 
 The chief of this potent race of heroes, about 
 the date of the poem, was Archibald Douglas, 
 
 seventh Earl of Angus, a man of great courage 
 and activity. The bloody heart was the well- 
 known cognisance of the house of Douglas, 
 assumed from the time of Good Lord James, to 
 whose care Robert Bruce committed his heart, 
 to be carried to the Holy Land. 
 
 ■ 'The Seven Spears of Wedderburn.— Stanza iv. 
 
 Sir David Home of Wedderburn, who was 
 slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left seven 
 sons who were called the seven spears of Wed- 
 derburn. 
 
 And Swinton placed the lance in rest, 
 That humbled erst the sparkling crest 
 Of Clarence's Plantagenet.— Stanza iv. 
 At the battle of Bouge in France, Thomas 
 Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry V., was 
 unhorsed by Sir John Swinton of Swinton, who 
 distinguished himself by a coronet set with pre- 
 cious stones, which he wore around his helmet. 
 The family of Swinton is one of the most an- 
 cient in Scotland, and produced many celebrated 
 warriors. 
 
 Beneath the crest of old Dunbar, 
 
 And Hepburn's mingled banners, come, 
 Down the steep mountain glittering far, 
 
 And shouting still, " a Home ! a Home '"—Stanza iv„ 
 The Earls of Home, as descendants of the Dun- 
 bars, ancient Earls of March, carried a lion 
 rampant, argent ; but, as a difference, changed 
 the colour of the shield from gules to vert, in 
 allusion to Greenlaw, their ancient possession. 
 The slogan or war-cry of this powerful family, 
 was, "a Home! a Home!" It was anciently 
 placed in an escroll above the crest. The hel- 
 met is armed with a lion's head erased gules, 
 with a cap of state gules, turnid up ermine. 
 
 The Hepburns, a powerful family in East Lo- 
 thian, were usually in close alliance with the 
 Homes. The chief of this clan was Hepburn, 
 Lord of Hailes ; a family which terminated in 
 the too famous Earl of Bothwell. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO VI. 
 
 She wrought not by forbidden spell.— Stanza v. 
 
 Popular belief, though contrary to the doc- 
 trines of the church, made a favourable distinc- 
 tion betwixt magicians, and necromancers or 
 wizards ; the former were supposed to command 
 the evil spirits, and the latter to serve, or at 
 least to be in league and compact with those 
 enemies of mankind. 
 
 A merlin sat upon her wrist.— Stanza v. 
 
 A merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was usually car- 
 ried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was in time 
 of peace, the constant attendant of a knight or 
 baron. 
 
 And princely peacock's gilded train.— Stanza vi. 
 
 The peacock, it is well known, was consider- 
 ed, during the times of chivalry, not merely 
 as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish of pecu- 
 liar solemnity. After being roasted, it was 
 again decorated with its plumage, and a spunge, 
 dipt in lighted spirits of wine, was placed in its 
 bill. When it was introduced on days of grand 
 festival, it was the signal for the adventurous 
 knights to take upon them vows to do some 
 deed of chivalry, " before the peacock and the 
 ladies." 
 And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave.— Stanza vi. 
 
 The boar's head was also a usual dish of feudal 
 splendour. In Scotland it was sometimes sur- 
 rounded with little banners, displaying the col- 
 ours and achievements of the baron, at whose 
 board it was served. 
 
 *2> 
 
NOTES TO CANTO VI. 
 
 29 
 
 And cygnet from St Mary's wave.— Stanza vi. 
 There are often flights of wild swans upon St 
 Mary's Lake, at the head of the river Yarrow. 
 Since old Buckleuch the name did gain, 
 When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en.— Stanza viii. 
 
 A tradition, preserved by Scott of Satchells, 
 who published, in 1788, A true History of the 
 Right Honourable name of Scott, gives the follow- 
 ing romantic ori gin of that name. Two brethren, 
 natives of Galloway, having been banished from 
 that country for a riot, or insurrection, came to 
 Rankelburn, in Ettricke Forest, where the 
 keeper, whose name was Brydone, received them 
 joyfully, on account of their skill in winding the 
 horn, and in the other mysteries of the chase. 
 Kenneth Mac-Alpin, then King of Scotland, 
 came soon after to hunt in the royal forest, and 
 pursued a buck from Ettricke-heuch to the glen 
 now called Buccleuch, about two miles above 
 the junction of Rankelburn with the Ettricke. 
 Here the stag stood at bay ; and the king and 
 his attendants, who followed on horseback, were 
 thrown out by the steepness of the hill and the 
 morass. John, one of the brethren from Gallo- 
 way, had followed the chace on foot ; and now 
 coming in, seized the buck by the horns, and, 
 being a man of great strength and activity, 
 threw him on his back, and run with this burden 
 about a mile up the steep hill, to a place called 
 Cracra Cross, where Kenneth had halted, and 
 laid the buck at the sovereign's feet. 
 
 -old Albert Grame, 
 
 The Minstrel of that ancient name.— Stanza x. 
 
 " John Grahame, second son of Malice, Earl 
 of Monteith, commonly surnamed John with the 
 Bright Sword, upon some displeasure risen 
 against him at court, retired with many of his 
 clan and kindred into the English Borders in 
 the reign of king Henry the Fourth, where they 
 seated themselves; and many of their posterity 
 have continued there ever since. The residence 
 of the Graemes being chiefly in the Debatable 
 Land, so called because it was claimed by both 
 kingdoms, their depredations extended both to 
 England and Scotland with impunity; for as 
 both wardens accounted them the proper subjects 
 of their own prince, neither inclined to demand 
 reparation for their excesses from the opposite 
 officers, which would have been an acknowledg- 
 ment of his jurisdiction over them. 
 
 Who has not heard of Surrey's fame ?— Stanza xiii. 
 
 The gallant and unfortunate Henry Howard, 
 Earl of Surrey, was unquestionably the most 
 accomplished cavalier of his time: and his son- 
 nets display beauties which would do honour to 
 a more polished age. He was beheaded on 
 Tower-hill, in 1546 ; a victim to the mean jeal- 
 ousy of Henry VIII., who could not bear so 
 brilliant a character near his throne. The song 
 of the supposed bard is founded on an incident 
 said to have happened to the Earl in his travels. 
 Cornelius Agrippa, the celebrated alchemist, 
 showed him in a looking-glass, the lovely Ger- 
 aldine, to whose service he had devoted his pen 
 and his sword. The vision represented her as 
 indisposed, and reclined upon a couch, reading 
 her lover's verses by the light of a waxen taper. 
 
 The storm-swept Orcades ; 
 
 Where erst St Clairs held princely sway 
 O'er isle and islet, strait and bay.— Stanza xxi. 
 
 The St Clairs are of Norman extraction, being 
 descended of VVilliam de St Clair, second son of 
 Walderne Compte de St Clair, and Margaret, 
 daughter to Richard, duke of Normandy. He 
 was called, for his fair deportment, the Seemly 
 
 Cf 
 
 St Clair, and settling in Scotland, during the 
 reign of Malcolm Ceanmore, obtained large 
 grants of land in Mid-Lothian. These domains 
 were encreased by the liberality of the succeed- 
 ing monarchs, to the descendants of the family, 
 and comprehended the baronies of Rosline, Pent- 
 land, Cowsland, Cardaine, and several others. 
 
 Still nods their palace to its fall, 
 
 Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall. — Stanza xxi. 
 
 The castle of Kirkwall was built by the St 
 Clairs while Earls of Orkney. It was dismantled 
 by the Earl of Caithness about 1615, having been 
 garrisoned against the government by Robert 
 Stewart, natural son to the Earl of Orkney. 
 
 Kings of the main, their leaders brave, 
 
 Their barks, the dragons of the wave.— Stanza xxii. 
 
 The chiefs of the Vikingr, or Scandinavian 
 pirates, assumed the name of Scekonungr, or Sea- 
 kings. Ships, in the inflated language of the 
 Scalds, are often termed the serpents of the 
 ocean. 
 
 Of that Sea- Snake, tremendous curled, 
 Whose monstrous circle girds the world.— Stanza xxii. 
 The Jormungandr , or Snake of the Ocean, 
 whose folds surrounded the earth, is one of the 
 wildest fictions of the Edda. It was very nearly 
 caught by the god Thor, who went to fish for it 
 with a hook baited with a bull's head. In the 
 battle betwixt the evil demons and the divinities 
 of Odin, which is to precede the Ragnarockr, 
 or Twilight of the Gods, this Snake is to act a 
 conspicuous part. 
 
 Of those dread Maids, whose hideous yell 
 Maddens the battle's bloody swell — Stauza xxii. 
 
 These were the Falhyriur, or Selectors of the 
 Slain, dispatched by Odin from Valhalla, to 
 choose those who were to die, and to distribute 
 the contest. They are well known to the English 
 reader as Gray's Fatal Sisters. 
 
 Ransacked the graves of warriors old, 
 
 Their falchions wrenched from corpses' hold.— Stan. xxii. 
 
 The northern warriors were usually entombed 
 with their arms, and their other treasures. Thus 
 Angantyr, before commencing the duel in which 
 he was slain, stipulated, that if he fell, his sword 
 Tyrfing should be buried with him. His daugh- 
 ter, Hervor, afterwards took it from his tomb. 
 The dialogue which passed betwixt her and 
 Angantyr's spirit on this occasion has been often 
 translated. The whole of the history may be 
 found in the Hervarar-Saga. Indeed the ghosts 
 of the northern warriors were not wont tamely to 
 suffer their tombs to be plundered ; and hence 
 the mortal heroes had an additional temptation 
 to attempt such adventures ; for they held nothing 
 more worthy of their valour than to encounter 
 supernatural beings. 
 
 Rosabelle.— Stanza xxiii. 
 
 This was a family name in the house of St 
 Clair. Henry St Clair, the second of the line, 
 married Rosabelle, fourth daughter of the Earl 
 of Stratherne. 
 
 Castle Ravensheuch. — Stanza xxiii. 
 
 A large and strong castle, now ruinous, situ- 
 ated betwixt Kirkaldy and Dysart, on a steep 
 crag, washed by the Firth of Forth. It was con- 
 ferred on Sir William St Clair, as a slight com- 
 pensation for the earldom of Orkney, by a char- 
 ter of King James I II. dated in 1471, and is now 
 the property of Sir James St Clair Erskine, (now 
 Earl of Rosslyn) representative of the family. 
 It was long a principal residence of the Barons 
 of Roslin. 
 
 <9> 
 
& 
 
 30 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 
 
 8 
 
 Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, 
 Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffiued lie ; 
 
 Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
 Sheathed in his iron panoply.— Stanza xxiii. 
 
 The beautiful chapel of Roslin is still in tol- 
 erable preservation. It was founded in 1446 by 
 William St Clair, Prince of Orkney, Duke of 
 Oldenburg, Earl of Caithness and Stratherne, 
 Lord St Clair, Lord Niddesdale, Lord Admiral 
 of the Scottish seas, Lord Chief Justice of Scot- 
 land, Lord Warden of the three marches, Baron 
 of Roslin, Pentland, Pentlandmoor, &c, Knight 
 of the Cockle and of the Garter (as is affirmed) 
 High Chancellor, Chamberlain and Lieutenant 
 of Scotland. This lofty person, whose titles, says 
 Godscroft, might weary a Spaniard, built the 
 castle of Roslin, where he resided in princely 
 splendour, i^A founded the chapel, which is in 
 the most rich and florid state of Gothic architec- 
 ture. Among the profuse carving on the pillars 
 and buttresses, the rose is frequently introduced 
 in allusion to the name, with which, however, 
 the flower has no connection; the etymology 
 being Ross-linnhe, the promontory of the linn, 
 or water-fall. The chapel is said to appear on 
 fire previous to the death of any of his descen- 
 dants. This superstition, noticed by Slezer in 
 his Theatrum Scotia, and alluded to in the text, 
 is probably of Norwegian derivation, and may 
 have been imported by the Earls of Orkney into 
 their Lothian domains. The tomb-fires of the 
 north are mentioned in most of the Sagas. The 
 Barons of Roslin were buried in a vault beneath 
 the chapel floor. 
 
 For he was speechless, ghastly wan, 
 
 Like him of whom the story ran, 
 
 Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.— Stanza xxvi. 
 
 The ancient castle of Peel-town, in the Isle 
 of Man, is surrounded by four churches, now 
 ruinous. Through one of these chapels there 
 was formerly a passage from the guard-room of 
 the garrison. This was closed, it is said, upon 
 the following occasion: " They say that an ap- 
 parition, called in the Monkish language, the 
 Mauthe Doog, in the shape of a large black 
 spaniel, with curled shaggy hair, was used to 
 haunt Peel-castle ; and has been frequently 
 seen in every room, but particularly in the 
 guard chamber, where, as soon as candles were 
 lighted, it came and lay down before the fire, in 
 presence of all the soldiers, who, at length, by 
 being so much accustomed to the sight of it, lost 
 great part of the terror they were seized Avith 
 at its first appearance. They still, however, 
 retained a certain awe, as believing it was an 
 evil spirit, which waited permission to do them 
 hurt ; and for that reason forbore swearing, and 
 all profane discourse while in its company. But 
 though they endured the shock of such a guest 
 when altogether in a body, none cared to be left 
 alone with it. It being the custom, therefore, 
 for one of the soldiers to lock the gates of the 
 castle at a certain hour, and carry the keys to 
 the captain, to whose apartment as I said before, 
 the way led through the church, they agreed 
 
 among themselves, that whoever was to succeed 
 the ensuing night his fellow in this errand, 
 should accompany him that went first, and by 
 this means no man would be exposed singly to 
 the danger: for I forgot to mention, that the 
 Mauthe Doog was always seen to come out from 
 that passage at the close of day, and return to 
 it again as soon as the morning dawned ; which 
 made them look on this place as its peculiar 
 residence. One night, a fellow being drunk, 
 and by the strength of his liquor rendered more 
 daring than ordinarily, laughed at the simplicity 
 of his companions ; and though it was not his 
 turn to go with the keys, would needs take that 
 office upon him to testify his courage. All the 
 soldiers endeavoured to dissuade him: but the 
 more they said, the more resolute he seemed ; 
 and swore that he desired nothing more than 
 that Mauthe Doog would follow him, as it had 
 done the others ; for he would try if it were dog 
 or devil. After having talked in a very repro- 
 bate manner for some time, he snatched up the 
 keys and went out of the guard-room : in some 
 time after his departure, a great noise was heard, 
 but nobody had the boldness to see what occa- 
 sioned it, till the adventurer, returning, they 
 demanded the knowledge of him: but as loud 
 and noisy as he had been at leaving them, he 
 was now become sober and silent enough: for he 
 was never heard to speak more : and though all 
 the time he lived, which was three days, he was 
 entreated by all who came near him, either to 
 speak, or if he could not do that, to make some 
 signs, by which they might understand what 
 had happened to him: yet nothing intelligible 
 could be got from him, only that, by the distor- 
 tion of limbs and features, it might be guessed 
 that he died in agonies more than is common in 
 a natural death. The Mauthe Doog was, how- 
 ever, never after seen in the castle, nor would 
 any one attempt to go through that passage ; for 
 which reason it was closed up, and another way 
 made. This accident happened about threescore 
 years since ; and I heard it attested by several, 
 but especially by an old soldier, who assured 
 me he had seen it oftener than he had then hairs 
 on his head." — Waldron's Description of the 
 Isle of Man, p. 107. 
 
 And he a solemn sacred plight 
 
 Did to St Bryde of Douglas make.— Stanza xxvii. 
 
 This was a favourite saint of the house of 
 Douglas and of the Earl of Angus in' particular ; 
 as we learn from the following passage. The 
 Queen-regent had proposed to raise a rival noble 
 to the ducal dignity ; and discoursing of her pur- 
 pose with Angus, he answered, " Why not, 
 madam? we are happy that we have such a 
 princess, that can know and will acknowledge 
 men's service, and is willing to recompence it. 
 Rut, by the might of God, (this was his oath 
 when he was serious and in anger; at other 
 times, it was by Saint Bride of Douglas,) if he 
 be a Duke, I will be a Drake." So she de- 
 sisted from prosecuting of that purpose. 
 
 END OF THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, 
 
 Q- 
 
BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 BY SIK WALTEK SCOTT, BAKT. 
 
 The following Ballads were originally published in different collections, some in the Minstrelsy of 
 the Scottish Border, others in the Tales of Wonder, and some in both these Miscellanies. 
 
 GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. 
 
 The tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland 
 hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy, (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting,) and 
 making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty 
 lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young 
 women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced 
 by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, 
 suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, con- 
 secrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in 
 the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured 
 by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the 
 Green Women. Glenfinlas is a tract of forest ground, in Perthshire, not far from Callender. 
 
 " For them the viewless forms of air obey 
 Their bidding- heed, and at their beck repair; 
 They know what spirit brews the stormful day, 
 And heartless oft, like moody madness stare, 
 To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare. 
 
 O hone a rie ! O hone a rie !* 
 The pride of Albin's line is o'er, 
 
 And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 
 We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! 
 
 O, sprung from great Macgillianore, 
 
 The chief that never feared a foe, 
 How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
 
 How deadly thine unerring bow ! 
 Well can the Saxon widows tell, 
 
 How on the Teith's resounding shore, 
 The boldest Lowland warriors fell, 
 
 As down from Lennie's pass you bore. 
 
 But o'er his hills, on festal day, 
 How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree; 
 
 While youths and maids the light strathspey 
 So nimbly danced with Highland glee. 
 
 Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, 
 E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; 
 
 But now the loud lament we swell. 
 O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! 
 
 From distant isles a Chieftain came, 
 The joys of Ronald's hall to find, 
 
 And chase with him the dark-brown game, 
 That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 
 
 Twas Moy ; whom in Columba's isle 
 The seer's prophetic spirit found, 
 
 As, with a minstrel's fire the while, 
 He waked his harp's harmonious sound. 
 
 Full many a spell to him was known, 
 Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; 
 
 And many a lay of potent tone, 
 Was never meant for mortal ear. 
 
 J For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, 
 
 High converse with the dead they hold, 
 And oft espy the fated shroud, 
 That shall the future corpse enfold. 
 
 * O hone a rie, signifies— "Alas for the prince, or chief.' 
 
 Sc 
 
 O so it fell, that on a day, 
 
 To rouse the red deer from their den, 
 The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, 
 
 And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. 
 No vassals wait their sports to aid, 
 
 To watch their safety, deck their board ; 
 Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, 
 
 Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. 
 
 Three summer days, through brake and dell 
 Their whistling shafts successful flew; 
 
 And still, when dewy evening fell, 
 The quarry to their hut they drew. 
 
 In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook 
 
 The solitary cabin stood, 
 Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, 
 
 Which murmurs through that lonely wood. 
 Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, 
 
 When three successive days had flown, 
 And summer mist in dewy balm 
 
 Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone. 
 The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, 
 
 Afar her dubious radiance shed, 
 Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, 
 
 And resting on Benledi's head. 
 
 Now in their hut, in social guise, 
 Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy ; 
 
 And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, 
 As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. 
 
 — " What lack we here to crown our bliss, 
 While thus the pulse of joy beat high? 
 
 What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, 
 Her panting breath, and melting eye? 
 
 '* To chase the deer of yonder shades, 
 
 This morning left their father's pile 
 The fairest of our mountain maids, 
 
 The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 
 " Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, 
 
 And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh ; 
 But vain the lover's wily art, 
 
 Beneath a sister's watchful eye. 
 " But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, 
 
 While far with Mary I am flown, 
 Of other hearts to cease her care, 
 
 And find it hard to guard her own. 
 
 -© 
 
! 
 
 32 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see 
 
 The lovely Flora of Glengyle, 
 Unmindful of her charge and me, 
 
 Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. 
 
 " Or, if she choose a melting tale, 
 All underneath the greenwood bough, 
 
 "Will good St Oran's rule prevail, 
 
 Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?" — 
 
 — " Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, 
 No more on me shall rapture rise, 
 
 Responsive to the panting breath, 
 Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. 
 
 " E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, 
 Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, 
 
 I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, 
 On me the Seer's sad spirit came. 
 
 " The last dread curse of angry heaven, 
 
 With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, 
 To dash each glimpse of joy, was given — 
 ■ The gift, the future ill to know. 
 
 " The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, 
 
 So gaily part from Oban's bay, 
 My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, 
 
 Far on the rocky Colonsay. 
 
 " Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son, 
 
 Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power, 
 As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, 
 
 He left the skirts of huge Benmore. 
 
 " Thou only saw'st their tartans wave, 
 As down Benvoiiiich's side they wound, 
 
 Heard'st but the pibroch, answering brave 
 To many a target clanking round. 
 
 " I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, 
 
 I saw the wound his bosom bore, 
 When on the serried Saxon spears 
 
 He poured his clan's resistless roar. 
 
 "And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, 
 And bidst my heart awake to glee, 
 
 And court, like thee, the wanton kiss — 
 That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! 
 
 " I see the death damps chill thy brow ; 
 
 I hear thy Warning Spirit cry; 
 The corpse-lights dance—they're gone, and now— 
 
 No more is given to gifted eye!" . 
 
 ."Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, 
 
 Sad prophet of the evil hour ! 
 Say, should we scorn joys transient beams, 
 
 Because to-morrow's storm may lour? 
 
 " Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, 
 Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; 
 
 His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 
 Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear. 
 
 " E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, 
 My Mary's buskins brush the dew ;" — 
 
 He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell, 
 But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. 
 
 Within an hour return' d each hound; 
 
 In rush'd the rousers of the deer ; 
 They howl'd in melancholy sound, 
 
 Then closely couch beside the Seer. 
 
 No Ronald yet ; though midnight came, 
 And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, 
 
 As, bending o'er the dying flame, 
 
 He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. 
 
 Sudden the hounds erect their ears, 
 And sudden cease their moaning howl ; 
 
 Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears 
 By shivering limbs, and stifled growl. 
 
 Untouch 'd, the harp began to ring, 
 As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 
 
 And shook responsive every string, 
 As light a footstep press'd the floor. 
 
 And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light, 
 Close by the Minstrel's side was seen 
 
 A huntress maid, in beauty bright, 
 All dropping wet her robes of green. 
 
 All dropping wet her garments seem ; 
 
 Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare, 
 As, bending o'er the dying gleam, 
 
 She wrung the moisture from her hair. 
 
 With maiden blush she softly said, 
 "0 gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, 
 
 In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade, 
 A lovely maid in vest of green : 
 
 " With her a chief in Highland pride ; 
 
 His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, 
 The mountain dirk adorns his side, 
 
 Far on the wind his tartans flow?" — 
 
 "And who art thou? and who are they?" 
 All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : 
 
 "And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, 
 Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?" — 
 
 " Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, 
 
 Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, 
 Our father's towers o'erhang her side, 
 
 The castle of the bold Glengyle. 
 " To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, 
 
 Our woodland course this morn Ave bore, 
 And haply met, while wandering here, 
 
 The son of great Macgillianore. 
 
 " O aid me, then, to seek the pair, 
 Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; 
 
 Alone, I dare not venture there, 
 Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost.' 
 
 " Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; 
 
 Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, 
 Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 
 
 Which still must rise when mprtals sleep." 
 
 " O first for pity's gentle sake, 
 Guide a lone wanderer on her way! 
 
 For I must cross the haunted brake, 
 
 And reach my father's towers ere day."— . 
 
 " First, three times tell each Ave-bead, 
 
 And thrice a Pater-noster say ; 
 Then kiss with me the holy reed; 
 
 So shall we safely wind our way." — 
 
 " O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! 
 
 Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, 
 And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, 
 
 Which best befits thy sullen vow. 
 
 " Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, 
 Thy heart was froze to love and joy, 
 
 When gaily rung thy raptured lyre, 
 To wanton Morna's melting eye."— 
 
 Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame, 
 
 And high his sable locks arose, 
 And quick his colour went and came, 
 
 As fear and rage alternate rose. 
 
 "And thou! when by the blazing oak 
 
 I lay, to her and love resign'd, 
 Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, 
 
 Or sailed ye on the midnight wind? 
 
 " Not thine a race of mortal blood, 
 Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; 
 
 Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood, 
 Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." 
 
; 
 
 THE EVE OF ST JOHN. 
 
 33 
 
 re 
 
 He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme, 
 And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer, 
 
 Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, 
 And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 
 
 And, bending o'er his harp, he flung 
 His wildest witch-notes on the wind ; 
 
 And loud, and high, and strange, they rung , 
 As many a magic change they find. 
 
 Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, 
 Till to the roof her stature grew ; 
 
 Then, mingling with the rising storm, 
 With one wild yell, away she flew. 
 
 Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear: 
 The slender hut in fragments flew ; 
 
 But not a lock of Moy's loose hair 
 
 Was waved by 'wind, or wet with dew. 
 
 Wild mingling with the howling gale, 
 Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise ; 
 
 High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, 
 And die amid the northern skies. 
 
 The voice of thunder shook the wood, 
 As ceased the more than mortal yell : 
 
 And spattering foul a shower of blood 
 Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 
 
 Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm ; 
 
 The fingers strain'd a half-drawn blade : 
 And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 
 
 Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 
 
 Oft o'er that head, in battling field, 
 
 Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore ; 
 
 That arm the broad claymore could wield, 
 Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. 
 
 Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! 
 
 Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! 
 There never son of Albin's hills 
 
 Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen ! 
 
 E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet 
 At noon shall shun that sheltering den, 
 
 Lest, journeying in their rage he meet 
 The Avayward Ladies of the Glen. 
 
 And Ave — behind the chieftain's shield, 
 No more shall Ave in safety dwell ; 
 
 None leads the people to the field — 
 And Ave the loud lament must SAvell. 
 
 O hone a rie ! O hone a rie ! 
 
 The pride of Albin's line is o'er, 
 And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree-, 
 
 We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! 
 
 THE EVE OF ST JOHN. 
 
 Smaylho'me, or Smallholm ToAver, the scene of the folloAving ballad, is situated on the northern 
 boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called iSandiknoAv-Crags. The toAver 
 is a high square building, surrounded by an outer Avail, iioav ruinous. The circuit of the outer 
 court, being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, 
 by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a border-keep, or fortress, are placed 
 one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are tAvo bartizans, or platforms, 
 for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the toAver is Avood, the outer an iron grate ; the dis- 
 tance betAveen them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the Avail. From the elevated 
 situation of Smaylho'me ToAver, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags, by 
 Avhich it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the 
 station of a beacon, in the times of warAvith England. Without the toAver-court is a ruined chapel. 
 Brotherstone is a heath in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me ToAver. 
 
 The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 
 
 He spurred his courser on, 
 Without stop or stay, doAvn the rocky Avay, 
 
 That leads to Brotherstone. 
 
 He went not Avith the bold Buccleuch, 
 
 His banner broad to rear ; 
 He Avent not 'gainst the English yeAV, 
 
 To lift the Scottish spear. 
 
 Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet 
 was laced, 
 
 And his vaunt-brace of proof he Avore ; 
 At his saddle-gerthe Avas a good steel sperthe, 
 
 Full ten pound Aveight and more. 
 The baron returned in three days' space, 
 
 And his looks were sad and sour; 
 And Aveary Avas his courser's pace, 
 
 As he reached his rocky tower. 
 He came not from where An cram Moor 
 
 Ran red with English blood ; [cleuch, 
 
 Where the Douglas true, and the bold Bue- 
 
 ' Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 
 Yet Avas his helmet hacked and hewed, 
 
 His acton pierced and tore ; 
 His axe and his dagger Avith blood embrued, 
 
 But it was not English gore. 
 
 He lighted at the Chapellage, 
 
 He held him close and still ; 
 And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, 
 
 His name Avas English Will. 
 
 " Come thou hither, my little foot-page; 
 
 Come hither to my knee : 
 Though thou art young, and tender of age, 
 
 I think thou art true to me. 
 
 " Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 
 
 And look thou tell me true ! 
 Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 
 
 What did thy lady do?" 
 
 " My lady, each night, sought the lonely ligii 
 That burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
 
 For, from height to height, the beacons brigh 
 Of the English foemen told. 
 
 " The bittern clamoured from the moss, 
 
 The wind bleAv loud and shrill ; 
 Yet the craggy pathway she did cross, 
 
 To the eiry beacon hill. 
 
 " I Avatched her steps, and silent came 
 
 Where she sat her on a stone ; 
 No Avatchman stood by the dreary flame ; 
 
 It burned all alone. 
 
 " The second night I kept her in sight, 
 
 Till to the fire she came, 
 And, by Mary's might, an armed Knight, 
 
 Stood by the lonely flame. 
 
 "And many a word that Avarlike lord 
 
 Did speak to my lady there ; 
 But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast., 
 
 And I heard not what they were. 
 
34 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 " The third night there the sky was fair, 
 
 And the mountain blast was still, 
 As again I Avatched the secret pair, 
 
 On the lonesome beacon hill ; 
 
 "And j heard her name the midnight hour, 
 
 And name this holy eve ; 
 And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower ; 
 
 Ask no bold Baron's leave. 
 
 " ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch ; 
 
 His lady is all alone ; 
 The door she'll undo to her knight so true, 
 
 On the eve of good Saint John.' 
 
 " 'I cannot come ; I must not come ; 
 
 I dare not come to thee ; 
 On the eve of Saint John I must wander alone ; 
 
 In thy bower I may not be.' 
 
 " 'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! 
 
 Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
 For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 
 
 Is Worth the whole summer's day. 
 
 " 'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the war- 
 der shall not sound, 
 
 And rushes shall be strewed on the stair ; 
 So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St John, 
 
 I conjure thee, my love, to be there!' 
 
 " 'Though the blood-hound be mute, and the 
 rush beneath my foot, 
 And the warder his bugle should not blow, 
 Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to 
 the east, 
 And my foot-step he would know.' 
 
 " 'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east ! 
 
 For to Dryburgh the way he has ta'en ; 
 And there to say mass, till three days do pass, 
 
 For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' 
 
 "He turned him around, and grimly he frowned; 
 
 Then he laughed right scornfully — 
 'He who says the mass- rite for the soul of that 
 knight, 
 
 May as well say mass forme. 
 
 " 'At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits 
 have power 
 
 In thy chamber will I be.'— 
 With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, 
 
 And no more did I see." — 
 
 Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's 
 brow, 
 From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
 "Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast 
 seen, 
 For, by Mary, he shall die!" 
 
 "His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's 
 red light ; 
 His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
 On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash 
 bound, 
 And his crest was a branch of the yew." 
 
 "Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, 
 
 Loud dost thou lie to me! 
 For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, 
 
 All under the Eildon-tree." 
 
 "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! 
 
 For I heard her name his name ; 
 And that lady bright, she called the knight, 
 
 Sir Richard of Coldinghame." 
 
 The bold Baron's brow then changed, I trow, 
 From high blood-red to pale — . 
 
 ©" 
 
 "The grave is deep and dark — and the corpse is 
 stiff and stark — 
 So I may not trust thy tale. 
 
 "Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, 
 
 And Eildon slopes to the plain, 
 Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, 
 
 That gay gallant was slain. 
 
 "The varying light deceived thy sight, 
 And the wild winds drowned the name ; 
 
 For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white 
 monks do sing, 
 For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!" 
 
 Fie passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower 
 grate, 
 And he mounted the narrow stair, 
 To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on 
 her wait, 
 He found his lady fair. 
 
 That lady sat in mournful mood; 
 
 Looked over hill and dale : 
 Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood, 
 
 And all down Teviocdale. 
 
 "Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!" 
 
 "Now, hail, thou Baron true ; 
 What news, what news from Ancram fight? 
 
 What news from the bold Buccleuch?" 
 
 "The Ancram Moor is red with gore, 
 
 For many a southern fell ; 
 And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, 
 
 To watch our beacons well." 
 
 The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said, 
 
 Nor added the Baron a word ; 
 Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber 
 fair, 
 
 And so did her moody lord. 
 
 In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd 
 
 and turn'd, 
 
 And oft to himself he said— 
 
 "The worms around him creep, and his bloody 
 
 grave is deep 
 
 It cannot give up the dead!" 
 
 It was near the ringing of matin-bell, 
 
 The night was well nigh done, 
 When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, 
 
 On the eve of the good Saint John. 
 
 The lady looked through the chamber fair, 
 
 By the light of a dying flame ; 
 And she was aware that a knight stood there- — 
 
 Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! 
 
 "Alas! away, away!" she cried, 
 
 "For the holy Virgin's sake!" 
 "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; 
 
 But, lady, he will not awake. 
 
 "By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, 
 
 In bloody grave have 1 lain ; 
 The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, 
 
 But, lady, they are said in vain. 
 
 "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, 
 
 Most foully slain I fell ; 
 And my restless sprite on the beacon's height^ 
 
 For a space is doomed to dwell. . 
 
 "At our trysting-place, for a certain space, 
 
 I must wander to and fro ; 
 But 1 had net had power to come to thy bower, 
 
 Hadst thou not conjured me so." 
 
 Love master'd fear — her brow she crossed ; 
 
 "How, Richard, hast thou sped? 
 And art thou saved, or art thou lost?" — 
 
 The Vision shook his head! 
 
& 
 
 3$ 
 
 35 
 
 "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life: 
 
 So bid thy lord believe: 
 That lawless love is guilt above, 
 
 This awful sign receive. 1 ' 
 He laid his left palm on an oaken beam 
 
 His right upon her hand ; 
 The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, 
 
 For it scorched like a fiery brand. 
 The sable score, of fingers four, 
 
 Remains on that board impressed; 
 And for evermore that lady wore 
 
 A covering on her wrist. 
 There is a Nun in Dry burgh bower, 
 
 Ne'er looks upon the sun: 
 There is a Monk in Melrose tower, 
 
 He speaketh word to none. 
 That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day, 
 
 That Monk, who speaks to none^ — 
 That Nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, 
 
 That Monk the bold Baron. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 BATTLE OF ANCRAM MOOR. — Stanza V. 
 
 Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during 
 the year 1544, committed the most dreadful 
 ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling 
 most of the inhabitants, and especially the men 
 of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the king 
 of England. Upon the 17th November, in that 
 year, the sum total of their depredations stood 
 thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord Evers. 
 Towns, towers, &c. burned and destroyed 192 
 
 Scots slain 403 
 
 Prisoners taken 816 
 
 Nolt (cattle) 10,386 
 
 Shepe 12,492 
 
 Nags and geldings 1,296 
 
 Gayt 200 
 
 Boils of corn 850 
 
 Insight gear, &c, an incalculable quantity. 
 
 Tlie king of England had promised these two 
 barons a feudal grant of the country, which they 
 had thus reduced to a desert ; upon hearing 
 which, Archibald Douglas, the seventh Earl of 
 Angus, is said to have sworn to write the deed 
 of investiture upon their skins, with sharp pens 
 and bloody ink, in resentment for their having 
 defaced tlie tombs of his ancestors, at Melrose. 
 In J515, Lord Evers and Latoun again entered 
 Scotland with an army, consisting oi 3,000 mer- 
 cenaries, 1,500 English borderers, and 700 as- 
 sured Scottishmen,- chiefly Armstrongs, Turn- 
 bulls, and other broken clans. In tiiis second 
 incursion, the English generals even exceeded 
 
 their former cruelty. Evers burned the tower 
 of Broomhouse, with its lady and her whole 
 family. The English penetrated as far as Mel- 
 rose, which they had destroyed last year, and 
 which they now again pillaged. As they re- 
 turned towards Jedburgh, they were followed 
 by Angus, at the head of 1000 horse, who was 
 shortly after joined by the famous Norman Les- 
 ley, with a body of Fife-men. The English, 
 being probably unwilling to cross the TeviCt 
 while the Scots hung upon their rear, halted 
 upon Ancram Moor, above the village of that 
 name ; and the Scottish general was deliberating 
 whether to advance or retire, when bir Walter 
 Scott of Buccleuch came up, at full speed, with 
 a small, but chosen, body of his retainers, the 
 rest of whom were near at hand. By the advice 
 of this experienced warrior Angus withdrew 
 from the height which he occupied, and drew 
 up his forces behind it, upon a piece of low fiat 
 ground, called Panier-heugh, or Peniel-heuch. 
 The spare horses, being sent to an eminence in 
 their rear, appeared to the English to be the 
 main body of the Scots, in the act of flight. 
 Under this persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried 
 precipitately forward, and, having ascended the 
 hill which their foes had abandoned, were no 
 less dismayed than astonished, to find the pha- 
 lanx of Scottish spearmen drawn up, in firm 
 array, upon the flat ground below. The Scots 
 in their turn became the assailants. The Eng- 
 lish, breathless and fatigued, having the setting 
 sun and wind full in their faces, were unable 
 to withstand the resolute and desperate charge 
 of the Scottish lances. No sooner had they 
 begun to waver, than their own allies, the as- 
 sured borderers, who had been waiting the 
 event, threw aside their red crosses, and, joining 
 their countrymen, made a most merciless slaugh- 
 ter among the English fugitives, the pursuers 
 calling upon each other to "remember Broom- 
 house!"' In the battle fell Lord Evers and his 
 son, together with Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 
 Englishmen, many of whom were persons of 
 rank. A thousand prisoners were taken. Evers 
 was much regretted by King Henry, who swore 
 to avenge his death. The answer of Angus 
 was worthy of Douglas. "Is our brother-in-law 
 offended,"* said he, "that I, as a good Scots- 
 man, have avenged my ravaged country, and 
 the defaced tombs of my ancestors, upon Ralph 
 Evers? They were better men than he, and 1 
 was bound to do no less — and will he take my 
 life for that? Little knows King Henry the 
 skirts of Kirnetable :f 1 can keep myself there 
 against all his English host." 
 
 THE GREY BROTHERS, A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house, upon the barony of Gilmerton 
 near Laswade, in Mid Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally 
 named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, o'f 
 yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady Avas seduced 
 by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the south Esk, now a seat of the Marquis 
 of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also, that the lovers 
 carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house 
 of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by 
 the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. 
 Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a 
 stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had 
 caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to glowing ashes the dwelling, with its inmates. 
 
 * Angus had married the widow of James IV., sister 
 to King Henry VIII. 
 
 f Kirnetable, now called Cairntable, is a mountainous 
 tract at the head of Douglasdale. 
 
®- 
 
 3j 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 ■© 
 
 The pope he was saying the high, high mass, 
 
 Ail on saint Peter's day, 
 With the power to him given, by the saints in 
 heaven, 
 
 To -wash men's sins away. 
 
 The pope he was saying the blessed mass, 
 
 And the people kneeled around, 
 And from each man's soul his sins did pass, 
 
 As lie kissed the holy ground. 
 
 And all, among the crowded throng, 
 
 Was still, both limb and tongue, 
 While through vaulted roof, and aisles aloof, 
 
 The holy accents rung. 
 
 At the holiest word, he quivered for fear, 
 
 And faltered in the sound — 
 And, when he would the chalice rear, 
 
 He dropped it on the ground. 
 
 " The breath of one of evil deed 
 
 Pollutes our sacred day ; 
 He has no portion in our creed, 
 
 No part in what I say. 
 
 " A being, whom no blessed word 
 
 To ghostly peace can bring ; 
 A wretch, at whose approach abhorred, 
 
 Recoils each holy thing. 
 
 "Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise! 
 
 My adjuration fear! 
 I charge thee not to stop my voice, 
 
 Nor longer tarry here!" — 
 
 Amid them all a pilgrim kneeled, 
 
 In gown of sackcloth grey ; 
 Far journeying from his native field, 
 
 He first saw Rome that day. 
 
 For forty days and nights, so drear, 
 
 I ween, he had not spoke, 
 And, save with bread and water clear, 
 
 His fast he ne'er had broke. 
 
 Amid the penitential flock, 
 
 Seemed none more bent to pray ; 
 But, when the Holy Father spoke, 
 
 He rose, and went his way. 
 
 Again unto his native land, 
 
 His weary course he drew, 
 To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 
 
 And Pentland's mountains blue. 
 
 His unblest feet his native seat, 
 
 Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; 
 Through woods more fair, no stream more sweet, 
 
 Rolls to the eastern main. 
 
 And lords to meet the Pilgrim came, 
 
 And vassals bent the knee ; 
 For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, 
 
 Was none more famed than he. 
 
 And boldly for his country, still, 
 
 In battle he had stood, 
 Aye, even when, on the banks of Till, 
 
 Her noblest poured their blood. 
 
 Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet! 
 
 By Eske's fair streams that run, 
 O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep, 
 
 Impervious to the sun. 
 
 There the rapt poet's step may rove, 
 
 And yield the muse the day; 
 There Beauty, led by timid Love, 
 
 May shun the tell-tale ray; 
 
 From that fair dome, Avhere suit is paid, 
 By blast of bugle free, 
 
 To Auchendinny's hazel glade, 
 And haunted Woodhouselee. 
 
 Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, 
 
 And Roslin's rocky glen, 
 Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, 
 
 And classic Hawthornden? 
 
 Yet never a path, from day to day, 
 
 The Pilgrim's footsteps range, 
 Save but the solitary Avay 
 
 To Burndale's ruined Grange. 
 
 A Avoeful place AA r as that, I Aveen, 
 
 As sorrow could desire ; 
 For, nodding to the fall Avas each crumbling Avail, 
 
 And the roof Avas scathed Avith fire. 
 
 It fell upon a summer's eve, 
 
 While, on Carnethy's head, 
 The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams 
 
 Had streaked the gray Avith red; 
 
 And the convent bell did vespers tell, 
 
 NeAvbottle's oaks among, 
 And mingling Avith the solemn knell 
 
 Our Ladye's evening song: 
 
 The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, 
 
 Came slowly down the Avind, 
 And on the Pilgrim's ear they fell, 
 
 As his Avonted path he did find. 
 
 Deep sunk in thought, I Aveen, he Avas, 
 
 Nor ever raised his eye, 
 Until he came to that dreary place, 
 
 Which did all in ruins lie. 
 
 He gazed on the walls, so scathed Avith fire, 
 
 With many a bitter groan — 
 And there Avas aAvare of a Grey Friar, 
 
 Resting him on a stone. 
 
 " Noaa-, Christ thee save !" said the Grey Brother ; 
 
 " Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." 
 But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, 
 
 Nor ansAver again made he. 
 
 " O come ye from east, or come ye from Avest, 
 Or bring reliques from over the sea, 
 
 Or come ye from the shrine of St James the 
 divine, 
 Or of St John of Beverley?" — 
 
 "I come not from the shrine of St James the 
 divine, 
 
 Nor bring reliques from over the sea: 
 I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope, 
 
 Which for ever will cling to me." 
 
 " Noav, Avoeful Pilgrim say not so! 
 
 But kneel thee doAvn by me, 
 And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, 
 
 That absolved thou mayest be." — 
 
 " And Avho art thou, thou Grey Brother, 
 
 That I should shrive to thee, 
 When he, to Avhom are given the keys of earth j| 
 and heaven, 
 
 Has no poAver to pardon me ?" 
 
 "01 am sent from a distant clime, 
 
 Five thousand miles aAvay, 
 And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, 
 
 Done here 'twixt night and day." — 
 
 The Pilgrim kneeled him on the sand, 
 
 And thus began his saye — 
 When on his neck an ice-cold hand 
 
 Did that Grey Brother laye. 
 
©^ 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 37 
 
 a© 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 From that fair dome, where suit is paid, 
 By blast of bugle free. — Stanza xvii. 
 
 The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir 
 George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular 
 tenure ; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a 
 large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and 
 
 wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall 
 come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edin- 
 burgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as 
 their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a 
 horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The 
 beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much 
 admired, both on account of the architecture 
 and surrounding scenery. 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Ham- 
 ilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction 
 with the Clyde. It was dismantled,- in the conclusion of the civil wars, during the reign of the 
 unfortunate Mary. There was long preserved in the neighbouring forest the breed of the Scottish 
 wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their 
 appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are 
 described by ancient authors, as having white manes ; but those of latter days had lost that pecu- 
 liarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed. In detailing the death of the regent Murray, 
 which is made the subject of the following ballad, we use the words of Dr Robertson. " Hamilton 
 of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned 
 to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the 
 regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the regent's favourites, 
 who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, 
 before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him 
 than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the regent. 
 Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, 
 applauded the enterprise. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could 
 take to obtain vengeance. He followed the regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity 
 to strike the blow. He resolved, at last, to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through 
 which he was to pass in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden 
 gallery, which had a window towards the street ; spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the 
 noise of his feet from being heard ; hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not 
 be observed from without ; and, after all this preparation, calmly expected the regent's approach, 
 who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the 
 danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the regent, and he paid so much regard to it, 
 that he resolved to return by the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass 
 round the town. But, as the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with 
 fear, he proceeded directly along the street ; and the throng of people obliging him to move very 
 slowly, gave the assassin time to take so true an aim that he shot him, with a single bullet, through 
 the lower part of his belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman Avho rode on his other side. His 
 followers instantly endeavoured to break into the house, whence the blow had come ; but they 
 found the door strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a 
 fleet horse, which stood ready for him at a back-passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The 
 regent died the same night of his wound." 
 
 Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph ; for the ashes of 
 the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking ; and party 
 prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed, to his kinsmen, to 
 justify his deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man left Scotland, 
 and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he was doubtless re- 
 commended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her ungrateful 
 brother. De Thou has recorded, that an attempt was made to engage him to assassinate Gaspas 
 de Coligni, the famous admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. But the char- 
 acter of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the 
 offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland, to commit 
 murders in France; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither for price nor 
 prayer, avenge that of another man. — Thuanus, cap. 46. 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 
 Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, 
 
 The song went round, the goblet flowed, 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. 
 
 Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
 So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, 
 
 And echoed light the dancer's bound, 
 As mirth and music cheered the hall. 
 
 But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, 
 And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, 
 
 Thrill to the music of the shade, 
 Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 
 
 S2) - 
 
 Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, 
 You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 
 
 And tune my harp of Border frame, 
 On the wild banks of Evandale. 
 
 For thou from scenes of courtly pride, 
 
 From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn, 
 
 To draw oblivion's pall aside, 
 
 And mark the long-forgotten urn . 
 
 Then, noble maid! at thy command, 
 Again the crumbled halls shall rise , 
 
 Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand, 
 
 The past returns — the present flies. — 
 
 
<cy 
 
 38 
 
 BALLADS AM) LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 @ 
 
 Where with the rock's wood-covered side 
 Were blended late the ruins green, 
 
 Rise turrets in fantastic pride, 
 And feudal banners flaunt between: 
 
 Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
 Was snagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, 
 
 The ashler buttress braves its force, 
 And ramparts frown in battled row. 
 
 'Tis night — the shades of keep and spire, 
 Obscurely dance on Evan's stream, 
 
 And on the wave the warder's fire 
 Is chequering the moon lit beam. 
 
 Fades slow their light ; the east is grey ; 
 
 The weary Warder leaves his tower; 
 Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, 
 
 And merry hunters quit the bower. 
 
 The draw-bridge falls — they hurry out — 
 Clatters each plank and swinging chain, 
 
 As, dashing o'er, the jovial route 
 
 Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. 
 
 First of his troop, the Chief rode on; 
 
 His shouting merry-men throng behind ; 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound, 
 The startling red-deer scuds the plain, 
 
 For the hoarse bugle's warrior sound 
 Has roused their mountain haunts again. 
 
 Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 
 
 Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, 
 
 What sullen roar comes down the gale, 
 And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? 
 
 Mightiest of all the beasts of chace, 
 
 That roam in woody Caledon, 
 Crashing the forest in his race, 
 
 The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. 
 
 Fierce, on the hunter's quivered band, 
 He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, 
 
 Spurns with black hoof and horn, the sand, 
 And tosses high his mane of snow. 
 
 Aim'd well the chieftain's lance has flown; 
 
 Struggling, in blood, the savage lies ; 
 His roar is sunk in hollow groan — 
 
 Sound, merry huntsmen! sound the pryse!* 
 
 'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
 
 The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
 Curls through the trees the slender smoke, 
 
 Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. 
 
 Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan, 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
 
 Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man, 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 " Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 
 
 Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
 Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" 
 
 Stern Claud replied, with darkening face, 
 (Grey Paisley's haughty lord was he) 
 
 "At merry feast, or buxom chase, 
 No more the warrior shalt thou see. 
 
 " Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee 
 Saw Bothwelhaugh's bright goblets foam, 
 
 When to his hearths, in social glee, 
 The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. 
 
 " There, wan from her maternal throes, 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild, 
 
 * Pryse— The note blown at the death of game. 
 
 Sate in her bower; a pallid rose, 
 
 And peaceful nursed her new-born child. 
 
 " O change accurs'd! past are those days ; 
 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
 And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, 
 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 
 
 " What sheeted phantom wanders wild, 
 
 Where mountain Eske through woodl and fl oav: 
 
 Her arms enfold a shadowy child— 
 Oh is it she, the pallid rose? 
 
 " The wildered traveller sees her glide, 
 And hears her feeble voice with awe 
 
 ' Revenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride! 
 And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh.'" 
 
 He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band, 
 
 And half arose the kindling chief, 
 And half unsheath'd his Arran brand. 
 
 But who o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, 
 Rides headlong, with resistless speed, 
 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed. 
 
 Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare, 
 As one, some visioned sight that saw, 
 
 Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair? — 
 — 'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 
 
 From gory selle, and reeling steed, 
 
 Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, 
 
 And, reeking from the recent deed, 
 He dashed his carbine on the ground. 
 
 Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
 
 But sweeter to Revenge's ear, 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
 "Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod, 
 At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, 
 
 But prouder base-born Murray rode 
 
 Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. 
 
 " From the wild Border's humbled side, 
 In haughty triumph, marched he, 
 
 While Knox relaxed his bigot pride, 
 And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. 
 
 " But, can stern Power with all his vaunt, 
 Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, 
 
 The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, 
 Or change the purpose of Despair? 
 
 " With hackbut bent,f my secret stand, 
 Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, 
 
 And mark'd, where, mingling in his band, 
 Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows. 
 
 " Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van; 
 
 And clashed their broad-swords in the rear, 
 The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. 
 
 " Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, 
 Obsequious at their regent's rein, 
 
 And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 
 
 " Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; 
 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. 
 
 " From the raised visor's shade, his eye, 
 Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, 
 
 And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
 Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 
 
 f Hackbut bent— Gun cock'd. 
 
 ^& 
 
FREDERICK AND ALICE. 
 
 39 
 
 C 
 
 " But yet his sadden'd brow confessed, 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe; 
 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast, — 
 ' Beware of injured Botnwellhaugh!' 
 
 " The death-shot parts — the charger springs- 
 Wild rises tumult's startling roar! — 
 
 And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
 — Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 
 
 " "What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
 To hear her love the loved one tell ; 
 
 Or he, who broaches on his steel 
 The wolf, by whom his infant fell ! 
 
 " But dearer, to my injured eye, 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 
 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
 To her him groan his felon soul. 
 
 " My Margaret's spectre glided near; 
 
 With pride her bleeding victim saw ; 
 And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear, 
 
 ' Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!' 
 
 " Then speed thee, noble Cliatlerault! 
 Spread to the wind thy bannered tree! 
 
 Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow! 
 Murray is fallen, and Scotland free." . 
 
 Vaults every warrior to his steed; 
 
 Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
 " Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed! 
 
 Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame !"- 
 
 But, see! the minstrel vision fails— 
 
 The glimmering spears are seen no more ; 
 
 The shouts of war die on the gales, 
 Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 
 
 For the loud bugle, pealing high, 
 
 The blackbird wJxistles down the vale, 
 
 And sunk in ivied ruins lie 
 The banner'd towers of Evandale. 
 
 For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 
 
 And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain, 
 
 Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed, 
 Or grace! ul guides the silken rein. 
 
 And long may Peace and Pleasure own 
 The maids, who list the minstrel's tale ; 
 
 Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
 On the fair banks of Evandale ! 
 
 FREDERICK AND ALICE. 
 
 This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's " Clau- 
 dina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of 
 the family, while his companions break into the castle. 
 
 Frederick leaves the land of France, 
 Homeward hastes his steps to measure ; 
 
 Careless casts the parting glance, 
 On the scene of former pleasure ; 
 
 Joying in his prancing steed, 
 Keen to prove his untried blade, 
 
 Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 
 Uver mountain, moor, and glade. 
 
 Helpless, ruined, left forlorn, 
 
 Lovely Alice wept alone ; 
 Mourned o'er love's fond contract torn, 
 
 Hope, and peace, and honour flown. 
 
 Marie her breast's convulsive throbs! 
 
 See, the tear of anguish flows! — 
 Mingling soon with bursting sobs, 
 
 Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. 
 
 Wild she cursed, and wild she prayed ; 
 
 Seven long days and nights are o'er; 
 Death in pity brought his aid, 
 
 As the village bell struck four. 
 
 Far from her, and far from France, 
 Faithless Frederick omvard rides; 
 
 Marking, blythe, the morning's glance 
 Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. 
 
 Heard ye not the boding sound, 
 As the tongue of yonder tower, 
 
 Slowly, to the hills around, 
 
 Told the fourth, the fated hour? 
 
 I Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, 
 Vet no cause of dread appears ; 
 
 i Bristles high the rider's hair, 
 
 Struck with strange mysterious fears. 
 
 ! Desperate, as his terrors rise, 
 
 In the steed the spur he hides: 
 I From himself in vain he flies ; 
 ! Anxious, restless, on he rides. 
 
 Seven long days, and seven long nights, 
 Wild he wandered, woe the while! 
 
 Ceaseless care, and causeless fright, 
 Urge his footsteps many a mile. 
 
 Dark the seventh sad night descends : 
 Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour: 
 
 While the deafening thunder lends 
 All the terrors of its roar. 
 
 Weary, wet, and spent with toil, 
 
 Where his head shall Frederick hide? 
 
 Where, but in yon ruined aisle, 
 By the lightning's flash descried. 
 
 To the portal, dank and low, 
 
 Fast liis steed the wanderer bound: 
 
 Down a ruined staircase slow, 
 Next -his darkling way he wound. 
 
 Long drear vaults before him lie ! 
 
 Glimmering lights are seen to glide! — 
 " Blessed Mary, hear my cry! 
 
 Deign a sinner's steps to guide!" — 
 
 Often lost their quivering beam, 
 Still the lights move slow before, 
 
 Till they rest their ghastly gleam 
 Right against an iron door. 
 
 Thundering voices from within, 
 Mixed with peals of laughter rose ; 
 
 As they fell, a solemn strain 
 
 Lent its wild and wondrous close! 
 
 Midst the din, he seemed to hear 
 
 Voice of friends, by death removed ; — 
 
 Well he knew that solemn air, 
 'Twas the lay that Alice loved. 
 
 Hark! for now a solemn knell 
 
 Four times, on the still night broke; 
 
 Four times, at its deadened swell, 
 Echoes from the ruins spoke. 
 
 30 
 
40 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 — @ 
 
 A? the lengthened clangours die, 
 
 Slowly opes the iron door! 
 Straight a banquet met his eye, 
 
 But a funeral's form it wore ! 
 
 Coffins for the seats extend ; 
 
 All with black the board was spread ; 
 Girt by parent, brother, friend, 
 
 Long since numbered with the dead I 
 
 Alice, in her grave-clothes bound," 
 Ghastly smiling, points a seat ; 
 
 All arose with thundering sound ; 
 All the expected stranger greet. 
 
 High their meagre arms they wave, 
 Wild their notes of welcome swell ; 
 
 " Welcome, traitor, to the grave! 
 Perjured, bid the light farewell!" — 
 
 THE WILD HUNTSMEN. 
 
 This is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wild Jager of the German poet Burger. The 
 tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal forest, 
 named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise so extremely 
 profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the Sabbath, and 
 other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most unheard-of oppression 
 upon the poor peasants, who were under his vassalage. When this second Nimrod died, the peo- 
 ple adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth sounds, heard in the 
 depth of a German forest during the silence of the night. They conceived they still heard the cry 
 of the Wildgrave's hounds; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, the sounds of his 
 horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and the sportsmen, are also 
 distinctly discriminated; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. Once, as a benighted 
 Chasseur heard this infernal chace pass by him, at the sound of the halloo, with which the spectre 
 Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, " Gluck zu, Falkenburg/" ('Good 
 sport to ye, Falkenburg!) " Dost thou wish me good sport ?" answered a hoarse voice, " thou shalt 
 share the game ;" and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. 
 The daring Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the per- 
 sonal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variations, is universally 
 believed all over Germany. 
 
 The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of Fon- 
 tainbleau. He was sometimes visible ; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a 
 tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in " Sully's Memoirs,'' who says he was 
 called, Le Grand Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, 
 if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king 
 returning from the chace. This phantom is elsewhere called St Hubert. 
 
 The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, 
 To horse, to horse! halloo, haloo! 
 
 His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 
 
 And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 
 
 The eager pack, from couples freed, 
 
 Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake, 
 
 While answering hound, and horn, and steed, 
 The mountain echoes startling wake. 
 
 The beams of God's own hallowed day, 
 Had painted yonder spire with gold, 
 
 And, calling sinful man to pray, 
 Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled : 
 
 But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 
 
 Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! 
 When, spurring from opposing sides, 
 
 Two Stranger Horsemen join the train. 
 
 Who was each Stranger, left and right, 
 Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
 
 The right-hand steed was silver white, 
 The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 The right-hand horseman, young and fair, 
 His smile was like the morn of May ; 
 
 The left, from eye of tawny glare, 
 Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray, 
 
 He waved his huntsman's cap on high, 
 Cried, " Welcome, Avelcome, noble lord! 
 
 What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, 
 To match the princely chase afford?" — 
 
 " Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
 Cried the fair youth, with silver voice ; 
 
 " And for devotion's choral swell, 
 Exchange the rude unhallowed noise. 
 
 " To-day, the ill-omened chase forbear, 
 Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 
 
 To-day the Warning Spirit hear, 
 To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain." — 
 
 " Away, and sweep the glades along!" 
 The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ; 
 
 " To muttering monks leave matin-song, 
 And bells, and books, and mysteries." — 
 
 The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed, 
 And, launching forward with a bound, 
 
 " Who, for thy drowsy priest-like rede, 
 Would leave the jovial horn and hound? 
 
 Hence, if our manly sport offend! 
 
 With pious fools go chaunt and pray: — 
 Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend. 
 
 Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!" — 
 
 The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, 
 O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 
 
 And on the left, and on the right, 
 Each Stranger Horseman followed still. 
 
 Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, 
 A stag more white than mountain snow ; 
 
 And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" 
 
 A heedless wretch has crossed the way ; 
 
 He gasps, the thundering hoofs below ; — 
 But, live who can, or die who may, 
 
 Still, " Forward, forward!" on they go. 
 
 See, where yon simple fences meet, 
 
 A field with autumn's blessings crowned ; 
 
 See prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
 A husbandman, with toil embrowned; 
 
THE WILD HUNTSMEN. 
 
 =6 
 
 41 
 
 " O mercy, mercy, noble Lord! 
 
 Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
 " Earned by the sweat these brows have poured, 
 
 In scorching hour of fierce July. 1 '— 
 
 Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, 
 But furious holds the onward way. 
 
 " Away, thou hound! so basely born, 
 Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!" 
 
 Then loudly rung his bugle horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!"— 
 
 So said, so done: — A single bound 
 
 Clears the poor labourer's humble pale : 
 
 Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, 
 Like dark December's stormy gale. 
 
 And man, and horse, and hound, and horn, 
 Destructive sweep the field along; 
 
 While, joying o'er the wasted corn, 
 
 Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.; 
 
 Again up-roused, the timorous prey 
 Scours moss, and moor, and holt, and hill ; 
 
 Hard run, he feels his strength decay, 
 And trusts for life his simple skill. 
 
 Too dangerous, solitude appeared: 
 He seeks the shelter of the crowd; 
 
 Amid the flock's domestic herd 
 His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 
 
 O'er moss, and moor, and holt, and hill, 
 His track the steady blood-hounds trace ; 
 
 O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, 
 The furious Earl pursues the chase. 
 
 Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; — 
 " O spare, thou noble Baron, spare 
 
 These herds, a widow's little all ; 
 
 These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!"— 
 
 Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
 The left still cheering to the prey ; 
 
 The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, 
 But furious keeps the onward way. 
 
 — " Unmannered dog! To stop my sport 
 Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, 
 
 Though human spirits, of thy sort, 
 Were tenants of these carrion kine!" — . 
 
 Again he winds his bugle horn, 
 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" 
 
 And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, 
 He cheers his furious hounds to go. 
 
 In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 
 
 Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; 
 The murderous cries the stag appal, — . 
 
 Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 
 
 With blood besmeared, and white with foam, 
 While big the tears of anguish pour, 
 
 He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, 
 The humble hermit's hallowed bower. 
 
 But man, and horse, and horn, and hound, 
 
 Fast rattling on his traces go ; 
 The sacred chapel rung around 
 
 With, "hark away! and, holla, ho!" 
 
 All mild, amid the route profane, 
 The holy hermit poured his prayer: — 
 
 " Forbear with blood God's house to stain; 
 Revere his altar and forbear! 
 
 " The meanest brute has rights to plead, 
 Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, 
 
 Draw vengeance on the ruthless head: 
 Be warned at length, and turn aside." — 
 
 Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ; 
 
 The Black, wild hooping, points the prey: 
 Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds, 
 
 But frantic keeps the forward way. 
 
 " Holy or not, or right or wrong, 
 Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; 
 
 Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, 
 
 Not God himself shall make me turn!" 
 
 He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
 " Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" — 
 
 But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, 
 The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 
 
 And horse, and man, and horn, and hound, 
 And clamour of the chase, was gone ; 
 
 For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, 
 A deadly silence reigned alone. 
 
 Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; 
 
 He strove in vain to wake his horn ; 
 In vain to call ; for not a sound 
 
 Could from his anxious lips be borne. 
 
 He listens for his trusty hounds ; 
 
 No distant baying reached his ears ; 
 His courser, rooted to the ground, 
 
 The quickening spur unmindful bears. 
 
 Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
 Dark, as the darkness of the grave ; 
 
 And not a sound the still invades, 
 Save what a distant torrent gave. 
 
 High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
 At length the solemn silence broke ; 
 
 And, from a cloud of swarthy red, 
 The awful voice of thunder spoke. 
 
 " Oppressor of creation fair! 
 
 Apostate Spirits' hardened tool! 
 Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor! 
 
 The measure of thy cup is full. 
 
 " Be chased for ever through the wood; 
 
 For ever roam the affrighted wild, 
 And let thy fate instruct the proud, 
 
 God's meanest creature is his child.'' 
 
 'Twas hushed: One flash, of sombre glare, 
 With yellow tinged the forests brown ; 
 
 Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 
 And horror chilled each nerve and bone. 
 
 Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill ; 
 
 A rising wind began to sing ; 
 And louder, louder, louder still, 
 
 Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 
 
 Earth heard the call ;— Her entrails rend ; 
 
 From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
 Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend 
 
 The misbegotten dogs of hell. 
 
 What ghastly Huntsman next arose, 
 Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
 
 His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
 His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 
 
 The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 
 With many a shriek of helpless Avoe ; 
 
 Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, 
 And, " hark away, and holla, ho!" 
 
 With wild despair's reverted eye, 
 
 Close, close behind, he marks the throng, 
 
 With bloody fangs, and eager cry; — 
 In frantic fear he scours along. 
 
42 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 Still, still, shall last the dreadful chase, 
 Till time itself shall have an end: 
 
 By day, they scour earth's caverned space, 
 At midnight's witching hour, ascend. 
 
 This is the horn, and hound, and horse, 
 That oft the lated peasant hears : 
 
 Appalled, he signs the frequent cross, 
 When the wild din invades his ears. 
 
 The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
 For human pride, for human woe, 
 
 When, at his midnight mass, he hears 
 The infernal cry of, (i holla, ho!" 
 
 THOMAS THE RHYMER. 
 
 IN THREE PARTS. 
 
 Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Erceldoune, known by the appellation 
 of The Rhymer. Uniting, or supposed to unite, in his person, the powers of poetical composition, 
 and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is regarded with vene- 
 ration hy his countrymen. To give any thing like a certain history of this remarkable man, 
 would be indeed difficult ; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the particulars here 
 brought together. It is agreed, on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birth-place, of 
 this ancient bard, was Erceldoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction 
 with the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. 
 The uniform tradition bears, that his si mam e was Lermont, or Learmont; and that the appella- 
 tion of The Rhymer was conferred on him in consequence of his poetical compositions. The period 
 at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, was the latter end of the thirteenth century. It cannot be 
 doubted that Thomas of Ercildoune was a remarkable and important person in his own time, since, 
 very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet, and as a poet. Whether he him- 
 self made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it was gratuitously conferred 
 upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. If we may believe Mackenzie, 
 Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an inspired nun, at a convent at Had- 
 dington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant proof. On the contrary, all ancient 
 authors, who quote the Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly suppose them to have been emitted by 
 himself. Whatever doubts, however, the learned might have as to the source of the Rhymer's 
 prophetic skill, the vulgar had no hesitation to ascribe the whole to the intercourse between the 
 bard and the Queen of Faery. The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried off, at an early 
 age, to the Fairy Land, where he acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so 
 famous. After seven years residence he was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and 
 astonish his countrymen by his prophetic powers: still, however, remaining bound to return to his 
 royal mistress, when she should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making 
 merry with his friends, in the tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks 
 of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest, and were com- 
 posedly and slowly parading the street of the village. The prophet instantly arose, left his habi- 
 tation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. 
 According to the popular belief, he still " drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is expected one day 
 to revisit earth. In the meanwhile, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The 
 Eildon Tree, from beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists; 
 but the spot is marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighbouring rivulet takes 
 the name of the Bogle Bum, (Goblin Brook), from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. Thomas 
 the Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries as the author of the celebrated romance of 
 Sir Tristrem. Of this once admired poem, only one copy is now known to exist, which is in the 
 Advocates' Library. The author, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work; which, 
 if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, is at least the earliest specimen of 
 Scottish poetry hitherto published. 
 
 PART FIRST — ANCIENT. 
 
 True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; 
 
 A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e ; 
 And there he saw a ladye bright, 
 
 Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. 
 
 Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
 Her mantle o 1 the velvet fyne ; 
 
 At ilka tett of her horse's mane, 
 Hang fifty siller bells and nine. 
 
 True Thomas, he pulled aff his cap, 
 And louted low down to his knee, — 
 
 " All hail, thou mighty queen of heaven! 
 For thy peer on earth I never did see." 
 
 " O no, O no, Thomas," she said : 
 " That name does not belang to me ; 
 
 I am but the queen of fair Elfland, 
 That am hither come to visit thee. 
 
 " Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; 
 " Harp and carp along with me ; 
 
 And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 
 Sure of your body I will be." — 
 
 " Betide me Aveal, betide me woe, 
 
 That weird* shall never danton me." — 
 
 Syne he kissed her rosy lips, 
 All underneath the Eildon Tree. 
 
 " Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said : 
 " True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me : 
 
 And ye maun serve me seven years, 
 Through weal or woe as may chance to be." 
 
 She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 
 
 She's ta'en true Thomas up behind; 
 And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, 
 
 The steed flew swifter than the wind. 
 
 they rade on, and farther on ; 
 
 The steed gaed swifter than the wind: 
 Until they reached a desert wide, 
 
 And living land was left behind. 
 
 *T)iat weird, &c. 
 
 -That destiny shall never frighten me 
 
 : —CO\ 
 
THOMAS THE RMV. 
 
 43 I 
 
 " Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, 
 And lean your head upon my knee ; 
 
 Abiile, and rest a little space, 
 
 And I will show you feriies three. 
 
 " O see yc not yon narrow road, 
 So thick beset with thorns and briers? — 
 
 That is the path of righteousness, 
 Though after it but few enquires. 
 
 " And see not ye that braid, braul road, 
 That lies across that lily leven? — 
 
 That is the path of wickedness, 
 Though some call it the road to heaven. 
 
 " And see not ye that bonny road, 
 That winds about the fernie brae? — 
 i That is the road to fair Elfland, 
 
 Where thou and I this night maun gae. 
 
 " But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, 
 
 Whatever ye may heai or see ; 
 For, if you speak word in Elfyn land, 
 
 Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." 
 
 they rade on, and farther on, 
 
 And they waded through rivers aboon the knee, 
 And they saw neither sun nor moon, 
 But they heard the roaring of the sea. 
 
 It was mirk, mirk night, and there was nae stern 
 light, 
 
 And" they waded through red blude to the knee ; 
 For a' the blude that's shed on earth 
 
 Rins through the springs o' that countrie. 
 
 Syne they came on to a garden green, 
 And she pu'd an apple i'rae a tree ; 
 
 " Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; 
 
 It will give thee the tongue that can never lie." 
 
 " My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said; 
 " A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! 
 
 1 neither dought to buy nor sell, 
 At lair or tryst, where I may be. 
 
 " I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
 
 Nor ask of grace from fair lady." 
 " Now hold thy peace," the ladye said, 
 
 " For, as I say, so must it be." 
 
 He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
 And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 
 
 And, till seven years were gane and past, 
 True Thomas on earth was never seen. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. 
 
 When seven years were come and gane, 
 The sun blinked fair on pool and stream, 
 
 And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, 
 Like one awakened from a dream. 
 
 He heard the trampling of a steed, 
 He saw the flash of armour flee, 
 
 And he beheld a gallant knight, 
 Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. 
 
 He was a stalwart knight, and strong; 
 
 Of giant make he 'peared to be: 
 Ho stirred his horse as he were wode, 
 
 Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 
 
 Says — "Well met, well met, true Thomas! 
 
 Some uncouth ferlies shew to me." — 
 Says — ' ; Christ thee save, Corspatrick bravo! 
 
 Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, to me! 
 
 " Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave, 
 And 1 will show thee curses three, 
 
 Shall gar fait Scotland greet and grane, 
 And change the green to the black livery. 
 
 " A storm shall roar, this very hour, 
 F,ro;n Rosse's Hills to Solway sea." 
 
 " Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar! 
 
 For the sun shines sweet on fauld and lea. "- 
 
 He put his hand on the earlie's head ; 
 
 He showed him a rock, beside the sea, 
 Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed, 
 
 And steel dight nobles wiped their e'e. 
 
 " The neist curse lights on Branxton Hills, 
 By Flodden's high and heathery side 
 
 Shall wave a banner, red as blude, 
 And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 
 
 " A Scottish king shall come full keen ; 
 
 The ruddy lion beareth he, 
 A feathered arrow sharp, I ween, 
 
 Shall make him wink and warre to see. 
 
 " When he is bloody, and all to blerfde, 
 Thus to his men lie still shall say — 
 
 ' For God's sake, turn ye back again, 
 And give yon southern folk a fray! 
 
 W 7 hy should I lose the right is mine?' 
 My doom is not to die this day.' 
 
 " Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, 
 And woe and wonder ye sail see ; 
 
 How forty thousand spearmen stand, 
 Where yon rank river meets the sea. 
 
 " There shall the lion lose the gylte, 
 And the libbards bear it clean away; 
 
 At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt 
 Much gentil bluid that day." — 
 
 " Enough, enough, of curse and ban 
 
 lg show thou now- to me, 
 
 O 
 
 by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, 
 " Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" 
 
 "The first of blessings I shall thee show, 
 Is by a burn, that's called of bread ;* 
 
 Where Saxon men shall tine the bow, 
 And find their arrows lack the head. 
 
 " Beside that brigg, out-ower that burn, 
 
 Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, 
 
 Shall many a falling courser spurn, 
 And knights shall die in battle keen. 
 
 " Beside a headless cross of stone, 
 The libbards there shall lose the gree; 
 
 The raven shall come, the erne shall go, 
 And drink the Saxon blood sae free, 
 
 The cross of stone they shall not know, 
 So thick the corses there shall be."— 
 
 " But tell me now," said brave Dunbar, 
 " True Thomas, tell now unto me, 
 
 What man shall rule the isle Britain, 
 
 Even from the north to the southern sea?" 
 
 " A French queen shall bear the son, 
 
 Shall rule all Britain to the sea: 
 He of the Bruce's blude shall come, 
 
 As near as in the ninth degree. 
 
 " The waters worship shall his race , 
 Likewise the waves of the farthest sea; 
 
 For they shall ride ower ocean wide, 
 
 With hempen bridles and horse of tree." 
 
 * One of Thomas's rhymes, preserved by tradition, 
 runs thus : 
 
 " The burn of breid 
 Shall run fow reid." 
 Bannock-burn is the brook here meant. The Scots 
 ffive the name of bannock, to a thick round cuke of un- 
 leavened bread. 
 
44 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 39 
 
 PART THIRD. — MODERN. 
 
 When seven years more had come and gone, 
 Was war through Scotland spread, 
 
 And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon 
 His beacon blazing red. 
 
 Then all by bonny Coldingknow, 
 Pitched palliouns took their room, 
 
 And crested helms, and spears a rowe, 
 Glanced gaily through the broom. 
 
 The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, 
 
 Resounds the ensenzie ; 
 They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 
 
 To distant Torwoodlee. 
 
 The feast was spread in Ercildoune, 
 In Learmont's high and ancient hall ; 
 
 And there were knights of great renown, 
 And ladies, laced in pall. 
 
 Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, 
 
 The music, nor the tale, 
 Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, 
 
 Nor the mantling quaighs of ale. 
 
 True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, 
 
 When as the feast was done : 
 (In minstrel strife, in Fairy land, 
 
 The elfin harp he won.) 
 
 Hushed were the throng both limb and tongue, 
 
 And harpers for envy pale : 
 And armed lords leaned on their swords, 
 
 And hearkened to the tale. 
 
 In numbers high, the witching tale 
 
 The prophet poured along ; 
 No after bard might e'er avail 
 
 Those numbers to prolong. 
 
 Yet fragments of the lofty strain 
 
 Float down the tide of years, 
 As, buoyant on the stormy main, 
 
 A parted wreck appears. 
 
 He sung King Arthur's table round: 
 
 The warrior of the lake ; 
 How courteous Gawaine met the wound, 
 
 And bled for ladies' sake. 
 
 But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, 
 
 The notes melodious swell ; 
 Was none excelled, in Arthur's days, 
 
 The knight of Lionelle. 
 
 For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 
 
 A venomed wound he bore : 
 When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, 
 
 Upon the Irish shore. 
 
 No art the poison might withstand ; 
 
 No medicine could be found, 
 Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 
 
 Had probed the rankling wound. 
 
 With gentle hand and soothing tongue, 
 
 She bore the leech's part ; 
 And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, 
 
 He paid her with his heart. 
 
 O fatal was the gift, I ween! 
 
 For, doomed in evil tide, 
 The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,. 
 
 His cowardly uncle's bride. 
 
 Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard 
 
 In fairy tissue wove: 
 Where lords, and knights, and ladiss bright, 
 
 In gay confusion strove. 
 
 The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, 
 High reared its glittering head; 
 
 @= 
 
 And Avalon's enchanted vale 
 In all its wonders spread. 
 
 Brengwain was there, and Segramore, 
 And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye,- 
 
 Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
 O who could sing but he ? 
 
 Through many a maze the winning song 
 
 In changeful passion led, 
 Till bent at length the listening throng 
 
 O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 
 
 His ancient wounds their scars expand ; 
 
 With agony his heart is Avrung: 
 O where is Isolde's lily hand, 
 
 And where her soothing tongue ? 
 
 She comes, she comes! like flash of flame 
 
 Can lovers' footsteps fly : 
 She comes, she comes! — she only came 
 
 To see her Tristrem die. 
 
 She saw him die : her latest sigh 
 Joined in a kiss his parting breath: 
 
 The gentlest pair, that Britain bare, 
 United are in death. 
 
 There paused the harp : its lingering sound 
 
 Died slowly on the ear: 
 The silent guests still bent around, 
 
 For still they seemed to hear. 
 
 Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak, 
 Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ; 
 
 But, half-ashamed, the rugged cheek 
 Did many a gauntlet dry. 
 
 On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, 
 
 The mists of evening close ; 
 In camp, in castle, or in bower, 
 
 Each warrior sought repose. 
 
 Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent. 
 
 Dreamed o'er the woeful tale ; 
 When footsteps light, across the bent, 
 
 The warrior's ears assail. 
 He starts, he wakes:—" What Richard, ho! 
 
 Arise, my page, arise! 
 What venturous wight, at dead of night, 
 
 Dare step where Douglas lies!". — 
 
 Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, 
 
 A selcouth* sight they see — 
 A hart and hind pace side by side, 
 
 As white as snow on Fairnalie. 
 
 Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, 
 
 They stately move and slow ; 
 Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, 
 
 Who marvel as they go. 
 To Learmont's tower a message sped, 
 
 As fast as page might run : 
 And Thomas started from his bed, 
 
 And soon his clothes did on. 
 
 First he woxe pale, and then woxe red ; 
 
 Never a word he spake but three ; — 
 •« My sand is run ; my thread is spun; 
 
 This sign regardeth me." — 
 
 The elfin harp his neck around, 
 
 In minstrel guise, he hung ; 
 And on the wind, in doleful sound, 
 
 Its dying accents rung. 
 
 Then forth he went ; yet turned him oft 
 
 To view his ancient hall ; 
 On the grey tower, in lustre soft, 
 
 The autumn moon-beams fall. 
 
 * Selcouth— Wondrous. 
 
THE FIRE-KING. 
 
 45 
 
 And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
 
 Danced shimmering in the ray: 
 In deepening mass, at distance seen, 
 
 Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 
 " Farewell, my father's ancient tower! 
 
 A long farewell," said he : 
 " The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, 
 
 Thou never more shalt be. 
 
 " To Learmont's name no foot of earth 
 
 Shall here again belong ; 
 And on thy hospitable hearth 
 
 The hare shall leave her young. 
 
 " Adieu! Adieu!" again he cried, 
 All as he turned him roun' 
 
 " Farewell to Leader's silver tide! 
 Farewell to Ercildoune!'' 
 
 The hart and hind approach the place, 
 
 As lingering yet he stood ; 
 And there, before Lord Douglas' face, 
 
 With them he crossed the flood. 
 
 Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, 
 And spurred him the Leader o'er: 
 
 But, though he rode with lightning speed, 
 He never saw them more. 
 
 Some said to hill, and some to glen, 
 Their wondrous course had been ; 
 
 But ne'er in haunts of living men 
 Again was Thomas seen. 
 
 THE FIRE-KING. 
 
 " The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon him." — Eastern Tale. 
 
 The following story is partly historical. It is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Latin 
 kingdom of Jerusalem, a knight-templar, called Saint-Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and de- I 
 feated the Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict Avith King 
 Baldwin, under the walls of Jerusalem. 
 
 Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp give 
 
 an ear, 
 Of love, and of Avar, and of wonder to hear; 
 And you haply may sigh, in the midst of your 
 
 glee, 
 At the tale of Count Albert, and fair Rosalie. 
 
 O see you that castle, so strong and so high? 
 And see you that lady, the tear in her eye? 
 And see you that palmer, from Palestine's land, 
 The shell on his hat, and the stall' in his hand? — 
 
 " Now palmer, grey palmer, O tell unto me, 
 AVhat news bring you home from the Holy 
 
 Countrie? 
 And how goes the warfare by Galilee's strand? 
 And how fare our nobles, the flower of the 
 
 land?"— 
 
 " O well goes the warfare by Galilee's wave, 
 For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah Ave have; 
 And Avell fare our nobles by Mount Lebanon, 
 For the Heathen have lost, and the Christians 
 have Avon." 
 
 A fair chain of gold 'mid her ringlets there hung: 
 O'er the palmer's grey locks the fair chain has 
 
 sbe flung: 
 " O palmer, grey palmer, this chain be thy fee, 
 For the neAvs thou hast brought from the Holy 
 
 Countrie. 
 " And palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's Avave, 
 O saAv ye Count Albert, the gentle and brave? 
 When the Crescent went back, and the Red- 
 cross rushed on, 
 O saAv ye him foremost on mount Lebanon?"-— 
 
 " O lady, fair lady, the tree green it groAvs ; 
 
 O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows: I 
 
 Your castle stands strong, and your hopes soar 
 
 on high ; 
 But lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. 
 
 " The green boughs they wither, the thunderbolt 
 
 falls, 
 It leaves of your castle but levin-scorched Avails ; 
 The pure stream runs muddy ; the gay hope is 
 
 gone ; 
 Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Lebanon."— 
 
 O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at her speed ; 
 And she's ta'en a sAvord, should be sharp at her 
 
 need ; 
 And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's land, 
 To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's hand. 
 
 Small thought had Count Albert on fair Rosalie, 
 Small thought on his faith, or his knighthood, 
 
 had he ; 
 A heathenish damsel his light heart had Avon, 
 The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Lebanon. 
 
 "Oh Christian, brave Christian, my love wouldst 
 
 thou be, 
 Three things must thou do ere I hearken to thee ; 
 Our laAvs and our Avorship on thee shalt thou 
 
 take : 
 And this shalt thou first do for Zulema's sake. 
 
 And next, in the cavern, where burns evermore 
 The mystical flame which the Curdmans adore, 
 Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt thou 
 
 wake ; 
 And this shalt thou next do for Zulema's sake. 
 
 And last, thou shalt aid us with council and 
 
 hand, 
 To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's land ; 
 For my lord and my love then Count Albert I'll 
 
 take, [sake." — 
 
 When all this is accomplished for Zulema's 
 
 He has throAvn by his helmet and cross-handled 
 
 SAvord, 
 Renouncing his knighthood, denying his Lord ; 
 He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban put on, 
 For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 
 
 And in the dread cavern, deep, deep under i 
 
 ground, 
 
 Which fifty steel gates and steel portals surround, 
 
 He has Avatched until day-break; but sight saw 
 
 he none, [stone. 
 
 Save the flame burning bright on its altar of 
 
 Amazed Avas the princess, the Sol dan amazed, 
 Sore murmured the priests as on Albeit they 
 gazed"; [weeds, 
 
 They searched all his garments, and, under his 
 They found, and took from him his rosary beads. 
 
 ::0 
 
46 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 =v3 
 
 Again in the cavern, deep, deep under ground, 
 He watched the lone night, while the winds 
 
 whistled round ; 
 Far off was their murmur, it came not more nigh, 
 The flame burned unmoved, and nought else did 
 
 he spy. 
 
 Loud murmured the priests, and amazed was 
 the king, [sing ; 
 
 While many dark spells of their witchcraft they 
 
 They searched Albert's body, and, lo! on his 
 breast 
 
 Was the sign of the Cross by his father impressed. 
 
 The priests they erase it with care and with pain, 
 And the recreant returned to the cavern again ; 
 But as he descended, a whisper there fell! — 
 It was his good angel that bade him farewell! 
 
 High bristled his hair, his heart fluttered and 
 beat, [retreat ; 
 
 And he turned him five steps, half resolved to 
 
 But his heart it was hardened, his purpose was 
 gone, 
 
 When he thought of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 
 
 Scarce passed he the archway, the threshold 
 scarce trod, [were abroad ; 
 
 When the winds from the four points of heaven 
 They made each steel portal to rattle and ring, 
 And borne on the blast, came the dread Fire- 
 King. 
 
 Full sore rocked the eavem whene'er he drew 
 
 nigh, 
 The fire on the altar blazed bickering and high ; 
 In volcanic explosions the mountains proclaim 
 The dreadful approach of the Monarch of Flame. 
 
 Unmeasured in height, undistinguished in form, 
 His breath it was lightning, his voice it Avas 
 
 storm : 
 I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was tame, 
 When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of 
 
 Flame. 
 
 In his hand a broad falchion blue-glimmer'd 
 through smoke, [spoke : — 
 
 And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch he 
 
 " With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus long, 
 and no more, [adore." — 
 
 Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin 
 
 The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon— and 
 see! [knee; 
 
 The recreant receives the charmed gift on his 
 
 The thunders growl distant, and faint gleam the 
 fires, [retires. 
 
 As, borne on his whirlwind, the Phantom 
 
 Count Albert has armed him the Paynim among, 
 Though his heart it was false, yet his arm it was 
 strong ; [came on, 
 
 And the Red-cross waxed faint, and the Crescent 
 From the day he commanded on mount Lebanon. 
 
 From Lebanon's forest to Galilee's wave, 
 
 The sands of Samaar drank the blood of the 
 
 brave : [St John, 
 
 Till the Knights of the Temple, and Knights of 
 With Salem's King Baldwin against him came 
 
 on. 
 
 The war-cymbals clattered, the trumpets replied, 
 The lances were couched, and they closed on 
 
 each side ; 
 And horsemen and horses Count Albert o'er- 
 
 threw, [unto. 
 
 Till he pierced the thick tumult King Baldwin 
 Against the charmed blade which Count Albert 
 
 did wield, [shield; 
 
 The fence had been vain of the King's Red-cross 
 But a Page thrust him forward the monarch be- 
 fore, 
 And cleft the proud turban the renegade wore. 
 So fell was the dint, that Count Albert stooped 
 
 low 
 Before the crossed shield to his steel saddle-bow ; 
 And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross his 
 
 head, — 
 "Bonne grace, noire Dame," he unwittingly said. 
 Sore sighed the charmed sword, for its virtue 
 
 was o'er ; [more ; 
 
 It sprung from his grasp, and was never seen 
 But true men have said that the lightning's red 
 
 wing 
 Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire-King. 
 He clenched his set teeth, and his gauntleted 
 
 hand ; [strand ; 
 
 He stretched, with one buffet, that Page on the 
 As back from the stripling the broken casque 
 
 rolled, [of gold. 
 
 You might see the blue eyes, and the ringlets 
 Short time had Count Albert in horror to stare 
 On those death-swimming eye-balls, and blood- 
 clotted hair; [flood, 
 For down came the Templars, like Cedron iri 
 And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood. 
 The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites yield 
 To the scallop, the saltier, and crosleted shield: 
 And the eagles were gorged with the infidel dead, 
 From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's head. 
 The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain ;— . 
 Oh, who is yon Paynim lies stretched mid the 
 
 slain? 
 And who is yon Page lying cold at his knee? 
 Oh, who but Count Albert and fair Rosalie. 
 The Lady was buried in Salem's blessed bound, 
 The Count he was left to the vulture and hound: 
 Her soul to high mercy our Ladye did bring ; 
 His went on the blast to the dread Fire-King. 
 Yet many a minstrel, in harping, can tell, 
 How the Red-cross it conquered, the Crescent 
 
 it fell: [glee, 
 
 And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid their 
 At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosalie. 
 
 END OF BALLADS AND LYRICAL PIECES. 
 
 ©—_;: 
 
©= 
 
 MAEMION, 
 
 A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 
 
 St IBoem, m Sue ©antes. 
 
 BY SIH WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 // is hardly to be expected, that an Author, whom the Public has honoured with some degree of 
 applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kijidness. Yet the Author of Marmion must be 
 supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second 
 intrusion, any reputation which his first Poem may have procured him. The present Story turns upon 
 the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero's 
 fate is connected toith that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the Author 
 was, if possible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for 
 the manners of the age in which it is laid. Any Historical narrative, far more an attempt at Epic com- 
 position, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity 
 of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon 
 a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Public. 
 
 The Poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of Flodden, 4th 
 September 1513. 
 
 CANTO L— THE CASTLE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To William Stewart Rose, Esq. 
 
 Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. 
 
 Nove3iber's sky is chill and drear, 
 November's leaf is red and sear: 
 Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
 That hems our little garden in, 
 Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
 You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
 So thick the tangled green-wood grew, 
 So feeble trilled the streamlet through: 
 Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 
 Through bush and brier, no longer green, 
 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
 Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 
 And, foaming brown with doubled speed, 
 Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 
 
 No longer Autumn's glowing red 
 Upon our Forest hills is shed; 
 No more, beneath the evening beam, 
 Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; 
 Away hath passed the heather-bell, 
 That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell ; 
 Sallow his brow, and russet bare 
 Are now the sister-heights of Yare. 
 The sheep, before the pinching heaven, 
 To sheltered dale and down are driven, 
 Where yet some faded herbage pines, 
 And yet a watery sun-beam shines : 
 In meek despondency they eye 
 The withered sward and wintry sky, 
 And far beneath their summer hill, 
 Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill: 
 The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, 
 And wraps him closer from the cold; 
 His clogs no meny circles wheel, 
 But, shivering, follow at his heel ; 
 A cowering glance they often cast, 
 As deeper moans the gathering blast. 
 
 My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, 
 As best befits the mountain child, 
 Feel the sad influence of the hour, 
 And wail the daisy's vanished flower; 
 
 Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, 
 And anxious ask, — Will spring return, 
 And birds and lambs again be gay, 
 And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 
 
 Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
 Again shall paint your summer bower; 
 Again the hawthorn shall supply 
 The garlands you delight to tie : 
 The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
 The wild birds carol to the round, 
 And while you frolic light as they, 
 Too short shall seem the summer day. 
 
 To mute and to material things 
 New life revolving summer brings ; 
 The genial call dead Nature hears, 
 And in her glory re-appears. 
 But oh! my country's wintry state 
 What second spring shall renovate ? 
 What powerful call shall bid arise 
 The buried warlike, and the wise ; 
 The- mind, that thought for Britain's weal, 
 The hand, that grasped the victor steel ? 
 The vernal sun new life bestows 
 Even on the meanest flower that blows ; 
 But vainly, vainly, may he shine ; 
 "Where Glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ; 
 And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 
 That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb,; 
 
 Deep graved in every British heart, 
 O never let those names depart ! 
 Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
 Who victor died on Gadite wave ; 
 To him, as to the burning levin, 
 Short, bright, resistless course was given ; 
 Where'er his country's foes were found, 
 Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
 Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
 Rolled, blazed, destroyed, — and was no more. 
 
 Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, 
 Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
 And launched that thunderbolt of war 
 On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar ; 
 Who, born to guide such high emprize, 
 For Britain's weal was early wise ; 
 
 PRINTED BY GEO. BKOOKMAN,J 
 
 [FOR RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOW, 
 
M ARM ION. 
 
 Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,. 
 For Britain's sins, an early grave, 
 His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, 
 A bauble held the pride of power, 
 Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, 
 And served his Albion for himself; 
 Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
 Strained at subjection's bursting rein, 
 O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, 
 The pride, he would not crush, restrained, 
 Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
 And brought the freeman's arm to aid the 
 freeman's laws. 
 
 Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of 
 power, 
 A watchman on the lonely tower, 
 Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 
 When fraud or danger were at hand ; 
 By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
 Our pilots had kept course aright ; 
 As some proud column, though alone, 
 Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. 
 Now is the stately column broke, 
 The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, 
 The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
 The warder silent on the hill ! 
 
 Oh, think, how to his latest day, 
 When Death, just hovering, claimed Ms prey, 
 With Palinure's unaltered mood, 
 Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; 
 Each call for needful rest repelled, 
 With dying hand the rudder held, 
 Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, 
 The steerage of the realm gave way! 
 Then, while on Britain's thousand plains, 
 One unpolluted church remains, 
 Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
 The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 
 But still, upon the hallowed day, 
 Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 
 While faith and civil peace are dear, 
 Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
 He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here! 
 
 ' Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, 
 Because his Rival slumbers nigh ; 
 Nor be thy requiescat dumb, 
 Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
 For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
 When best employed, and wanted most ; 
 Mourn genius high, and lore profound, 
 And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
 And all the reasoning powers divine, 
 To penetrate, resolve, combine ; 
 And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,. — •; 
 They sleep with him who sleeps below: 
 And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
 From error him who owns this grave, 
 Be every harsher thought suppressed, 
 And sacred be the last long rest. 
 Here, where the end of earthly things 
 Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; 
 Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
 Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ; 
 Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
 The distant notes of holy song, 
 As if some angel spoke agen, 
 All peace on earth, good-will to men ; 
 If ever from an English heart, 
 O here let prejudice depart, 
 And, partial feeling cast aside, 
 Record, that Fox a Briton died! 
 When Europe crouched to France's yoke, 
 And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
 And the firm Russian's purpose brave 
 Was bartered by a timorous slave, 
 
 Even then dishonour's peace he spurned, 
 The sullied olive-branch returned, 
 Stood for his country's glory fast, 
 And nailed her colours to the mast. 
 Heaven, to reward his firmness gave 
 A portion in this honoured grave ; 
 And ne'er held marble in its trust 
 Of two such wondrous men the dust. 
 
 With more than mortal powers endowed, 
 How high they soared above the crowd! 
 Theirs was no common party race, 
 Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
 Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
 Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
 Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
 Looked up the noblest of the land, 
 Till through the British world were known 
 The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 
 Spells of such force no wizard grave 
 E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 
 Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
 And force the planets from the sky. 
 These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 
 The wine of iife is on the lees. 
 Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 
 For ever tombed beneath the stone, 
 Where, — taming thought to human pride! — 
 The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
 Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; 
 O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound, 
 And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
 The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
 " Here let their discord with them die; 
 Speak not for those a separate doom, 
 Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb, 
 But search the land of living men, 
 Where wilt thou find their like agen?" 
 
 Rest, ardent Spirits! till the cries 
 Of lying Nature bid you rise ; 
 Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
 The leaden silence of your hearse: 
 Then, O how impotent and vain 
 This grateful tributary strain! 
 Though not unmarked from northern clime, 
 Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: 
 His Gothic harp has o'er you rung ; 
 The bard you deigned to praise, your deathless 
 names has sung. 
 
 . Stay yet, illusion, stay awhile, 
 My wildered fancy still beguile ! 
 From this high theme how can I part, 
 Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
 For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 
 •And all the raptures fancy knew, 
 And all the keener rush of blood, 
 That throbs through bard in bard-like mood, 
 Were here a tribune mean and low, 
 Though all their mingled streams could flow — 
 Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
 In one spring-tide of ecstacy. — 
 It will not be — it may not last — 
 The vision of enchantment's past: 
 Like frost-work in the morning ray, 
 The fancied fabric melts away ; 
 Each Gothic arch, memorial stone, 
 And long, dim, lofty aisle are gone, 
 And, lingering last, deception dear, 
 The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
 Now slow return the lonely down, 
 The silent pastures bleak and brown, 
 The farm begirt with copse-wood wild, 
 The gambols of each frolic child, 
 Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
 Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 
 
m 
 
 CANTO I.— THE CASTLE. 
 
 Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
 Thus Nature disciplines her son: 
 Meeter, she says, for me to stray, 
 And waste the solitary day, 
 In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
 And watching it float down the Tweed ; 
 Or idly list the shrilling lay t 
 
 With which the milk-maid cheers her way, , 
 Marking its cadence rise and fail, 
 As from the field, beneath'her pail, /"~ 
 She trips it down the uneven dale:,' -_ 
 Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, * - * 
 The ancient shepherd's tale feo lgarn, 
 Though oft he stop in rustic fear, 
 Lest his old legends tire the ear 
 Of one, who, in his simple mind, 
 May boast of book-leaj-ned taste refined. 
 
 But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell,ir*~ 
 (For few have read romance so well)^ 4 . * _ 
 How still the legendary lay 
 O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; 
 How on the ancient minstrel strain 
 Time lays his palsied hand'in vain ; 
 And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 
 By warriors wrought in steely weeds, 
 Still throb for fear and pity's sake ; 
 As when the Champion of the Lake 
 Enters Mojgana's fated house, 
 Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
 Deipising spells and demons' force, 
 Holds converse with the unburied corse ; 
 Onwhen, Dame Ganore's grace to move, 
 ( AlVs ! that lawless was their love) 
 He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
 And freed full sixty knights ; or when, 
 A sinful man, and unconfessed, 
 He took the Sangreal's holy quest, 
 And, slumbering saw the vision high, 
 He might now view with waking eye. 
 
 The mightiest chiefs of British son 
 Scorned not such legends to prolong ; 
 They gleam through Spencer's elfin dream, 
 And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
 And Dryden, in immortal strain. 
 Had raised the Table Round again, 
 But that a ribald king and court 
 Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
 Demanded for their niggard pay, 
 Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
 Licentious satire, song, and play; 
 The world defrauded of the high design, 
 Profaned the God-given strength, and marred 
 the lofty line. 
 
 Wanned by such names, well may Ave then, 
 Though dwindled sons of little men, 
 Essay to break a feeble lance 
 In the fair fields of old romance ; 
 Or seek the moated castle's cell, 
 Where long through talisman and spell, 
 While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 
 Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept: 
 There sound the harpings of the North, 
 Till he awake and sally forth, 
 On venturous quest to prick again, 
 In all his arms, with all his train, 
 Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scarf, 
 Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, 
 And wizard with his wand of might, 
 And errant-maid on palfrey white. 
 Around the Genius weave their spells, 
 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells ; 
 Mystery, half veiled and half revealed ; 
 And Honour, with his spotless shield ; 
 Attention, with fixed eye ; and Fear, 
 That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ; 
 
 And gently Courtesy ; and Faith, 
 Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death 
 And Valour, lion-mettled lord, 
 Leaning upon his own good sword 
 
 Well has thy fair achievement shown 
 A worthy meed may thus be won ; 
 •Ytene's* oaks — beneath whose shade 
 Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
 Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold, 
 And that Red King,-f avIio, while of old 
 Through Boldrewood the chase he led, 
 By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
 Ytene's oaks have heard again 
 Renewed such legendary strain; 
 For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
 That Amadis so famed in hall, 
 For Oriana, foiled in flight 
 The Necromancer's felon might ; 
 And well in modern verse hast wove 
 Par tenop ex's mystic love : 
 Hear then, attentive to my lay, 'K 
 A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 
 
 CANTO I.— THE CASTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 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 lewp-hole grates where captives weep, 
 The flanking walls that i^bund 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. 
 St George's banner, broad and gay, 
 Now faded, as the fading ray 
 
 Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
 The evening gale had scarce the power 
 To wave it on the Donjon tower, 
 
 So heatjly it hung. 
 The scouts had parted on their search, 
 
 The castle gates were barr'd ; 
 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 appears, 
 O'er Homcliff-hill, a plump of spears, 
 
 Beneath a pennon gay ; 
 A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
 Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
 Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 
 
 Before the dark array. 
 Beneath the sable palisade, 
 That closed the castle barricade, 
 
 His bugle-horn he blew ; 
 
 * The new forest in Hampshire, anciently so called, 
 f William Rufus. 
 
 M 
 
MARMION. 
 
 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 not 
 To fire a noble salvo-shot : 
 
 Lord Marmion waits below." — 
 Then to the castle's lower ward 
 
 Sped forty yeomen tall, 
 The iron-studded gates unbarred, 
 Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, 
 The lofty palisade unsparred, 
 
 And let the draw -bridge fall. 
 
 Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 
 
 Proudly his red-roan charger trod, 
 
 His helm hung at the saddle-bow; 
 
 Well, by his visage, you might know 
 
 He was a stalworth knight, and keen, 
 
 And had in many a battle been ; 
 
 The scar on his brown cheek revealed 
 
 A token true of Bosworth field ; 
 
 His eye-brow dark, and eye of fire, 
 
 Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire ; 
 
 Yet lines of thought upon his cheek, 
 
 Did deep design and counsel speak, 
 His forehead, by his casque worn bare, 
 His 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 fight, a champion grim, 
 Jn camps, a leader sage- 
 
 VI. 
 
 Well was he armed from head to heel, 
 
 In mail, and plate, of Milan steel ; 
 
 But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 
 
 Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd • 
 
 Amid the plumage of the crest, 
 
 A falcon hovered on her nest, 
 
 With wings outspread, and forward breast; 
 
 E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 
 
 Soared sable in an azure field : 
 
 The golden legend bore aright, 
 
 " Who checks at we, to death is dight." 
 
 Blue was the charger's broidered rein; 
 
 Blue ribbons decked his arching mane ; 
 
 The knightly housing's ample fold 
 
 Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behind him rode two gallant squires, 
 Of noble name, and knightly sires; 
 They burned the gilded spurs to claim ; 
 For well could each a war-horse tame, 
 Could draw the bow, the sword could SAvay, 
 And lightly bear the ring away ; 
 Nor less with courteous precepts stored, 
 Could dance in hall, and carve at board, 
 And frame love ditties passing rare, 
 And sing them to a lady fair. 
 
 VIII. 
 Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 
 With halbard, bill, and battle-axe: 
 
 They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, 
 And led his sumpter mules along, 
 And ambling palfrey, when at need 
 Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
 The last, and trustiest of the four, 
 On high his forky pennon bore ; 
 Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, 
 Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue, 
 Where, blazoned sable, as before, 
 The towering falcon seemed to soar. 
 Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 
 In hosen black, and jerkins blue, 
 With falcons broider'd on each breast, 
 Attended on their lord's behest, 
 Each chosen for an archer good, 
 KneAv hunting-craft by lake or wood ; 
 Each one a six-foot bow could bend, 
 And far a cloth-yard shaft could send; 
 Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
 And at their belts their quivers rung. 
 Their dusty palfreys, and array, 
 Showed they had marched a weary Avay, 
 
 IX. 
 
 'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
 How fairly armed, and ordered how, 
 
 The soldiers of the guard, 
 With musquet, pike, and morion, 
 To welcome noble Marmion, 
 
 Stood in the castle-yard ; 
 Minstrels and trumpeters were there, 
 The gunner held his linstock yare, 
 
 For welcome-shot prepared: — 
 Entered the train, and such a clang, 
 As then through all his turrets rang, 
 
 Old Norham never heard. 
 
 X. 
 The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 
 
 The trumpets flourished brave, 
 The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 
 
 And thundering welcome gave. 
 A blythe salute, in martial sort, 
 
 The minstrels well might sound, 
 For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court, 
 
 He scattered angels round. 
 " Welcome to Norham, Marmion! 
 
 Stout heart, and open hand! 
 Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, 
 
 Thou flower of English land!" — 
 
 XI. 
 
 Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck, 
 With silver scutcheon round their neck, 
 
 Stood on the steps of stone, 
 By which you reach the Donjon gate, 
 And there, with herald pomp and state, 
 
 They hailed Lord Marmion : 
 They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, 
 Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 
 
 Of Tamworth tower and town ; 
 And he, their courtesy to requite, 
 Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight, 
 
 All as he lighted down. 
 " Now largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion, 
 
 Knight of the crest of gold ! 
 A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 
 
 Ne'er guarded heart so bold." — 
 
 XII. 
 
 They marshal! 'd him to the castle-hall, 
 
 Where the guests stood all aside, 
 And loudly flourished the trumpet-call, 
 
 And the heralds loudly cried, 
 — " Room, lordings, room for Lord Marmion, 
 
 With the crest and helm of gold! 
 Full well Ave knoAv the trophies won 
 
 In the lists of Cottiswold: 
 
 =& 
 
CANTO L— THE CASTLE. 
 
 m 
 
 There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 
 
 'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
 To him he lost his ladye-love, 
 
 And to the king his land. 
 Ourselves beheld the listed field, 
 
 A sight both sad and fair ; 
 We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield, 
 
 And saw his saddle bare ; 
 We saw the victor win the crest, 
 
 He wears with worthy pride ; 
 And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 
 
 His foeman's scutcheon tied. 
 Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight! 
 
 Room, room, ye gentles gay, 
 For him who conquered in the right, 
 
 Marmion of Fontenaye!" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then stepped to meet that noble lord, 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
 Baron of Twisell, and of Ford, 
 
 And Captain of the Hold. 
 He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 
 
 Raised o'er the pavement high, 
 And placed him in the upper place — 
 
 They feasted full and high: 
 The whiles a northern harper rude 
 Chaunted a rhyme of deadly feud, 
 
 " How the fierce Thiricalls, and Ridley $ all, 
 Stout Willimondsicick, 
 And Hard-riding Dick, 
 
 And Hugliie of Ha/wdon, and Will o' the Wall, 
 Rave set on Sir Albany Feather stonhaugh, 
 And ialzen his life at the Deadmans-shaio." 
 
 fc'cantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook 
 The harper's barbarous lay; 
 
 Yet much he praised the pains he took, 
 And well those pains did pay: 
 For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain, 
 By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 
 
 XIV 
 
 " 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 pass : d a week, but giust 
 
 Or feat of arms befell: 
 The Scots can rein a mettled steed, 
 
 And love to couch a spear ; — 
 Sc 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 mark'd his altered look, 
 
 And gave a squire the sign; 
 A mighty wassell bowl he took, 
 
 And crown'd it high with Avine. 
 "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, 
 
 Of 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 sigh'd, 
 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 Lindisfam: 
 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 gayiy 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 hoid 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. 
 " Nay, if with royal James's bride 
 The lovely Lady Heron bide, 
 Behold me here a messenger, 
 Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 
 For, to the Scottish court addressed, 
 I journey at our king's behest, 
 And pray you, of your grace, provide 
 For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 
 I have not ridden in Scotland since 
 James backed the cause of that mock prince, 
 Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 
 Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. 
 Then did I march with Surrey's power, 
 What time we razed old Ay ton tower.'' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " For suchlike need, my lord, I trow, 
 Norham can find you guides enow ; 
 For here be some have pricked as far 
 On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
 Have drunk the monks of St Bothan's ale, 
 And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
 Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
 And given them light to set their hoods." — 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion cried, J 
 " Were I in warlike-wise to ride, ) 
 
 - - .. . - '£) 
 
& 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 =e 
 
 ®; 
 
 A better guard I would not lack, 
 Than your stout foray ers at my back: 
 But, a's in form of peace I go, 
 A friendly messenger, to know, 
 Why through all Scotland, near and far, 
 Their king is mustering troops for war, 
 The sight of plundering Border spears 
 Might justify suspicious fears, 
 And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 
 Break out in some unseemly broil ; 
 A herald were my fitting guide ; 
 Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
 Or pardoner, or travelling priest, 
 Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 
 
 XXI. 
 The Captain mused a little space, 
 And passed his hand across his face. 
 — " Fain would I find the guide you want, 
 But ill may spare a pursuivant, 
 The only men that safe can ride 
 Mine errands on the Scottish side. 
 Then, though a bishop built this fort, 
 Few holy brethren here resort ; 
 Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 
 Since our last siege, we have not seen: 
 The mass he might not sing or say, 
 Upon one stinted meal a day ; 
 So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 
 And prayed for our success the while. 
 Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 
 Is all too well in case to ride. 
 The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 
 The wildest war-horse in your train; 
 But then, no spearman in the hall 
 Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 
 Friar John of Tillmouth were the man ; 
 A blithesome brother at the can, 
 A welcome guest in hall and bower, 
 He knows each castle, town, and tower, 
 In which the wine and ale is good, 
 'Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood. 
 But that good man, as ill befalls, 
 Hath seldom left our castle walls, 
 Since on the vigil of St Bede, 
 In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed, 
 To teach Dame Alison her creed. 
 Old Bughtrig found him with his wife ; 
 And John, an enemy to strife, 
 Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 
 The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 
 That, if again he ventures o'er, 
 He shall shrieve penitent no more. 
 Little he loves such risks, I know, 
 Yet, in your guard, perchance will go." — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 
 Carved to his uncle, and that lord, 
 And reverently took up the word. 
 " Kind uncle, woe were we each one, 
 If harm should hap to brother John. 
 He is a man of mirthful speech, 
 Can many a game and gambol teach; 
 Full well at tables can he play, 
 And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
 None can a lustier carol bawl, 
 The needfullest among us all, 
 When time hangs heavy in the hall, 
 And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, 
 And we can neither hunt, nor ride 
 A foray on the Scottish side. 
 The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude, 
 May end in worse than loss of hood. 
 Let Friar John, in safety, still 
 In chimney-corner snore his fill, 
 Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill ; 
 
 Last night, to Norham there came one, 
 Will better guide Lord Marmion." — 
 " Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay, 
 Well hast thou spoke, say forth thy say,"— . 
 
 XXIII. 
 " Here is a holy Palmer come, 
 From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 
 One that hath kissed the blessed tomb, 
 And visited each holy shrine, 
 In Araby and Palestine ; " 
 On hills of Armenie hath been, 
 Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; 
 By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, 
 Which parted at the prophet's rod ; 
 In Sinai's wilderness he saw 
 The Mount where Israel heard the law, 
 Mid thunder dint, and flashing leven, 
 And shadows, mist, and darkness given. 
 
 He shows Saint James's cockle-shell, 
 
 Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 
 And of that grot where olives nod, 
 
 Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
 
 From all the youth of Sicily, 
 Saint Rosalie retired to God. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 " To stout Saint George of Norwich meny, 
 Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
 Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
 For his sins' pardon hath he prayed. 
 He knows the passes of the North, 
 And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth; 
 Little he eats, and long will wake, 
 And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
 This were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
 But, when our John hath quaffed his ale, 
 As little as the wind that blows, 
 And warms itself against his nose, 
 Kens he, or cares which way he goes. " — 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion, 
 " Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
 That venerable man, for me, 
 Were placed in fear, or jeopardy. 
 
 If this same Palmer will me lead 
 From hence to Holy-Rood, 
 
 Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, 
 
 Instead of cockle shell or bead, 
 With angels fair and good. 
 I love such holy ramblers ; still 
 They know to charm a weary hill, 
 
 With song, romance, or lay: 
 Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, 
 Some lying legend, at the least, 
 
 They bring to cheer the way." — 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Ah! noble sir," young Selby said, 
 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 
 " This man knows much, perchance e'en more 
 
 Than he could learn by holy lore. 
 
 Still to himself he's muttering, 
 
 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
 
 Last night we listened at his cell ; 
 
 Strange sounds we heard, and sooth to tell, 
 
 He murmured on till morn, howe'er 
 
 No living mortal could be near. 
 
 Sometimes I thought I heard it plain, 
 
 As other voices spoke again. 
 
 I cannot tell — I like it not— 
 
 Friar John hath told us it is wrote, 
 
 No conscience clear and void of wrong, 
 
 Can rest awake and pray so long. 
 
 Himself still sleeps before his beads 
 
 Have marked ten aves, and two creeds." — 
 
CANTO II.— THE CONVENT. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Let pass," quoth Marmion, " by my fay, 
 This man shall guide me on my way, 
 Although the great arch-fiend and he 
 Had sworn themselves of company ; 
 So please you, gentle youth, to call 
 This Palmer to the castle-hall." — 
 Tue summoned Palmer came in place ; 
 His sable cowl o'erhung his face; 
 
 In his black mantle was he clad, 
 
 With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, 
 On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
 
 The scallop shell his cap did deck ; 
 
 The crucihx around his neck, 
 Was from Loretto brought ; 
 His sandals were with travel tore, 
 Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
 The faded palm-branch in his hand, 
 Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Whenas the Palmer came in hall, 
 Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall 
 Or had a statelier step withal, 
 
 Or looked more high and keen; 
 For no saluting did he wait, 
 But strode across the hall of state, 
 And fronted Marmion where he sate, 
 
 As he his peer had been. 
 But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; 
 His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
 And when he struggled at a smile, 
 
 His eye looked haggard wild. 
 Poor wretch! the mother that him bare, 
 If she had been in presence there, 
 In his wan face, and sun-burned hair, 
 
 She had not known her child. 
 Danger, long travel, want, or woe, 
 Soon change the form that best we know — 
 For deadly fear can time outgo, 
 
 And blanch at once the hair ; 
 Hard toil can roughen form and face, 
 And want can quench the eye's bright grace, 
 Nor does old age a wrinkle trace, 
 
 More deeply than despair. 
 Happy whom none of these befall, 
 But this poor Palmer knew them all. 
 
 XXIX. 
 Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ; 
 The Palmer took on him the task, 
 So he would march with morning tide, 
 To Scottish court to be his guide. 
 — " Hut I have solemn vows to pay, 
 And may not linger by the way, 
 
 To fair St Andrews bound, 
 
 Within the ocean-cave to pray, 
 Where good St Rule his holy lay, 
 From midnight to the dawn of day, 
 
 Sung to the billows' sound 5 
 Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 
 Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 
 
 And the crazed brain restore : — 
 Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring 
 Could back to peace my bosom bring, 
 
 Or bid it throb no more!" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
 Where wine and spices richly steep, 
 In massive bowls of silver deep, 
 
 The page presents on knee. 
 Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
 The Captain pledged his noble guest, 
 The cup went through among the rest, 
 Who drained it merrily ; 
 ! Alone the Palmer passed it by, 
 j Though Selby pressed him courteously. 
 This was tne sign the feast was o'er; 
 It hushed the merry wassel roar, 
 The minstrels ceased to sound. 
 I Soon in the castle nought was heard, 
 But the slow footstep of the guard, 
 Pacing his sober round. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 With early dawn Lord Marmion rose ; 
 
 And first the chapel doors unclose ; 
 
 Then, after morning rites were done, 
 
 (A hasty mass by Friar John,) 
 
 And knight and squire had broke their fast. 
 
 On rich substantial repast, 
 
 Lord Marmion 's bugles blew to horse. 
 
 Then came the stirrup-cup in course ; 
 
 Between the Baron and his host, 
 
 No point of courtesy was lost: 
 
 High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 
 
 Solemn excuse the Captain made, 
 
 Till, filing from the gate, had past 
 
 That noble train, their Lord the last. 
 
 Then loudly rung the trumpet-call ; 
 
 Thundered the cannon from the wall, 
 And shook the Scottish shore ; 
 
 Around the castle eddied, slow, 
 
 Volumes 01 smoke as white as snow, 
 And hid its turrets hoar ; 
 Till they rolled forth upon the air, 
 And met the river breezes there, 
 Which gave again the prospect fair. 
 
 CANTO II.— THE CONVENT, 
 
 © 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 To the Rev. John Marriot, m. a. 
 
 Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. 
 
 The scenes are desart now and bare, 
 Where. flourished once a forest fair, 
 When these waste glens with copse were lined, 
 And peopled with the hart and hind. 
 Yon thorn — perchance whose prickly spears 
 Have fenced him for three hundred years, 
 While fell around his green compeers- 
 Yon lonely thoni, would he could tell 
 The. changes of his parent dell, 
 Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; 
 
 Would he could tell how deep the shade, 
 A thousand mingled branches made ; 
 How broad the shadows of the oak, 
 How clung the rowan to the rock, 
 And through the foliage showed his head, 
 With narrow leaves and berries red ; 
 What pines on every mountain sprung, 
 O'er every dell what birches hung, 
 In every breeze what aspens shook, 
 What alders shaded eveiy brook! 
 
 " Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, 
 " The mighty stag at noontide lay: 
 The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
 (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) 
 With lurching step around me prowl, 
 And stop against the moon to howl ; 
 
8 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 39 
 
 The mountain boar, on battle set, 
 
 His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
 
 While doe and roe, and red-deer good, 
 
 Have bounded by through gay green wood. 
 
 Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
 
 Sallied a Scottish monarch's power ; 
 
 A thousand vassals mustered round, 
 
 With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound ; 
 
 And I might see the youth intent, 
 
 Guard every pass with cross-bow bent 
 
 And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; 
 
 And foresters, in green-wood trim, 
 
 Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, 
 
 Attentive, as the bratchet's bay 
 
 From the dark covert drove the prey, 
 
 To slip them as he broke away. 
 
 The startled quarry bounds amain, 
 
 As fast the gallant grey -hounds strain : 
 
 Whistles the arrow from the bow, 
 
 Answers the harquebuss below ; 
 
 While all the rocking hills reply, 
 
 To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry 
 
 And bugles ringing lightsomely." — 
 
 Of such proud huntings, many tales 
 Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
 Up pathless Ettricke, and on Yarrow, 
 Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow. 
 But not more blythe that sylvan court, 
 Than we have been at humbler sport ; 
 Though small our pomp, and mean our game, 
 Our mirth, dear Marriot, Avas the same. 
 Remember'st thou my grey-hounds true? 
 O'er holt, or hill, there never flew, 
 From slip, or leash, there never sprang, 
 More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. 
 Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
 Passed by the intermitted space ; 
 For we had fair resource in store, 
 In Classic, and in Gothic lore: 
 We marked each memorable scene, 
 And held poetic talk between ; 
 Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 
 But had its legend, or its song. 
 All silent now — for now are still 
 Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill! 
 No longer, from thy mountains dun, 
 The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 
 And, while his honest heart glows Avarm, 
 At thought of his paternal farm, 
 Round to his mates a brimmer fills, 
 And drinks " The Chieftain of the Hills!" 
 No fairy forms, in YarroAv's boAvers, 
 Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
 Fair as the elves Avhom Janet saAv, 
 By moonlight, dancewn Carterhaughj 
 Mo youthful baron's left to grace 
 The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 
 And ape, in manly step and tone, 
 The majesty of Oberon: 
 And she is gone, Avhose lovely face 
 Is but her least and loAvest grace ; 
 Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
 To sIioav our earth the charms of heaven, 
 She could not glide along the air, 
 With form more light, or face more fair. 
 No more the widow's deafened ear 
 GroAvs quick, that lady's step to hear: 
 At noontide she expects her not, 
 Nor busies her to trim the cot : 
 Pensive she turns her humming AA'heel, 
 Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; 
 Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
 The gentle hand by which they're fed. 
 
 From Yair, — which hills so closely bind, 
 Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
 
 Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
 
 Till all his eddying currents boil, — 
 
 Her long-descended lord is gone, 
 
 And left us by the stream alone. 
 
 And much I miss those sportive boys, 
 
 Companions of my mountain joys, 
 
 Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 
 
 When thought is speech, and speech is truth. 
 
 Close to my side, with Avhat delight, 
 
 They pressed to hear of Wallace Avight, 
 
 When, pointing to his airy mound, 
 
 I called his ramparts holy ground! 
 
 Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; 
 
 And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
 
 Despite the difference of our years, 
 
 Return.again the glow of theirs. 
 
 Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, 
 
 They Avill not, cannot long endure ; 
 
 Condemned to stem the Avorld's rude tide, 
 
 You may not linger by the side ; 
 
 For Fate shall thrust, you from the shore, 
 
 And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
 
 Yet cherish the remembrance still, 
 
 Of the lone mountain, and the riil ; 
 
 For trust, dear boys, the time Avill come, 
 
 When fiercer transport shall be dumb, 
 
 And you will think right frequently, 
 
 Rut, Avell I hope, without a sigh, 
 
 On the free hours that Ave have spent, 
 
 Together, on the broAvn hill's bent. 
 
 "When, musing on companions gone, 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone, 
 Something, my friend, Ave yet may gain, 
 There is a pleasure in this pain : 
 It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
 Deep in each gentler heart impressed. 
 'Tis silent amid Avorldly toils, 
 And stifled soon by mental broils ; 
 But, in a bosom thus prepared, 
 Its still small voice is often heard, 
 Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
 'TAvixt resignation and content. 
 Oft in my mind such thoughts aAvake, 
 
 J By lone fet Mary's silent lake ; 
 
 j Thou knoAvst it Avell, — nor fen, nor sedge, 
 Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; 
 Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
 At once upon the level brink ; 
 And just a trace of silver sand 
 Marks Avhere the water meets the land 
 Far in the mirror, bright and blue, 
 Each hill's huge outline you may view; 
 Shaggy Avith heath, but lonely bare, 
 Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, 
 Save Avhere, of land, yon slender line, 
 Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. 
 Yet even this nakedness has poAver, 
 And aids the feeling of the hour: 
 Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 
 Where living thing concealed might lie ; 
 Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, 
 Where swain, or Avoodman lone, might dwell ; 
 There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
 You see that all is loneliness : 
 And silence aids — though these steep hills 
 Send to the lake a thousand rills ; 
 In summer tide, so soft they weep, 
 The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; 
 Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, 
 So stilly is the sditude. 
 
 Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
 But Avell I Aveen the dead are near ; 
 For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
 Hath laid Our Lady's chapel Ioav, 
 Yet still, beneath the halloAved soil, 
 The peasant rests him from his toil, 
 
 =*© 
 
CANTO II.— THE CONVENT. 
 
 9 ! 
 
 And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 
 Where erst his simple fathers prayed. 
 
 If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
 And fate had cut my ties to life, 
 Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, 
 And fear again the chaplain's cell, 
 Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
 Where Milton longed to spend his age. 
 'Twere sweet to mark the setting day, 
 On Bourhope's lonely top decay ; 
 And, as it faint and feeble died, 
 On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 
 To say, " Thus pleasures fade away; 
 Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, 
 And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;" — 
 Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower, 
 And think on Yarrow's faded Flower. 
 And when that mountain-sound I heard, 
 Which bids us be for storm prepared, 
 The distant rustling of his wings, 
 As up his force the Tempest brings, 
 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 
 To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; 
 That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust 
 From company of holy dust ; 
 On which no sun-beam ever shines — 
 (So superstition's creed divines,) 
 Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, 
 Heave her broad billows to the shore ; 
 And mark the wild swans mount the gale, 
 Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 
 A nd ever stoop again, to lave 
 Their bosoms on the surging wave : 
 Then, when against the driving hail 
 No longer might my plaid avail, 
 Back to my lonely home retire, 
 And light my lamp, and trim my fire: 
 There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 
 Till the wild tale had all its sway, 
 And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
 I heard unearthly voices speak, 
 And thought the Wizard Priest was come, 
 To ciaim again his ancient home! 
 And bade my busy fancy range, 
 To frame him fitting shape and strange, 
 Till from the task my brow I cleared, 
 And smiled to think that I had feared. 
 
 But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, 
 (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) 
 Something most matchless good, and wise, 
 A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
 And deem each hour, to musing given, 
 A step upon the road to heaven. 
 
 Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, 
 Such peaceful solitudes displease: 
 
 He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
 
 Amid the elemental Avar: 
 
 And my black Palmer's choice had been 
 
 Some ruder and more savage scene, 
 
 Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene. 
 
 There eagles scream from isle to shore ; 
 
 Down all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
 
 O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
 
 Dark mists infect the summer heaven ; 
 
 Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
 
 Away its hurrying waters break, 
 
 Faster and whiter dash and curl, 
 
 Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
 
 Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, 
 
 Thunders the viewless stream below, 
 
 Diving, as if condemned to lave 
 
 Some demon's subterranean cave, 
 
 Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell, 
 
 Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. 
 
 And well that Palmer's form and mien 
 
 Had suited with the stormy scene, 
 
 Just on the edge, straining his ken 
 To view the bottom of the den, 
 Where, deep deep down, and far within, 
 Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
 Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 
 And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, 
 White as the snowy charger's tail, 
 Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. 
 Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung, 
 To many a Border theme has rung : 
 Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
 Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 
 
 CANTO II.— THE CONVENT. 
 
 I. 
 The breeze, which swept away the smoke, 
 
 Round Norham Castle rolled ; 
 When all the loud artillery spoke, 
 With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke, 
 
 As Marmion left the Hold. 
 It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze ; 
 For, far upon Northumbrian seas, 
 
 It freshly blew, and strong, 
 Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile, 
 Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 
 
 It bore a bark along. 
 Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
 And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 
 
 As she were dancing home ; 
 The merry seamen laughed, to see 
 Their gallant ship so lustily 
 
 Furrow the green sea-foam. 
 Much joyed they in their honoured freight ; 
 For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 
 With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, 
 Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, 
 
 Their first flight from the cage, 
 How timid, and how curious too, 
 For all to them was strange and new, 
 And all the common sights they view, 
 
 Their wonderment engage. 
 One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 
 
 With many a benedicite ; 
 One at the rippling surge grew pale, 
 
 And would for terror pray ; 
 Then shrieked, because the sea-dog, nigh, 
 His round black head, and sparkling eye, 
 
 Reared o'er the foaming spray; 
 And one would still adjust her veil, 
 Disordered by the summer gale, 
 Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
 Her dedicated charms might spy ; 
 Perchance, because such action graced 
 Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. 
 Light was each simple bosom there, 
 Save two, who ill might pleasure share,— 
 The Abbess, and theNovice Clare. 
 
 III. 
 
 The Abbess was of noble blood, 
 
 But early took the veil and hood, 
 
 Ere upon life she cast a look, 
 
 Or knew the world that she forsook. 
 
 Fair too she was, and kind had been 
 
 As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
 
 For her a timid lover sigh, 
 
 Nor knew the influence of her eye ; 
 
 Love, to her ear, was but a name, 
 
 Combined with vanity and shame ; 
 
10 
 
 MARMIQN. 
 
 <^= 
 
 Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
 Bounded within the cloister wall: 
 The deadliest sin her mind could reach, 
 Was of monastic rule the breach; 
 And her ambition's highest aim, 
 To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
 For this she gave her ample dower, 
 To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
 For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
 She decked the chapel of the saint, 
 And gave the relique-shrine of cost, 
 With ivory and gems embost. 
 The poor her convent's bounty blest, 
 The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
 Reformed on Benedictine school ; 
 Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; 
 Vigils, and penitence austere, 
 Had early quenched the light of youth, 
 But gentle was the dame in sooth; 
 Though vain of her religious sway, 
 She loved to see her maids obey, 
 Yet nothing stern was she in cell, 
 And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
 Sad was this voyage to the dame ; 
 Summoned to Lindisfarn, she came, 
 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, 
 And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
 A chapter of Saint Benedict, 
 For inquisition stern and strict, 
 On two apostates from the faith, 
 And, if need were, to doom to death. 
 
 V. 
 
 Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
 Save this, that she was young and fair ; 
 As yet a novice unprofessed, 
 Lovely, and gentle, but distressed. 
 She was betrothed to one now dead, 
 Or worse, who had dishonoured fled. 
 Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
 To one, who loved her for her land : 
 Herself, almost heart-broken now, 
 Was bent to take the vestal vow, 
 And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom, 
 Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She sate upon the galley's prow, 
 And seemed to mark the Avaves below ; 
 Nay seemed, so fixed her look and eye, 
 To count them as they glided by. 
 She saAv them not — 'twas seeming all- 
 Far other scene her thoughts recal, — 
 A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, 
 Nor wave, nor breezes, murmured there ; 
 There saw she, where some careless hand 
 O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand, 
 To hide it till the jackalls come, 
 To tear it from the scanty tomb.>— 
 See what a woeful look was given, 
 As she raised up her eyes to heaven! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lovely, and gentle, and distressed — 
 
 These charms might tame the fiercest breast 
 
 Harpers have sung, and poets told, 
 
 That he, in fury uncontrolled, 
 
 The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
 
 Before a virgin, fair and good, 
 
 Hath pacified his savage mood. 
 
 But passions in the human frame 
 
 Oft put the lion's rage to shame ; 
 
 And jealousy, by dark intrigue, 
 
 With sordid avarice in league, 
 
 Had practised with their bowl and knife, 
 Against the mourner's harmless life. 
 This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay 
 Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet grey. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And now the vessel skirts the strand 
 
 Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
 
 Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 
 
 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
 
 Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, 
 
 And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; 
 
 They marked, amid her trees, the hall 
 
 Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; 
 
 They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
 
 Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; 
 
 They past the tower of Widderington, 
 
 Mother of many a valiant son ; 
 
 At Coquet-isle their beads they tell, 
 
 To the good Saint who owned the cell ; 
 
 Then did the Alne attention claim, 
 
 And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name ; 
 
 And next, they crossed themselves, to hear 
 
 The whitening breakers sound so near, 
 
 Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar 
 
 On Dunstanborough's caverned shore ; 
 
 Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they 
 
 here, 
 King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
 From its tall rock look grimly down, 
 And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
 Then from the coast they bore away, 
 And reached the Holy Island's bay. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
 And girdled in the Saint's domain: 
 For, with the flow and ebb, its stile 
 Varies from continent to isle ; 
 Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
 The pilgrims to the shrine find way 
 Twice every day, the waves efface 
 Of staves and sandaled feet the trace. 
 As to the port the galley flew, 
 Higher and higher rose to view 
 The Castle, with its battled walls, 
 The ancient Monastery's halls, 
 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
 Placed on the margin of the isle. 
 
 X. 
 
 In Saxon strength that Abbey frowned, 
 With massive arches broad and round, 
 
 That rose alternate, row and row 
 
 On ponderous columns, short and low, 
 Built ere the art was known, 
 
 By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, 
 
 The arcades of an alley'd walk 
 To emulate in stone. 
 On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
 Had poured his impious rage in vain ; 
 And needful was such strength to these, 
 Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
 Scourged by the wind's eternal sway, 
 Open to rovers fierce as they, 
 "Which could twelve hundred years withstand 
 Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. 
 Not but that portions of the pile, 
 Rebuilded in a later stile, 
 Showed where the spoiler's hand had been ; 
 Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
 Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, 
 And mouldered in his niche the saint, 
 And rounded, with consuming power, 
 The pointed angles of each tower: 
 Yet still entire the Abbey stood, 
 Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 
 
 :@ 
 
CANTO II.— THE CONVENT. 
 
 3® 
 
 11 
 
 XI. 
 
 Soon as they neared his turrets strong, 
 The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 
 
 And with the sea-wave and the wind, 
 
 Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 
 And made harmonious close ; 
 
 Then, answering from the sandy shore, 
 
 Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar, 
 According chorus rose : 
 Down to the haven of the Isle, 
 The monks and nuns in order file, 
 
 From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; 
 Banner, and cross, and reliques there, 
 Tc meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare ; 
 And, as they caught the sounds on air, 
 
 They echoed back the hymn. 
 The islanders, in joyous mood, 
 Rushed emulously through the flood, 
 
 To hale the bark to land ; 
 Conspicuous by her veil and hood, 
 Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, 
 
 And blessed them with her hand. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Suppose we now the welcome said, 
 Suppose the Convent banquet made: 
 
 All through the holy dome, 
 Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
 Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
 Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye, 
 
 The stranger sisters roam : 
 Till fell the evening damp with dew, 
 And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
 For there, even summer night is chill. 
 Then, having strayed and gazed their fill, 
 
 They closed around the fire ; 
 And all, in turn, essayed to paint 
 The rival merits of their saint, 
 
 A theme that ne'er can tire 
 A holy maid ; for, be it known, 
 That their saint's honour is their own. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, 
 How to their house three barons bold 
 
 Must menial service do ; 
 While horns blow out a note of shame, 
 And monks cry " Fye upon your name! 
 In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, 
 
 Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." 
 "This, on Ascension-day, each year, 
 While labouring on our harbour-pier, 
 Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear." 
 They told, how in their convent cell 
 A Saxon princess once did dwell, 
 
 The lovely Edelfled ; 
 And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
 Was changed into a coil of stone, 
 
 When holy Hilda prayed ; 
 Themselves, within their holy bound, 
 Their stony folds had often found. 
 They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 
 As over Whitby's towers they sail, 
 And, sinking down, with fluttering^ faint, 
 They do their homage to the saint. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail, 
 
 To vie with these in holy tale ; 
 
 His body's resting-place, of old, 
 
 How oft their patron changed, they told; 
 
 How, when the rude Dane binned their pile, 
 
 The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 
 
 O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 
 
 From sea to sea, from shore to shore, 
 
 Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. 
 
 They rested them in fair Melrose ; 
 But though, alive, he loved it well, 
 
 Not there his reliques might repose ; 
 For, wondrous tale to tell ! 
 
 In his stone-coffin forth he rides, 
 
 (A ponderous bark for river tides) 
 
 Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
 Downward to Tillmouth cell. 
 Nor long was his abiding there, 
 For southward did the saint repair; 
 Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw 
 His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 
 
 Hailed him with joy and fear; 
 And, after many wanderings past, 
 He chose his lordly seat at last, 
 Where his cathedral, huge and vast, 
 
 Looks down upon the Wear: 
 There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 
 His reliques are in secret laid; 
 
 But none may know the place, 
 Save of his holiest servants three, 
 Deep sworn to solemn secrecy, 
 
 Who share that wondrous grace. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Who may his miracles declare! 
 
 Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, 
 
 (Although with them they led 
 Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 
 And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, 
 And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 
 
 Before his standard fled. 
 'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
 Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
 And turned the conqueror back again, 
 When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
 He came to waste Northumberland. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn, 
 If, on a rock, by Lindisfarn, 
 Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
 The sea-born beads that bear his name : 
 Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, 
 And said they might his shape behold, 
 
 And hear his anvil sound ; 
 A deadened clang, — a huge dim form, 
 Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm, 
 
 And night were closing round. 
 But this, as tale of idle fame, 
 The nuns of Lindisfarn disclaim. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 While round the fire such legends go, 
 Far different was the scene of woe, 
 W 7 here, in a secret aisle beneath, 
 Council was held of life and death. 
 
 It was more dark and lone that vault, 
 Than the worst dungeon cell ; 
 
 Old Colwulf built it, for his fault, 
 In penitence to dwell, 
 When he, for cowl and beads, laid down 
 The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
 This den, which, chilling every sense 
 
 Of feeling, hearing, sight, 
 W 7 as called the Vault of Penitence, 
 
 Excluding air and light, 
 Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made 
 A place of burial, for such dead 
 As, having died in mortal sin, 
 Might not be laid the church within. 
 'Twas now a place of punishment ; 
 Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, 
 
 As reached the upper air, 
 The hearers blessed themselves, and said, 
 The spirits of the sinful dead 
 
 Bemoaned their torments there. 
 
 --D 
 
12 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But though, in the monastic pile, 
 Did of this penitential aisle 
 
 Some vague tradition go, 
 Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
 Where the place lay ; and still more few 
 Were those, who had from him the clew 
 
 To that dread vault to go. 
 Victim and executioner 
 Were blind-fold when transported there. 
 In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
 From the rude rock the side-walls sprung ; 
 The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 
 Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
 Were all the pavement of the floor; 
 The mildew drops fell one by one, 
 With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
 A cresset,* in an iron chain, 
 Which served to light this drear domain, 
 With damp and darkness seemed to strive, 
 As if.it scarce might keep alive ; 
 And yet it dimly served to show 
 The awful conclave met below. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 There, met to doom in secrecy, 
 
 Were placed the heads of convents three: 
 
 All servants of St Benedict, 
 
 The statutes of whose order strict 
 
 On iron table lay; 
 In long black dress, on seats of stone, 
 Behind were these three judges shown, 
 
 By the pale cresset's ray: 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, 
 Sate for a space with visage bare, 
 Until, to hide her bosom's swell, 
 And tear-drops that for pity fell, 
 
 She closely drew her veil : 
 Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, 
 By her proud mien and flowing dress, 
 Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, 
 
 And she, with awe looks pale : 
 And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight 
 Has long been quenched by age's night, 
 Upon wliose wrinkled brow alone, 
 Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown, 
 
 Whose look is hard and stern, — 
 Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his stile ; 
 For sanctity called, through the isle, 
 
 The Saint of Lindisfarn. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Before them stood a guilty pair ; 
 But, though an equal fate they share, 
 Yet one alone deserves our care, 
 Her sex a page's dress belied; 
 The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 
 Obscured her charms, but could not hide. 
 
 Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
 And, on her doublet breast, 
 
 She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
 Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
 But, at the Prioress' command, 
 A Monk undid the silken band, 
 
 That tied her tresses fair, 
 And raised the bonnet from her head, 
 And down her slender form they spread, 
 
 In ringlets rich and rare. 
 Constance de Beverly they know, 
 Sister professed of Fontevraud, 
 Whom the church numbered with the dead, 
 For broken vows, and convent fled. 
 
 XXI. . 
 When thus her face was given to view, 
 (Although so pallid was her hue, 
 
 * Antique Chaudelier. 
 
 It did a ghastly contrast bear, 
 
 To those bright ringlets glistering fair,) 
 
 Her look composed, and steady eye, 
 
 Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
 
 And there she stood, so calm and pale, 
 
 That, but her breathing did not fail, 
 
 And motion slight of eye and head, 
 
 And of her bosom, warranted, 
 
 That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
 
 You might have thought a form of wax, 
 
 Wrought to the very life, was there ; 
 
 So still she was, so pale, so fair. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Her comrade was a sordid soul, 
 Such as does murder for a meed ; 
 
 Who, but of fear, knows no control, 
 
 Because his conscience, seared and foul, 
 Feels not the import of his deed ; 
 
 One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
 
 Beyond his own more brute desires. 
 
 Such tools the tempter ever needs, 
 
 To do the savagest of deeds ; 
 
 For them no visioned terrors daunt, 
 
 Their nights no fancied spectres haunt; 
 
 One fear with them, of all most base, 
 
 The fear of death alone finds place. 
 
 This wretch was clad in frock and cow], 
 
 And shamed not loud to moan and howl, 
 
 His body on the floor to dash., 
 
 And crouch, like hound beneath the lash; 
 
 While his mute partner, standing near, 
 
 Waited her doom without a tear. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 
 Well might her paleness terror speak! 
 For there were seen, in that dark wall, 
 Two niches, narrow, deep, and tail. 
 Who enters at such grisly door, 
 Shall ne'er 1 ween, find exit more. 
 In each a slender meal was laid, 
 Of roots, of water, and of bread: 
 By each, in Benedictine dress, 
 Two haggard monks stood motionless; 
 Who holding high a blazing torch, 
 Showed the grim entrance of the porch 
 Reflecting back the smoky beam, 
 The dark-red wails and arches gleam. 
 Hewn stones and cement were displayed, 
 And building tools in order laid. 
 
 XXIV. 
 These executioners were chose, 
 As men who were with mankind foes, 
 And, with despite and envy fired, 
 Into the cloister had retired ; 
 
 Or who, in desperate doubt of grace 
 Strove by deep penance to eiiace 
 Of some foul crime the stain; 
 For, as the vassals of her will, 
 Such men Use church selected still, 
 As either joyed in doing ili, 
 Or thought more grace to gain, 
 If, in her cause, they wrestled down 
 Feelings their nature strove to own. 
 By strange device were they brought there, 
 They knew not how, and knew not where. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And now that blind old Abbot rose, 
 
 To speak the Chapter's doom, 
 On those the wall was to enclose, 
 
 Alive within the tomb ; 
 But stopped, because that woful maid, 
 Gathering her powers, to speak essayed. 
 
CANTO II.— THE CONVENT. 
 
 13 
 
 Twice she essayed, and twice in vain ; 
 Her accents might no utterance gain ; 
 Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 
 From her convulsed and quivering lip: 
 'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
 You seemed to hear a distant rill — 
 
 'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; 
 For though this vault of sin and fear 
 Was to the sounding surge so near, 
 A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
 
 So massive were the walls. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At length an effort sent apart 
 
 The blood that curdled to her heart, 
 
 And light came to her eye, 
 And colour dawned upon her cheek, 
 A hectic and a fluttered streak, 
 Like that left on the Cheviot peak, 
 
 By Autumn's stormy sky; 
 And when her silence broke at length, 
 Still as she spoke, she gathered strength, 
 
 And armed herself to bear. 
 It was a fearful sight to see 
 Such high resolve and constancy, 
 
 In form so soft and fair. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " I speak not to implore your grace ; 
 Well know I, for one minute's space 
 
 Successless might I sue: 
 Nor do 1 speak your prayers to gain ; 
 For if a death of lingering pain, 
 To cleanse my sins be penance vain, 
 
 Vain are your masses too. — 
 I listened to a traitor's tale, 
 I left the convent and the veil, 
 For three long years I bowed my pride, 
 A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
 And well my folly's meed he gave, 
 Who forfeited, to be his slave, 
 
 All here, and all beyond the grave 
 
 He saw young Clara's face more fair, 
 He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, 
 And Constance was beloved no more. — 
 
 'Tis an old tale, and often told; 
 But, did my fate and wish agree, 
 
 Ne'er had been read in story old, 
 
 Of maiden true betrayed for gold, 
 That loved, or was avenged, like me ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " The king approved his favourite's aim ; 
 In vain a rival barred his claim, 
 
 Whose faith Avith Clare's was plight, 
 For he attaints that rival's fame 
 With treason's charge — and on they came, 
 
 In mortal lists to fight. 
 Their oaths are said, 
 Their prayers are prayed, 
 Their lances in the rest are laid, 
 
 They meet in mortal shock; 
 And hark! the throng with thundering cry, 
 Shout, ' Marmion, Marmion to the sky! 
 
 De Wilton to the block!' 
 Say ye. who preach heaven shall decide, 
 When in the lists two champions ride, 
 
 Say, was heaven's justice here? 
 When, loyal in his love and faith, 
 Wilton found overthrow or death, 
 
 Beneath a traitor's spear. 
 How false the charge, how true he fell, 
 Tins guilty packet best can tell." — 
 Then drew a packet from her breast, 
 Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Still was false Marmion's bridal staid; 
 To Whitby's convent fled the maid 
 
 The hated match to shun. 
 ' Ho! shifts she thus?' King Henry cried, 
 ' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 
 
 If she were sworn a nun.' 
 One way remained — the king's command 
 Sent Marmion to the Scottish land: 
 I lingered here and rescue plann'd 
 
 For Clara and for me: 
 This caitiff Monk, for gold did swear, 
 He would to Whitby's shrine repair, 
 And, by his drugs, my rival fair 
 A saint in heaven should be. 
 But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
 Whose cowardice hath undone us both. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " And now my tongue the secret tells, 
 Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
 But to assure my soul that none 
 Shall ever wed with Marmion. 
 Had fortune my last hope betrayed, 
 This packet to the king conveyed, 
 Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
 Although my heart that instant broke. — 
 Now, men of death, work forth your will, 
 For I can suffer and be still ; 
 And come he slow, or come he fast, 
 It is but Death who comes at last. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Yet dread me, from my living tomb, 
 Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
 Full soon such vengeance will he take, 
 That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
 Had rather been your guest again. 
 Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
 The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
 The ire of a despotic king 
 Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 
 Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, 
 Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; 
 Some traveller then shall find my bones, 
 Whitening amid disjointed stones, 
 And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
 Marvel such relics here should be." — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fixed was her look, and stern her air ; 
 
 Back from her shoulders streamed her hair ; 
 
 The locks, that wont her brow to shade, 
 
 Stared up erectly from her head ; 
 
 Her figure seemed to rise more high; 
 
 Her voice, despair's wild energy 
 
 Had given a tone of prophecy. 
 
 Appalled the astonished conclave sate ; 
 
 With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
 
 Gazed on the light inspiring form, 
 
 And listened for the avenging storm ; 
 
 The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
 
 No hand was moved, no word was said, 
 
 Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, 
 
 Raising his sightless balls to heaven:' — 
 
 " Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
 
 Sinful brother, part in peace!" — 
 
 From that dire dungeon, place of doom, 
 Of execution too, and tomb, 
 
 Paced forth the judges three; 
 Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
 The butcher-work that there befell, 
 When they had glided from the cell 
 Of sin and misery. 
 
14 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 An hundred winding steps convey 
 That conclave to the upper day ; 
 But, ere they breathed the fresher air, 
 They heard the shriekings of despair, 
 
 And many a stifled groan: 
 With speed their upward way they take, 
 (Such speed as age and fear can make,) 
 And crossed themselves for terror's sake, 
 
 As hurrying, tottering on, 
 Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, 
 They seem to hear a dying groan, 
 And bade the passing knell to toll 
 For welfare of a parting soul. 
 
 SIoav o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
 Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; 
 To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, 
 His beads the wakeful hermit told; 
 The Bamborough peasant raised his head, 
 But slept ere half a prayer he said ; 
 So far was heard the mighty knell, 
 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
 Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
 Listed before, aside, behind; 
 Then couched him down beside the hind, 
 And quaked among the mountain fern, 
 To hear that sound so dull and stern. 
 
 CANTO III.— THE HOSTEL OR INN. 
 
 ©= 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To William Erskine, Esq. 
 
 Ashestiel, Ettriclce Forest. 
 
 Like April morning clouds, that pass, 
 
 With varying shadow o'er the grass, 
 
 And imitate, on field and furrow, 
 
 Life's chequered scene of joy and sorrow; 
 
 Like streamlet of the mountain north, 
 
 Now in a torrent racing forth, 
 
 Now winding slow its silver train, 
 
 And almost slumbering on the plain ; 
 
 Like breezes of the autumn day, 
 
 Whose voice inconstant dies away, 
 
 And ever swells again as fast, 
 
 When the ear deems its murmur past ; 
 
 Thus various, my romantic theme 
 
 Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 
 
 Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
 
 Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; 
 
 Pleased, views the rivulet afar, 
 
 Weaving its maze irregular; 
 
 And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
 
 Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees. 
 
 Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 
 
 Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale. 
 
 ^Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell, 
 I Jove the licence all too well, 
 In sound now lowly, and now strong, 
 To raise the desultory song? — 
 Oft, when mid such capricious chime, 
 #Some transient fit of loftier rhyme, 
 To thy kind judgment seemed excuse 
 For many an error of the muse ; 
 Oft hast thou said, " If still mis-spent 
 Thine hours to poetry are lent, 
 Go, and to tame thy wandering course, 
 Quaff from the fountain at its source ; 
 Approach those masters o'er whose tomb 
 Immortal laurels ever bloom ; 
 Instructive of the feebler bard, 
 Still from the grave their voice is heard ; 
 From them, and from the paths they show'd, 
 Choose honoured guide and practised road ; 
 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, 
 With harpers rude of barbarous days. 
 
 " Or deem'st thou not our later time 
 Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? 
 Hast thou no elegiac verse 
 For Brunswick's venerable hearse? 
 What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, 
 When valour bleeds for liberty? 
 Oh, hero of that glorious time, 
 When, with unrivalled light sublime,' — 
 
 Though martial Austria, and though all 
 
 The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
 
 Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
 
 The star of Brandenburg arose, 
 
 Thou couldst not live to see her beam 
 
 For ever quenched in Jena's stream. 
 
 Lamented Chief! — it was not given, 
 
 To thee to change the doom of heaven, 
 
 And crush that dragon in his birth, 
 
 Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
 
 Lamented Chief! — not thine the power, 
 
 To save in that presumptuous hour, 
 
 When Prussia hurried to the field, 
 
 And snatched the spear, but left the shield ; 
 
 Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 
 
 And tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. 
 
 Ill had it seemed thy silver hair 
 
 The last, the bitterest pang to share, 
 
 For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, 
 
 And birthrights to usurpers given ; 
 
 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, 
 
 And witness woes thou couldst not heal! 
 
 On thee relenting heaven bestows 
 
 For honoured life an honoured close ; 
 
 And when revolves, in time's sure change, 
 
 The Hour of Germany's revenge, 
 
 When, breathing fury for her sake, 
 
 Some new Arminius shall awake, 
 
 Her champion, ere he strike, shall come 
 
 To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 
 
 " Or if the Red-cross hero teach, 
 
 Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: 
 
 Alike to him the sea, the shore, 
 
 The brand, the bridle, or the oar; 
 
 Alike to him the war that calls 
 
 Its votaries to the shattered walls, 
 
 Which the grim Turk besmeared with blood, 
 
 Against the Invincible made good ; 
 
 Or that, whose thundering voice could wake, 
 
 The silence of the polar lake. 
 
 When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, 
 
 On the warped wave their death-game played; 
 
 Or that, where vengeance and affright 
 
 Howl'd round the father of the fight, 
 
 Who snatched on Alexandria's sand 
 
 The conqueror's wreath with dying hand. 
 
 " Or, if to touch such chord be thine, 
 Restore the ancient tragic line, 
 And emulate the notes that rung 
 From the wild harp which silent hung, 
 By silver Avon's holy shore, 
 Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er ; 
 When she, the bold Enchantress, came, 
 With fearless hand and heart on flame! 
 
CANTO III.— THE HOSTEL OR INN. 
 
 15 
 
 From the pale willow snatched the treasure, 
 And swept it with a kindred measure, 
 Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
 With Monfort's hate and Basil's love, 
 Awakening at the inspired strain, 
 Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again."— 
 
 Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, 
 With praises not to me belonging, 
 In task more meet for mightiest powers, 
 Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
 But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed 
 That secret power by all obeyed, 
 Which warps not less the passive mind, 
 Tt.s source concealed or undefined; 
 Whether an impulse, that has birth 
 Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 
 One with our feelings and our powers, 
 And rather part of us than ours ; 
 Or whether fitlier termed the sway 
 Of habit, formed in early day? 
 Howe'er derived, its force confessed 
 Rules with despotic sway the breast, 
 And drags us on by viewless chain. 
 While taste and reason plead in vain. 
 Look east, and ask the Belgian Avhy, 
 Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 
 He seeks not eager to inhale 
 The freshness of the mountain gale, 
 Content to rear his whitened Avail 
 Beside the dank and dull canal? 
 He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
 The white sail gliding by the tree. 
 Or see yon weather-beaten hind, 
 Whose sluggish herds before him wind, 
 Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek 
 His northern clime and kindred speak; 
 Through England's laughing meads he goes, 
 And England's wealth around him flows: 
 Ask, if it would content him well, 
 At ease in .these gay plains to dwell, 
 Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 
 And spires and forests intervene, 
 And the neat cottage peeps between? 
 No ! not for these will he exchange 
 His dark Lochaber's boundless range, 
 Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake 
 Bennevis grey and Garry's lake. 
 
 Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
 Of tales that charmed me yet a child, 
 Rude though they be, still with the chime 
 Return the thoughts of early time ; 
 And feelings, roused in life's first day, 
 Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 
 Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, 
 Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour. 
 Though no broad river swept along, 
 To claim, perchance, heroic song; 
 Though sighed no groves in summer gale, 
 To prompt of love a softer tale ; 
 Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 
 ( iaimed homage from a shepherd's reed; 
 Yut was poetic impulse given, 
 By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 
 It was a barren scene, and wild, 
 Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; 
 But ever and anon between 
 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; 
 And well the lonely infant knew 
 Recesses where the wall-flower grew, 
 And honey-suckle loved to crawl 
 Up the low crag and ruined wall ; 
 1 deemed such nooks the sweetest shade 
 The sun in all his round surveyed ; 
 And still I thought that shattered tower 
 The mightiest work of human power ; 
 
 And marvelled, as the aged hind 
 
 With some strange tale bewitched my mind, 
 
 Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 
 
 Down from that strength had spurred their horse, 
 
 Their southern rapine to renew, 
 
 Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 
 
 And, home returning, filled the hall 
 
 With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. — 
 
 Methought that still with tramp and clang 
 
 The gate-way's broken arches rang; 
 
 Methought grim features, seamed with scars, 
 
 Glared through the windows' rusty bars. 
 
 And ever, by the winter hearth, 
 
 Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 
 
 Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms, 
 
 Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 
 
 Of patriot battles, won of old 
 
 By- Wallace wight and Bruce the bold ; 
 
 Of .later fields of feud and fight, 
 
 When, pouring from their Highland height, 
 
 The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 
 
 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
 
 While stretched at length upon the floor, 
 
 Again I fought each combat o'er, 
 
 Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
 
 The mimic ranks of war displayed; 
 
 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore. 
 
 And still the scattered Southron fled before. 
 
 Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, 
 Anew, each kind familiar face, 
 That brightened at our evening fire ; 
 From the thatched mansion's grey-haired Sire, 
 Wise without learning, plain and good, 
 And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood ; 
 j Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen, 
 | Showed what in youth his glance had been ; 
 Whose doom discording neighbours sought, 
 Content with equity unbought ; 
 To him the venerable Priest, 
 Our frequent and familiar guest, 
 Whose life and manners Avell could paint 
 Alike the student and the saint ; 
 Alas! whose speech too oft I broke 
 With gambol rude and timeless joke: 
 For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
 { A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 
 But half a plague, and halt a jest, 
 Was still endured, beloved, carest. 
 
 From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
 The classic poet's well-conned task? 
 Nay, Erskine, nay — on the wild hill 
 Let the wild heathbell flourish still ; 
 Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, 
 But freely let the woodbine twine, 
 And leave untrimmed the eglantine : 
 Nay, my friend, nay — since oft thy praise 
 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays, 
 Since oft thy judgment could refine 
 My flattened thought, or cumbrous line, 
 Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, 
 And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, 
 Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale! 
 
 CANTO III.— THE HOSTEL OR INN. | 
 
 i 
 I. 
 
 The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: 
 The mountain path the Palmer showed ; 
 By glen and streamlet winded still, 
 Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
 
 ~® 
 
©= 
 
 16 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 They might not choose the lowland road, 
 For the Merse foray ers were abroad, 
 Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, 
 Had scarcely failed to bar their way. 
 Oft on the trampling band, from crown 
 Of some tall cliff, the deer looked down ; 
 On wing of jet, from his repose 
 In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; 
 Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
 IN or waited for the bending bow ; 
 And when the stony path began, 
 By which the naked peak they wan, 
 Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 
 The noon had long been passed before 
 They gained the height of Lammermoor; 
 Thence winding down the northern way, 
 Before them, at the close of day, 
 Old Gifi'ord's towers and hamlet lay. 
 
 II. 
 
 No summons calls them to the tower, 
 
 To speed the hospitable hour. 
 
 To Scotland's camp the lord was gone ; 
 
 His cautious dame, in bower alone, 
 
 Dreaded her castle to unclose, 
 
 So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
 On through the hamlet as they paced, 
 Before a porch, whose front was graced 
 With bush and flagon trimly placed, 
 
 Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
 The village inn seemed large, though rude ; 
 Its cheerful fire and hearty food 
 Might well relieve his train. 
 
 Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, 
 
 With jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 
 
 They bind their horses to the stall, 
 
 For forage, food, and firing call, 
 
 And various clamour fills the hall ; 
 
 Weighing the labour with the cost, 
 
 Toils everywhere the bustling host. 
 
 III. 
 
 Soon by the chimney's merry blaze, 
 Through the rude hostel might you gaze ; 
 Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 
 The rafters of the sooty roof 
 
 Bore wealth of winter cheer; 
 Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, 
 And gammons of the tusky boar, 
 
 And savoury haunch of deer. 
 The chimney arch projected wide ; 
 Above, around it, and beside, 
 
 Were tools for housewives' hand: 
 Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
 The implements of Scottish fray, 
 
 The buckler, lance, and brand. 
 Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
 On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
 And viewed around the blazing hearth, 
 Mis followers mix in noisy mirth, 
 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
 From ancient vessels ranged aside, 
 Full actively their host supplied. 
 IV. 
 
 Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
 And laughter their's at little jest ; 
 And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, 
 And mingle in the mirth they made : 
 For though, with men of higli degree, 
 The proudest of the proud was he, 
 Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art 
 To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
 They love a captain to obey, 
 Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May ; 
 With open hand, and brow as free, 
 Lover of wine, and minstrelsy : 
 
 Ever the first to scale a tower, 
 As venturous in a lady's bower:. — 
 Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
 From India's fires to Zembla's frost. 
 
 V. 
 Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 
 
 Right opposite the Palmer stood ; 
 His thin dark visage seen but half, 
 
 Half hidden by his hood. 
 Still fixed on Marmion was his look, 
 Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 
 " Strove by a frown to quell ; 
 But not for that, though more than once 
 Full met their stern encountering glance, 
 
 The Palmer's visage fell. 
 
 VI. 
 
 By fits less frequent from the crowd 
 Was heard the burst of laughter loud; 
 For still, as squire and archer stared 
 On that dark face and matted beard, 
 
 Their glee and game declined. 
 All gazed at length in silence drear, 
 Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear 
 Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 
 
 Thus whispered forth his mind: — 
 " Saint Mary! sawst thou e'er such sight? 
 How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 
 Whene'er the fire-brand's fickle light 
 
 Glances beneath his cowl! 
 Full on our Lord he sets his eye ; 
 For his best palfrey, would not I 
 
 Endure that sullen scowl." — 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
 
 Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw 
 
 The ever-varying fire-light show 
 
 That figure stern and face of woe, 
 
 Now called upon a squire : — 
 " Fitz-Eustace, knowst thou not some lay, 
 To speed the lingering night away? 
 
 We slumber by the fire." — 
 VIII. 
 " So please you," thus the youth rejoined, 
 " Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 
 Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
 Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. 
 The harp full deftly can he strike, 
 And wake the lover's lute alike ; 
 To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 
 Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush; 
 No nightingale her love-lorn tune 
 More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
 W 7 oe to the cause, whate'er it be, 
 Detains from us his melody, 
 Lavished on rocks, and billows stern, 
 Or duller monks of Landisfarn. 
 Now must I venture as I may, 
 To sing his favourite roundelay." — 
 
 IX. 
 
 A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 
 
 The air he chose was wild and sad ; 
 
 Such have I heard, in Scottish land, 
 
 Rise from the busy harvest band, 
 
 W 7 hen falls before the mountaineer, 
 
 On lowland plains, the ripened ear. 
 
 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 
 
 Now a wild chorus swells the song : 
 
 Oft have I listened, and stood still, 
 
 As it came softened up the hill, 
 
 And deemed it the lament of men 
 
 Who languished for their native glen ; 
 
 And thought, how sad would be such sound, 
 
 On Susquehana's swampy ground. 
 
CANTO III.— THE HOSTEL OR INN. 
 
 17 
 
 Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, 
 Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 
 Recalled fair Scotland's hills again! 
 X. 
 Song. 
 Where shall the lover rest, 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted for ever ? 
 Wh/"" e > through groves deep and high, 
 
 aRmds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die, 
 Under the willow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, 8>c. Soft shall be his pillow. 
 There, through the summer day, 
 
 Cool streams are laving ; 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 There, thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Never, O never. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, %c. Never, O never. 
 
 XI. 
 Where shall the traitor rest, 
 
 He, the deceiver, 
 Who could win maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin, and leave her? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying, 
 Where mingles war's rattle, 
 
 With groans of the dying. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, fyc. There shall he be lying. 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap, 
 
 O'er the false-hearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 
 
 Ere life be parted. 
 Shame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it, — 
 
 Never, O never. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Eleu loro, #c. Never, O never. 
 XII. 
 It ceased, the melancholy sound; 
 And silence sunk on all around. 
 The air was sad ; but sadder still 
 
 It fell on Marmion's ear, 
 And plained as if disgrace and ill, 
 And shameful death, were near. 
 He drew his mantle past his face, 
 
 Between it and the band, 
 And rested with his head a space, 
 Reclining on his hand. 
 His thoughts I scan not: but I ween, 
 i That, could their import have been seen, • 
 j The meanest groom in all the hall, 
 1 That e'er tied courser to a stall. 
 Would scarce have wished to be their prey, 
 For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 High minds, of native pride and force, 
 Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse ! 
 Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, 
 Thou art the torturer of the brave ; 
 Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
 Their minds to bear the wounds they feel ; 
 
 Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
 Of civil conflict in the heart. 
 For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, 
 And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said: — 
 " Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
 Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
 Such as in nunneries they toll 
 For some departing sister's soul ? 
 
 Say, what may this portend ?" — 
 Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
 (The livelong day he had not spoke,) 
 
 " The death of a dear friend." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
 Ne'er changed in Avorst extremity ; 
 Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 
 Even from his king, a haughty look ; 
 Whose accent of command controlled, 
 In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
 Thought, look, and utterance, failed him now, 
 Fallen w.as his glance, and flushed his brow: 
 
 For either in the tone, 
 Or something in the Palmer's look ; 
 So full upon his conscience strook, 
 
 That answer he found none. 
 Thus oft it haps, that when within 
 They shrink at sense of secret sin, 
 
 A feather daunts the brave ; 
 A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
 And proudest princes vail their eyes 
 
 Before their meanest slave. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Well might he falter! — by his aid 
 
 Was Constance Beverley betrayed ; 
 
 Not that he augur 'd of the doom, 
 
 Which on the living closed the tomb ; 
 
 But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
 
 Tin-eaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ; 
 
 And wroth, because, in wild despair, 
 
 She practised on the life of Clare : 
 
 Its fugitive the church he gave, 
 
 Though not a victim, but a slave : 
 
 And deemed restraint in convent strange, 
 
 Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. 
 
 Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, 
 
 Held Romish thunders idle fear, 
 
 Secure his pardon he might hold, 
 
 For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 
 
 Thus judging, he gave secret way, 
 
 When the stern priests surprised their prey: 
 
 His train but deemed the favourite page 
 
 Was left behind, to spare his age ; 
 
 Or other if they deemed, none dared 
 
 To mutter what he thought and heard: 
 
 Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 
 
 Into Lord Marmion's privacy! 
 
 XVI. 
 His conscience slept — he deemed her well, 
 And safe secured in distant cell ; 
 But, wakened by her favourite lay, 
 And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
 That fell so ominous and drear, 
 Full on the object of his fear, 
 To aid remorse's venomed throes, 
 Dark tales of convent vengeance rose ; 
 And Constance, late betrayed and scorned, 
 All lovely on his soul returned: 
 Lovely as when, at treacherous call, 
 She left her convent's peaceful wall, 
 Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute, 
 Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
 Till love, victorious o'er alarms, 
 Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 
 
<§■-■ 
 
 18 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 © 
 
 xvn. 
 
 " Alas!" he thought, " how changed that mien! 
 
 How changed these timid looks have been, 
 
 Since years of guilt and of disguise, 
 
 Have steeled her brow, and armed her eyes! 
 
 No more of virgin terror speaks 
 
 The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
 
 Fierce and unfeminine are there, 
 
 Frenzy for joy, for grief despair; 
 
 And I the cause— for whom were given 
 
 Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven! — 
 
 Would," thought he, as the picture grows, 
 
 " I on its stalk had left the rose ! 
 
 Oh why should man's success remove 
 
 The very charms that wake his love! 
 
 Her convent's peaceful solitude 
 
 Is now a prison harsh and rude ; 
 
 And, pent within the narrow cell, 
 
 How will her spirit chafe and swell ; 
 
 How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
 
 The penance how — and I the cause! — 
 
 Vigil and scourge — perchance even worse!" — 
 
 And twice he rose to cry " to horse!" 
 
 And twice his sovereign's mandate came, 
 
 Like damp upoffa kindling flame ; 
 
 And twice he thought, " Gave I not charge 
 
 She should be safe, though not at large? 
 
 They durst not, for their island, shred 
 
 One golden ringlet from her head." — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 While thus in Marmion 5 josom strove 
 
 Repentance and reviving love, 
 
 Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway 
 
 I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, 
 
 Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard, 
 
 And, talkative, took up the word: — 
 
 " Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 
 
 From Scotland's simple land away, 
 To visit realms afar, 
 
 Full often learn the art to know, 
 
 Of future wed, or future woe, 
 By word, or sign, or star; 
 Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
 If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
 Not far from hence ;— if fathers old 
 Aright our hamlet legend told." — 
 These broken words the menials move, 
 (For marvels still the vulgar love ;) 
 And, Marmion giving licence cold, 
 His tale the host thus gladly told. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Si)* post's Sale . 
 "A clerk could tell what years have flown 
 Since Alexander filled our throne, 
 (Third monarch of that warlike name,) 
 And eke the time when here he came 
 To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: 
 A braver never drew a sword ; 
 A wiser never, at the hour 
 Of midnight, spoke the word of power; 
 The same, whom ancient records call 
 The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 
 I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay 
 Gave you that cavern to survey. 
 Of lofty roof, and ample size, 
 Beneath the castle deep it lies: 
 To hew the living rock profound, 
 The floor to pave, the arch to round, 
 There never toiled a mortal arm, 
 It all was wrought by word and charm ; 
 And I have heard my grandsire say, 
 That the wild clamour and affray 
 Of those dread artizans of hell, 
 Who laboured under Hugo's spell, 
 
 Sounded as loud as ocean's war, 
 Among the caverns of Dunbar. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " The king Lord Gi fiord's castle sought, 
 Deep-labouring with uncertain thought: 
 Even then he mustered all his host, 
 To meet upon the western coast ; 
 For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
 Their oars within the firth of Clyde. 
 Their floated Haco's banner trim, 
 Above Norweyan warriors grim, 
 Savage of heart, and large of limb ; 
 *~ |atening both continent and isle, 
 
 L rran, Cunninghame, and Kyle, 
 ifford, deep beneath the ground, 
 Hearer Alexander's bugle sound, 
 And tarried not his garb to change, 
 But, in his wizard habit strange," 
 Came forth, — a quaint and fearful sight! 
 His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 
 His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
 A pointed cap, such as of yore 
 Clerks say that Pharoah's Magi wore ; 
 His shoes were marked with cross and spell ; 
 Upon his breast a pentacle ; 
 His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 
 Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, 
 Bore many a planetary sign, 
 Combust, and retrograde, and trine ; 
 And in his hand he held prepared, 
 A naked sword without a guard. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
 Had marked strange lines upon his face ; 
 Vigil and fast had worn him grim, 
 His eyesight dazzled seemed, and dim, 
 As one unused to upper day: 
 Even his own menials with dismay 
 Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire, 
 In this unwonted wild attire ; — 
 Unwonted, for traditions run, 
 He seldom thus beheld the sun. 
 ' I know,' he said,' — his voice was hoarse, 
 And broken seemed its hollow force, — 
 ' I know the cause, although untold, 
 Why the king seeks his vassal's hold: 
 Vainly from me my liege would know 
 His kingdom's future weal or woe : 
 But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
 His courage may do more than art. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " ' Of middle air the demons proud, 
 Who ride upon the racking cloud, 
 Can read, in fixed or wandering star, 
 The issue of events afar; 
 But still their sullen aid withhold 
 Save when by mightier force controlled. 
 Such late I summoned to my hall ; 
 And though so potent was the call, 
 That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
 I deemed a refuge from the spell, 
 Yet, obstinate in silence still, 
 The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
 But thou, — who little know'st thy might, 
 As born upon that blessed night, 
 When yawning graves, and dying groan, 
 Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, — 
 With untaught valour shalt compel 
 Response denied to magic spell.' — 
 ' Gramevcy,' quoth our monarch free, 
 ' Place him but front to front with me, 
 And, by this good and honoured brand, 
 The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, 
 
CANTO III.— THE HOSTEL OR INN. 
 
 19 
 
 Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, 
 
 The demon shall a buffet bide.' — 
 
 His bearing bold the wizard viewed, 
 
 And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed.— 
 
 « There spoke the blood of Malcolm! — mark: 
 
 Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, 
 
 The rampart seek, whose circling crown, 
 
 Crests the ascent of yonder down; 
 
 A southern entrance shalt thou find ; 
 
 There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
 
 And trust thine elfin foe to see, 
 
 In guise of thy worst enemy: 
 
 Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed 
 
 Upon him! and Saint George to speed! 
 
 If he go down, thou soon shalt know, 
 
 Whate'er these airy sprites can show ; — 
 
 If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
 
 I am no warrant for thy life. 31 — 
 
 XXI.II. 
 
 " Soon as the midnight bell did ring, 
 
 Alone, and armed, rode forth the king 
 
 To that old camp's deserted round: — 
 
 Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound, 
 
 Left hand the town, — the Pictish race 
 
 The trench, long since, in blood did trace ; 
 
 The moor around is brown and bare, 
 
 The space within is green and fair. 
 
 The spot our village children know, 
 
 For there the earliest wild flowers grow ; 
 
 But woe betide the wandering wight, 
 
 | That treads its circle in the night! 
 
 i The breadth across, a bowshot clear, 
 
 j Gives ample space for full career; 
 Opposed to the four points of heaven, 
 By four deep gaps is entrance given. 
 
 | The southernmost our monarch past, 
 
 j Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
 And on the north, within the ring, 
 
 I Appeared the form of England's king ; 
 
 j Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 
 
 I In Palestine waged holy Avar: 
 Yet arms like England's did he wield, 
 Alike the leopards in the shield, 
 Alike his Syrian courser's frame, 
 The rider's length of limb the same: 
 Long afterwards did Scotland know, 
 Fell Edward* was her deadliest foe. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " The vision made our monarch start, 
 But soon he mann'd his noble heart, 
 l And in the first career they ran, 
 
 The Elfin Knight fell horse and man : 
 I Yet did a splinter of his lance 
 I Through Alexander's visor glance, 
 And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
 The king, light leaping to the ground, 
 With naked blade his phantom foe 
 Compelled the future war to show. 
 Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
 Where still gigantic bones remain, 
 
 Memorial of the Danish war ; 
 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 cower'd 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; 
 
 & 
 
 * Edward I., sumaraed Longshanks. 
 
 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, whjen returned the night 
 Of his strange combat with the sprite, 
 
 His wound must bleed and smart ; 
 Lord Giflbrd 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 nightly spear and shield 
 The elfin warrior doth wield, 
 
 Upon the brown nrll's breast ; 
 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 groupe 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, 
 And graver thoughts have chafed my mood ; 
 The air must cool my feverish blood ; 
 And fain would 1 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 ; 
 1 would not, that the prating knaves 
 Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
 ! That I should credit such a tale." — 
 Then softly down th'e steps they slid, 
 Eustace the stable door undid, 
 And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed, 
 While, whispering, thus the Baron said: — 
 
©= 
 
 20 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Didst never, good my youth, hear tell, 
 
 That in 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. 
 I would, the omen's truth to show, . 
 That I could meet this Elfin Foe! i 
 Blythe 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 knoAv, 
 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 ; 
 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 blythely mark 
 The first notes of the morning lark. 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE CAMP. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To James Skene, Esq. 
 
 Ashesticl, Etiricke Forest. 
 An ancient minstrel sagely said, 
 " Where is the life which late we led?" 
 That motley clown, in Arden wood, 
 Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed, 
 Not even that clown could amplify, 
 On this trite text, so long as 1. 
 Eleven years we now may tell, 
 Since Ave have known each other w r ell ; 
 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 woe ; 
 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 tuned 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 vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 
 
 Once more our naked birches sigh; 
 
 And Blackhouse heights, and Ettricke Pen, 
 
 Have don'd their Avintry shrouds again; 
 
 And mountain dark, and flooded mead, 
 
 Bid us forsake the banks of TAveed. 
 
 Earlier than Avont along the sky, 
 
 Mixed with the rack, the siioav -mists fly: 
 
 The shepherd, avIio, in summer sun, 
 
 Has something of our envy Avon, 
 
 As thou with pencil, I Avith pen, 
 
 The features traced of hill and glen ; 
 
 He Avho, outstretched, the livelong day, 
 
 At ease among the heath-floAvers lay, 
 
 Viewed the light clouds Avith vacant look, 
 
 Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, 
 
 Or idly busied him to guide 
 
 His angle o'er the lessened tide ; — 
 
 At midnight uoav, 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 Avild 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 melloAving rain ; 
 
 * Used by old poets for went. 
 
 
©- 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE CAMP. 
 
 21 
 
 © 
 
 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 : 
 
 His widow sees, at dawning pale, 
 
 His orphans raise their feeble wail ; 
 
 And, close beside him, in the snow, 
 
 Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
 
 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 blithesome 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, 
 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 paid 
 The tribute to his Minstrel's shade ; 
 The tale of friendship scarce was told, 
 Ere the narrator's heart was cold. 
 Far may we 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, 
 For many a kindly word and deed, 
 To bring my tribute to his grave: — 
 'Tis 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 walk its topic changed, 
 And desultory, as our way, 
 Ranged unconfmed 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 blossom'd bough than we. 
 
 And blithesome 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 shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 
 Then he, whose absence Ave 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 laughter drowned the whistling wind. 
 
 Mirth was within; and Care without 
 
 Alight 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. 
 
 See King Lear. 
 
 d 
 
c>- 
 
 ~iQ) 
 
 22 
 
 MARMION 
 
 ©e 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE CAMP. 
 
 I. 
 
 Eustace, I said, did blythely 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 hrawled and wrangled Avith 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: 
 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, Avho would seem wisest, cried, — 
 " What else but eA'il could betide, 
 With that cursed Palmer for our guide? 
 Better Ave had through mire and bush 
 Been lanthorn-led by Friar Rush." 
 
 II. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, 
 
 Nor Avholly understood, 
 His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed; 
 
 He kneAv Lord Marmion's mood. 
 Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, 
 And found deep plunged in gloomy thought, 
 
 And did his tale display 
 Simply, as if he knew of nought 
 
 To cause such disarray. 
 Lord Marmion gave attention cold, 
 Nor marvelled at the Avonders told, — \ 
 Passed them as accidents of course, 
 And bade his clarions sound to horse. 
 
 III. 
 
 Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
 Had reckoned Avith their Scottish host ; 
 And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
 " 111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said ; 
 
 " Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? 
 Fairies have ridden him all the night. 
 
 And left him in a foam! 
 I trust, that soon a conjuring band, 
 With English cross and blazing brand, 
 Shall drive the devils from this land, 
 
 To their infernal home : 
 For in this haunted den, I troAV, 
 All night they trampled to and fro." 
 The laughing host looked on the hire, — 
 " Gramercy, gentle southern squire, 
 And if thou com'st among the rest, 
 With Scottish broad-sAvord to be blest, 
 Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
 And short the pang to undergo." — 
 Here stayed their talk,. — for Marmion 
 Gave noAv the signal to set on. 
 The Palmer showing forth the Avay, 
 They journeyed all the morning day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The green-sAvard Avay Avas smooth and good, 
 
 Through Humbie's and through Saltoun'SAvood 
 
 A forest glade, Avhich, varying still, 
 
 Here gave a vieAv of dale and hill ; 
 
 There narroAver closed, till over head 
 
 A vaulted screen the branches made, 
 
 " A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said; 
 
 " Such as Avhere errant knights might see 
 
 Adventures of high chivahy ; 
 
 Might meet some damsel flying fast, 
 
 With hair unbound, and looks aghast; 
 
 And smooth and level course Avere here, 
 
 In her defence to break a spear. 
 
 Here, too, are tAvilight 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 shoAv 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 ansAvered nought again. 
 
 V. 
 
 Noav sudden distant trumpets shrill, 
 In notes prolonged by Avood and hill, 
 
 Were heard to echo far; 
 Each ready archer grasped his boAV, 
 But by the flourish soon they know, 
 
 They breathed no point of Avar. 
 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, shoAved 
 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 First came the trumpets, at whose clang 
 
 So late the forest echoes rang ; 
 
 On prancing steeds they forward pressed, 
 
 With scarlet mantle, azure vest; 
 
 Each at his trump a banner wore, 
 
 Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 
 
 Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
 
 Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, 
 In painted tabards, proudly shoAving 
 Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure gloAving, 
 
 Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
 Whose hand the armorial truncheon held, 
 That feudal strife had often quelled, 
 When Avildest its alarms. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He Avas a man of middle age ; 
 
 In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 
 
 As on king's errand come ; 
 But in the glances of his eye, 
 A penetrating, keen, and sly 
 
 Expression found its home ; 
 The flash of that satiric rage, 
 Which, bursting on the early stage, 
 Branded the vices of the age, 
 
 And broke the keys of Rome. 
 On milk-Avhite palfrey forth he paced ; 
 His cap of maintenance was graced 
 
 With the proud heron-plume. 
 
CANTO IV.— THE CAMP. 
 
 23 
 
 From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast, 
 
 Silk housings swept the ground, 
 With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, 
 
 Embroidered round and round. 
 The double tressure might you see, 
 
 First by Achaius borne, 
 The thistle, and the fleur-de-lis, 
 
 And gallant unicorn. 
 So bright the King's armorial coat, 
 That scarce the dazzled eye could note, 
 In living colours, blazoned brave, 
 The Lion, which his title gave. 
 A train, which well beseemed his state, 
 But all unarmed, around him wait. 
 
 Still is thy name in high account, 
 And still thy verse has charms, 
 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lion King-at-arms ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Down from his horse did Marmion spring, 
 Socn as he saw the Lion-King ; 
 For well the stately Baron knew, 
 To him such courtesy was due, 
 
 Whom royal James himself had crowned, 
 
 And on his temples placed the round 
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem ; 
 
 And wet his brow with hallowed wine, 
 
 And on his finger given to shine 
 The emblematic gem. 
 Their mutual greetings duly made, 
 The Lion thus his message said : — 
 " Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore, 
 Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, 
 And strictly hath forbid resort 
 From England to his royal court ; 
 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name, 
 And honours much his warlike fame, 
 My liege hath deemed it shame, and lack 
 Of courtesy, to turn him back ; 
 And, by his order, I, your guide, 
 Must lodging fit and fair provide, 
 Till finds King James meet time to see 
 The flower of English chivalry." — 
 
 IX. 
 
 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. 
 
 At length up that wild dale they wind", 
 Where Crichtoun-Castle 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 Ave explore, 
 
 Where oft whilome were captives pent, 
 The darkness of thy Massy More ; 
 
 Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, 
 May trace, in undulating line, 
 
 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, 
 
 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-Dean. 
 
 '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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It chanced, as fell the second night, 
 That on the battlements they walked, 
 
 And, by the slowly fading light, 
 Of varying topics talked ; 
 
 And, unaware, the Herald-bard 
 
 Said Marmion might his toil have spared, 
 In travelling so far ; 
 
 ~4 
 
24 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 For that a messenger from heaven 
 In vain to James had counsel given 
 
 Against the English war: 
 And, closer questioned, thus he told 
 A tale, which chronicles of old 
 In Scottish story have enrolled: — 
 
 XV. 
 
 I Sir 33aui& SLtn&eaaD's ©alf. 
 
 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 blythe the blackbird's lay! 
 The wild duck bells 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. 
 Woe to the traitors, Avho 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 chaunters sung, the bells did toll, 
 
 The Bishop mass was saying — 
 For now the year brought round again 
 The day the luckless king was slain — 
 In Katharine's aisle the monarch knelt, 
 With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt, 
 And eyes with sorrow streaming; 
 Around him, in their stalls of state, 
 The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 
 
 Their banners o'er them beaming. 
 I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
 Bedeafened with the jangling knell, 
 Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 
 
 Through the stained casement gleaming : 
 But, while I marked what next befel, 
 It seemed as I were dreaming. 
 Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
 In azure gown, with cincture white ; 
 His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
 Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
 Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, 
 I pledge to you my knightly word, 
 That, when I saw his placid grace, 
 His simple majesty of face, 
 His solemn bearing, and his pace 
 
 So stately gliding on, — 
 Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint 
 So just an image of the Saint, 
 Who propped the Virgin in her faint, — 
 The loved Apostle John. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " He stepped before the Monarch's chair, 
 And stood with rustic plainness there, 
 
 And little reverence made ; 
 Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent, 
 But on the desk his arm he leant, 
 
 And words like these he said, 
 In a low voice, — but never tone 
 So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone : 
 ©b . — — 
 
 1 My mother sent me from afar, 
 
 Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 
 
 Woe waits on thine array ; 
 If war thou wilt, of woman fair, 
 Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
 James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: 
 
 God keep thee as he may!' — 
 The wondering Monarch seemed to seek 
 
 For answer, and found none ; 
 And when he raised his head to speak, 
 
 The monitor was gone. 
 The Marshal and myself had cast 
 To stop him as he outward past ; 
 But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 
 
 He vanished from our eyes, 
 Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 
 
 That glances but, and dies.", — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 While Lindesay told this marvel strange, 
 
 The twilight was so pale, 
 He marked not Marmion's colour change, 
 
 While listening to the tale : 
 But, after a suspended pause, 
 The Baron spoke : — " Of Nature's laws 
 
 So strong I held the force, 
 That never super-human cause 
 
 Could e'er control their course ; 
 And, three days since, had judged your aim 
 Was but to make your guest your game. 
 But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
 What much has changed my sceptic creed, 
 And made me credit aught."— He staid, 
 And seemed to wish his words unsaid: 
 
 But, by that strong emotion pressed, 
 
 Which prompts us to unload our breast, 
 Even when discovery's pain, 
 
 To Lindesay did at length unfold 
 
 The tale his village host had told, 
 At Gi fiord, to his train. 
 Nought of the Palmer says he there, 
 And nought of Constance, or of Clare: 
 The thoughts which broke his sleep, he seems 
 To mention but as feverish dreams. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " In vain," said he, " to rest I spread 
 My burning limbs, and couched my head : 
 
 Fantastic thoughts returned ; 
 And, by their wild dominion led, 
 
 My heart within me burned. 
 So sore was the delirious goad, 
 I took my steed, and forth I rode, 
 And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
 Soon reached the camp upon the wold. 
 The southern entrance I passed through, 
 And halted, and my bugle blew. 
 Me thought an answer met my ear, — 
 Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
 So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
 It might be echo of my own. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thus judging, for a little space 
 I listened, ere I left the place ; 
 
 But scarce could trust my eyes, 
 Nor yet can think they served me true, 
 When sudden in the ring I view, 
 In form distinct of shape and hue, 
 
 A mounted champion rise.-*— 
 I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 
 In single fight and mixed aifray, 
 And ever, I myself may say, 
 
 Have borne me as a knight ; 
 But when this unexpected foe 
 Seemed starting from the gulf below, — 
 I care not though the truth I show, — 
 
 I trembled with affright ; 
 
 r.(9 
 
-£> 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE CAMP. 
 
 25 
 
 And as I placed in rest my spear, 
 
 My hand so shook for very fear, 
 
 I scarce could couch it right. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Why need my tongue the issue tell? 
 We ran our course,— my charger fell ; — 
 What could he 'gainst the shock of hell? — 
 
 I rolled upon the plain. 
 High o'er my head, Avith threatening hand, 
 The spectre shook his naked brand, — 
 
 Yet did the worst remain ; 
 My dazzled eyes I upward cast, — 
 Not opening hell itself could blast 
 
 Their sight, like what 1 saw! 
 Full on his lace the moonbeam strook, — 
 A face could never be mistook! 
 I knew the stern vindictive look, 
 
 And held my breath for awe. 
 I saw the face of one who, fled 
 To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 
 
 I well believe the last; 
 For ne'er, from visor raised, did stare 
 A human warrior, with a glare 
 
 So grimly and so ghast. 
 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
 But when to good Saint George I prayed, 
 (The first time e'er I asked his aid,) 
 
 He plunged it in the sheath ; 
 And, on his courser mounting light, 
 He seemed to vanish from my sight: 
 The moon-beam drooped, and deepest night 
 1 Sunk down upon the heath. — 
 'Twere long to tell what cause I have 
 
 To know his face that met me there, 
 Called by his hatred from the grave, 
 
 To cumber upper air: 
 Dead or alive, good cause had he 
 To be my mortal enemy." — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; 
 Then, learned in story, 'gan recount 
 
 Such chance had hap'd of old, 
 When once, near Norham, there did fight 
 A spectre fell, of fiendish might, 
 In likeness of a Scottish knight, 
 
 With Brian Bulmer bold, 
 And trained him nigh to disallow 
 The aid of his baptismal vow. 
 " And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, 
 With Highland broad-sword, targe, and plaid, 
 
 And fingers red with gore, 
 Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, 
 Or where the sable pine-trees shade 
 Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid, 
 
 Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 
 And yet, whate'er such legends say, 
 Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, 
 
 On mountain, moor, or plain, 
 Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
 True son of chivalry should hold 
 
 These midnight terrors vain; 
 For seldom have such spirits power 
 To harm, save in the evil hour, 
 When guilt we meditate within, 
 Or harbour unrepented sin." — 
 Lord Marmion turned him half aside, 
 And twice to clear his voice he tried, 
 
 Then pressed Sir David's hand, — 
 But nought, at length, in answer said; 
 And here their farther converse staid, 
 
 Each ordering that his band 
 Should bowne them with the rising day, 
 To Scotland's camp to take their way, — 
 
 Such was the King's command. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 
 And I could trace each step they trode ; 
 Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone 
 Lies on the path to me unknown. 
 Much might it boast of storied lore ; 
 But, passing such digression o'er, 
 Suffice it, that their route was laid 
 Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
 They passed the glen and scanty rill, 
 And climbed the opposing bank, until 
 They gained the top of Blackford Hill. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Blackford! on whose uncultured breast, 
 
 Among the broom, and thorn, and whin, 
 A truant-boy, I sought the nest, 
 Or listed, as I lay at rest, 
 
 While rose, on breezes thin, 
 The murmur of the city crowd, 
 And, from his steeple jangling loud, 
 
 Saint Giles's mingling din. 
 Now, from the summit to the plain, 
 Waves all the hill with yellow grain ; 
 
 And, o'er the landscape as I look, 
 Nought do I see unchanged remain, 
 
 Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. 
 To me they make a heavy moan, 
 Of early friendships past and gone. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But different far the change has been, 
 
 Since Marmion, from the crown 
 Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 
 
 Upon the bent so brown: 
 Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 
 Spread all the Borough-moor below, 
 
 Upland, and dale, and down: — 
 A thousand did I say? I ween, 
 Thousands on thousands there were seen, 
 That chequered all the heath between 
 
 The streamlet and the town ; 
 In crossing ranks extending far, 
 Forming a camp irregular ; 
 Oft giving way, where still there stood 
 Some reliques of the old oak wood, 
 That darkly huge did intervene, 
 And tamed the glaring white with green: 
 In these extended lines there lay 
 A. martial kingdom's vast array. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 
 To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, 
 And from the southern Redswire edge, 
 To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge ; 
 From west to east, from south to north, 
 Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
 Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
 Of myriads up the mountain come. 
 The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, 
 Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, 
 
 And charger's shrilling neigh; 
 And see the shifting lines advance, 
 While frequent flashed, from shield and lance. 
 
 The sun's reflected ray. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Thin curling in the morning air, 
 
 The wreaths of failing smoke declare, 
 
 To embers now the brands decayed, 
 
 Where the night-watch their fires had made. 
 
 They saw, slow rolling on the plain, 
 
 Full many a baggage-cart and wain, 
 
 And dire artillery's clumsy car, 
 
 By sluggish oxen tugged to war ; 
 
 :Q 
 
26 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, 
 And culverins which France had given. 
 Ill-omened gift! the guns remain 
 The conqueror's spoil, on Flodden plain. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Nor marked they less, where in the air 
 A thousand streamers flaunted fair; 
 Various in shape, device, and hue, 
 Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, 
 Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square, 
 I Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol,* there 
 
 O'er the pavilions flew, 
 i Highest, and midmost, was descried 
 1 The royal banner, floating wide ; 
 
 The staff, a pine-tree strong and straight, 
 Pitched deeply in a massive stone, 
 Which still m memory is shown, 
 Yet bent beneath the standard's weight, 
 Whene'er the western wind unrolled, 
 With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 
 And gave to view the dazzling field, 
 Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield, 
 The ruddy Lion ramped in gold. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,' — 
 He viewed it with a chief's delight, — 
 Until within him burned his heart, 
 And lightning from his eye did part, 
 
 As on the battle-day ; 
 Such glance did falcon never dart, 
 
 When stooping on his prey. 
 " Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
 Thy King from warfare to dissuade 
 
 Were but a vain essay ; 
 For, by Saint George, were that host mine, 
 Not power infernal, nor divine, 
 Should once to peace my soul incline, 
 Till I had dimmed their armour's shine 
 
 In glorious battle fray!" — 
 Answered the bard, of milder mood: 
 " Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere good, 
 
 That kings would think withal. 
 When peace and wealth their land has blessed, 
 'Tis better to sit still at rest, 
 
 Than rise, perchance to fall." — 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 
 For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. 
 
 When sated with the martial show 
 
 That peopled all the plain below, 
 
 The wandering eye could o'er it go, 
 
 And mark the distant city glow 
 With gloomy splendour red ; 
 
 For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, 
 
 That- round her sable turrets flow, 
 The morning beams were shed, 
 
 And tinged them with a lustre proud, 
 
 Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 
 Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, 
 Where the huge castle holds its state 
 
 And all the steep slope down, 
 Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 
 Piled deep and massy, close and high, 
 
 Mine own romantic town! 
 But northward far, with purer blaze, 
 On Ochil mountains fell the rays, 
 And as each heathy top they kissed, 
 It gleamed a purple amethyst. 
 
 j I * Each of these feudal ensians intimated the different 
 I rank of those entitled to display them. 
 
 Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; 
 
 Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law; 
 And, broad between them rolled, 
 
 The gallant Firth the eye might note, 
 
 Whose islands en its bosom float, 
 Like emeralds chased in gold. 
 Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent ; 
 As if to give his rapture vent, 
 The spur he to his charger lent, 
 
 And raised his bridle-hand, 
 And, making demi-volte in the air, 
 Cried, " Where's the coward that would not dare 
 
 To fight for such a land!" 
 The Lion smiled his joy to see ; 
 Nor Marmion 's frown repressed his glee. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thus while they looked, a flourish proud, 
 Where mingled trump, and clarion loud, 
 
 And fife, and kettle-drum, 
 And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
 And war-pipe with discordant cry, 
 And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
 Making wild music bold and high, 
 
 Did up the mountain come ; 
 The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 
 Merrily tolled the hour of prime, 
 
 And thus the Lion spoke: — 
 " Thus clamour still the war-notes when 
 The King to mass his way has ta'en, 
 Or to St Catherine's of Sienne, 
 
 Or chapel of St Rocque. 
 To you they speak of martial fame ; 
 But mc remind of peaceful game, 
 
 When blyther was their cheer, 
 Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 
 In signal none his steed should spare, 
 But strive which foremost might repair 
 
 To the downfall of the deer. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Nor less," he said, — " when looking forth, 
 I view yon Empress of the North 
 
 Sit on her hilly throne ; 
 Her palace's imperial bowel's, 
 Her castle, proof to hostile powers, 
 Her stately halls, and holy towers — 
 
 Nor less," he said, " 1 moan, 
 To think what woe mischance may bring, 
 And how these merry bells may ring 
 The death-dirge of our gallant King; 
 
 Or, with their larum, call 
 The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
 'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard 
 
 Dun-Edin's leaguered wall. — 
 But not, for my presaging thought, 
 Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought ! 
 
 Lord Marmion, I say nay: — 
 God is the guider of the field, 
 He breaks the champion's spear and shield, — 
 
 But thou thyself shalt say, 
 When joins yon host in deadly stowre, 
 That England's dames must weep in bower, 
 
 Her monks the death-mass sing ; 
 For never saw'st thou such a power 
 
 Led on by such a King." — 
 And now, down winding to the plain, 
 The barriers of the camp they gain, 
 
 And there they made a stay. — 
 There stays the Minstrel, till he fling 
 His hand o'er every Border string, 
 And fit his harp the pomp to sing. 
 Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 
 
 In the succeeding lay. 
 
THE COURT. 
 
 -Q 
 
 27 
 
 CANTO V.— THE COURT. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To George Ellis, Esq. 
 
 Edinburgh, 
 
 When dark December glooms the day, 
 
 And takes our autumn joys away ; 
 
 When short and scant the sunbeam throws, 
 
 Upon the weary waste of snows, 
 
 A cold and profitless regard, 
 
 Like patron on a needy bard : 
 
 When sylvan occupation's done, 
 
 And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 
 
 And hang, in idle trophy, near, 
 
 The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 
 
 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, 
 
 And greyhound with his length of limb, 
 
 And pointer, now employed no more, 
 
 Cumber our parlour's narrow floor; 
 
 When in his stall the impatient steed 
 
 Ts long condemned to rest and feed ; 
 
 When from our snow-encircled home, 
 
 Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, 
 
 Since path is none, save that to bring 
 
 The needful water from the spring ; 
 
 When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd o'er, 
 
 Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
 
 And darkling politician, crossed, 
 
 Inveighs against the lingering post, 
 
 And answering house-wife sore complains 
 
 Of carriers' snow-impeded wains: 
 
 When such the country cheer, I come, 
 
 Well pleased, to seek our city home ; 
 
 For converse, and for books, to change 
 
 The Forest's melancholy range, 
 
 And welcome, with renewed delight, 
 
 The busy day, and social night. 
 
 Not here need my desponding rhyme 
 Lament the ravages of time, 
 As erst by Newark's riven towers, 
 And Ettricke stripped of forest bowers. 
 True, — Caledonia's Queen is changed, 
 Since on her dusky summit ranged, 
 Within its steepy limits pent, 
 By bulwark, line, and battlement, 
 And flanking towers, and laky flood, 
 Guarded and garrisoned she stood 
 Denying entrance or resort, 
 Save at each tall embattled port ; 
 Above whose arch, suspended, hung 
 Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
 That long is gone, — but not so long, 
 Since, early closed, and opening late, 
 Jealous revolved the studded gate ; 
 Whose task from eve to morning tide 
 A wicket churlishly supplied. 
 Stem then, and steel-girt was thy brow, 
 Dun-Edin! O, how altered now, 
 When safe amid thy mountain court 
 Thou sitst, like Empress at her sport, 
 And liberal, unconfmed, and free, 
 Flinging thy white arms to the sea, 
 For thy dark cloud, with umbered lowei, 
 That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, 
 Thou gleam'st against the western ray 
 Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 
 
 Not she, the championess of old, 
 In Spenser's magic tale enrolled, — 
 She for the charmed spear renowned, 
 Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,— 
 Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 
 What time she was Malbecco's guest, 
 She gave to flow her maiden vest ; 
 
 When from the corslet's grasp relieved, 
 Free to the sight her bosom heaved ; 
 Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
 Erst hidden by the aventayle ; 
 And down her shoulders graceful rolled 
 Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
 They who whilome, in midnight fight, 
 Had marvelled at her matchless might, 
 No less her maiden charms approved, 
 But looking liked, and liking loved. 
 The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
 
 j And charm Malbecco's cares awhile ; 
 
 ! And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
 
 j Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
 
 ' And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
 The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ; 
 Nor durst light Paridel advance, 
 Bold as he was, a looser glance, — 
 She charmed, at once, and tamed the heart, 
 Incomparable Britomarte ! 
 
 So thou, fair City! disarrayed 
 Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
 As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
 Than in that panoply of war. 
 Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
 Strength and security are flown; 
 Still, as of yore, Queen of the North! 
 Still canst thou send thy children forth. 
 Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
 Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, 
 Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
 Thy dauntless voluntary line ; 
 For fosse and turret proud to stand, 
 Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
 Thy thousands, trained to martial toil, 
 Full red would stain their native soil, 
 Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
 The slightest knosp, or pinnacle. 
 And if it come, — as come it may, 
 Dun-Edin! that eventful day, — 
 Renowned for hospitable deed, 
 That virtue much with heaven may plead, 
 In patriarchal times whose care 
 Descending angels deigned to share ; 
 That claim may wrestle blessings down 
 On those who fight for the Good Town, 
 Destined in every age to be 
 Refuge of injured royalty ; 
 Since first, when conquering York arose, 
 To Henry meek she gave repose, 
 Till late, with Avonder, grief, and aAve, 
 Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 
 
 Truce to these thoughts! — for, as they rise, 
 Hoav gladly I avert mine eyes, » 
 
 Bodings, or true or false to change, 
 For Fiction's fair romantic range, 
 Or for Tradition's dubious light, 
 That hovers 'twixt the day and night: 
 Dazzling alternately and dim, 
 Her Avavering lamp I'd rather trim, 
 Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see, 
 Creation of my fantasy, 
 Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, 
 And make of mists invading men.< — 
 Who loves not more the night of June 
 Than dull December's gloomy noon? 
 The moonlight than the fog of frost? 
 And can Ave say, Avhich cheats the most? 
 
 But Avho shall teach my harp to gain 
 A sound of the romantic strain, 
 Whose Anglo-Norman tones Avhilere 
 Could Avin the second Henry's ear, 
 
28 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved 
 
 The minstrel, and his lay approved? 
 
 Who shall these lingering notes redeem, 
 
 Decaying on Oblivion's stream ; 
 
 Such notes as from the Breton tongue 
 
 Marie translated, Blondel sung? — 
 
 O! born Time's ravage to repair, 
 
 And make the dying muse thy care ; 
 
 Who, when his scythe her hoary foe 
 
 Was poising for the final blow, 
 
 The weapon from his hand could wring, 
 
 And break his glass, and shear his wing, 
 
 And bid, reviving in his strain, 
 
 The gentle poet live again ; 
 
 Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 
 
 An unpedantic moral gay, 
 
 Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 
 
 On wings of unexpected wit ; 
 
 In letters as in life approved, 
 
 Example honoured, and beloved,— 
 
 Dear Ellis! to the bard impart 
 
 A lesson of thy magic art, 
 
 To win at once the head and heart,' — 
 
 At once to charm, instruct, and mend, 
 
 My guide, my pattern, and my friend! 
 
 Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
 Be long thy pleasing task, — but, O! 
 No more by thy example teach 
 What few can practise, all can preach ; 
 With even patience to endure 
 Lingering disease, and painful cure, 
 And boast affliction's pangs subdued 
 By mild and manly fortitude. 
 Enough, the lesson has been given: 
 Forbid the repetition, Heaven! 
 
 Come, listen then! for thou hast known, 
 And loved the Minstrel's varying tone: 
 Who, like his Border sires of old, 
 Waked a wild measure, rude and bold, 
 Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, 
 With wonder heard the northern strain. 
 Come, listen! — bold in thy applause, 
 The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws ; 
 And, as the ancient art could stain 
 Achievements on the storied pane, 
 Irregularly traced and planned, 
 But yet so glowing and so grand ; 
 So shall he strive, in changeful hue, 
 Field, feast, and combat, to renew, 
 And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 
 And all the pomp of chivalry. 
 
 © 
 
 CANTO V.— THE COURT. 
 
 I. 
 
 The train has left the hills of Braid ; 
 The barrier guard have open made, 
 (So Lindesay bade,) the palisade, 
 
 That closed the tented ground, 
 Their men the warders backward drew, 
 And carried pikes as they rode through, 
 
 Into its ample bound. 
 Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, 
 Upon the southern band to stare ; 
 And envy with their wonder rose, 
 To see such well-appointed foes ; 
 Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, 
 So huge, that many simply thought, 
 But for a vaunt such weapons wrought ; 
 And little deemed their force to feel, 
 Through links of mail, and plates of steel. 
 
 When, rattling upon Flodden vale. 
 The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
 Glance every line and squadron through; 
 And much he marvelled one small land 
 Could marshal forth such various band: 
 
 For men-at-arms were here, 
 Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, 
 Like iron towers for strength and weight, 
 On Flemish steeds of bone and height, 
 
 With battle-axe and spear. 
 Young knights and squires, a lighter train, 
 Practised their chargers on the plain, 
 By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 
 
 Each Avarlike feat to show ; 
 To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
 And high curvett, that not in vain 
 The sword-sway might descend amain 
 
 On foeman's casque below. 
 He saw the hardy burghers there 
 March armed, on foot, with faces bare, 
 
 For visor they wore none, 
 Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
 But burnished were their corslets bright, 
 Their brigantines, and gorgets light, 
 
 Like very silver shone. 
 Long pikes they had for standing fight, 
 
 Two-handed swords they wore, 
 And many wielded mace of Aveight, 
 
 And bucklers bright they bore. 
 
 III. 
 
 On foot the yeoman too, but dressed 
 In his steel jack, a swarthy vest, 
 
 With iron quilted well ; 
 Each at his back, (a slender store,) 
 His forty days' provision bore, 
 
 As feudal statutes tell. 
 His arms were halbard, axe, or spear, 
 A cross-bow there, a hagbut here, 
 
 A dagger-knife, and brand. • — 
 Sober he seemed, and sad of cheer, 
 As loth to leave his cottage dear, 
 
 And march to foreign strand ; 
 Or musing who would guide his steer, 
 
 To till the fallow land. 
 Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
 Did aught of dastard terror lie ; — 
 
 More dreadful far his ire, 
 Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name, 
 In eager mood to battle came, 
 Their valour like light straw on flame, 
 
 A fierce but fading fire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not so the Borderer:' — bred to war, 
 He knew the battle's din afar, 
 
 And joyed to hear it swell. 
 His peaceful day was slothful ease ; 
 Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please, 
 
 Like the loud slogan yell. 
 On active steed, with lance and blade, 
 The light-armed pricker plied his trade, — 
 
 Let nobles fight for fame ; 
 Let vassals follow where they lead, 
 Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed, 
 
 But war's the Borderers' game. 
 Their gain, their glory, their delight, 
 To sleep the day, maraud the night, 
 
 O'er mountain, moss, and moor; 
 Joyful to fight they took their way, 
 Scarce caring who might win the day, 
 
 Their booty was secure. 
 These, as Lord Marmion's train passed by, 
 Looked on at first with careless eye, 
 
CANTO V.— THE COURT. 
 
 29 
 
 Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know 
 The form and force of English bow. 
 But when they saw the Lord arrayed 
 In splendid arms, and rich brocade, 
 Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — 
 
 " Hist, Ringan! seest thou there! 
 Canst guess which road they'll homeward ride ? 
 O! could we but on Border side, 
 By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide, 
 
 Beset a prize so fair! 
 That fangless Lion, too, their guide, _ 
 Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 
 Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 
 
 Could make a kirtle rare." 
 
 V. 
 
 Next Marmion marked the Celtic race, 
 Of different language, form, and face, 
 
 A various race of man ; 
 Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed, 
 And wild and garish semblance made, 
 The chequered trews, and belted plaid, 
 And varying notes the war-pipes brayed 
 
 To every varying clan ; 
 Wild through their red or sable hair 
 Looked out their eyes, with savage stare, 
 
 On Marmion as he past ; 
 Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
 Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, 
 
 And hardened to the blast ; 
 Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
 Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
 The hunted red-deer's undressed hide 
 Their hairy buskins well supplied; 
 The graceful bonnet decked their head ; 
 Back from their shoulders hung the plaid ; 
 A broad-sword of unwieldy length, 
 A dagger proved for edge and strength, 
 
 A studded targe they wore, 
 And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, O! 
 Short was the shaft, and weak the bow, 
 
 To that which England bore. 
 The Isles-men carried at their backs 
 The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
 They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
 As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
 Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when 
 The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, 
 And, with their cries discordant mixed, 
 Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus through the Scottish camp they passed, 
 
 And reached the city gate at last, 
 
 Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
 
 Armed burghers kept their watch and ward. 
 
 Well had tiiey cause of jealous fear, 
 
 When lay encamped, in field so near, 
 
 The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
 
 As through the bustling streets they go, 
 
 All was alive with martial show; 
 
 At every turn, with dinning clang, 
 
 The armourer's anvil clashed and rang; 
 
 Or toiled the swarthy smith, to wheel 
 
 The bar that arms the charger's heel ; 
 
 Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
 
 Of jarring grind-stone was applied. 
 
 Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace 
 
 Through street, and lane, and market-place. 
 
 Bore lance, or casque, or sword; 
 While burghers, with important face, 
 
 Described each new-come lord, 
 Discussed his lineage, told his name, 
 His following, and his warlike fame. — 
 The Lion led to lodging meet, 
 Which high o'erlooked the crowded street 
 
 There must the Baron rest, 
 
 Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
 And then to Holy- Rood must ride, — 
 
 Such was the King's behest. 
 Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
 A banquet rich, and costly wines, 
 
 To Marmion and his train. 
 And when the appointed hour succeeds, 
 The Baron dons his peaceful weeds, 
 And following Lindesay as he leads, 
 
 The palace-halls they gain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Old Holy-Rood rung merrily, 
 That night, with wassal, mirth, and glee: 
 King James Avithin her princely bower 
 Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power, 
 Summoned to spend the parting hour; 
 For he had charged, that his array 
 Should southward march by break of day. 
 Well loved that splendid monarch aye 
 
 The banquet and the song, 
 By day the tourney, and by night 
 The merry dance, traced last and light, 
 The masquers quaint, the pageant bright, 
 
 The revel loud and long. 
 This feast outshone his banquets past; 
 It was his blythest, — and his last. 
 The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, 
 Cast on the court a dancing ray : 
 Here to the harp did minstrels sing; 
 There ladies touched a softer string ; 
 With long-eared cap, and motley vest, 
 The licensed fool retailed his jest ; 
 His magic tricks the juggler plied; 
 At dice and draughts the gallants vied; 
 While some, in close recess apart, 
 Courted the ladies of their heart, 
 
 Nor courted them in vain; 
 For often in the parting hour, 
 Victorious love asserts his power 
 
 O'er coldness and disdain ; 
 And flinty is her heart, can view 
 To battle march a lover true,' — 
 Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 
 Nor own her share of pain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Through this mixed crowd of glee and game, 
 The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 
 
 While, reverend, all made room. 
 An easy task it was, 1 trow, 
 King James's manly form to know, 
 Although, his courtesy to show, 
 He doffed, to Marmion bending low, 
 
 His broidered cap and plume. 
 For royal were his garb and mien, 
 
 His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 
 
 Trimmed with the fur of martin wild ; 
 His vest, of changeful satin sheen, 
 
 The dazzled eye beguiled ; 
 His gorgeous collar hung adown, 
 Wrought with the badge of Scotland's crown, 
 The thistle brave, of oTd renown; 
 His trusty blade, Toledo right, 
 Descended from a baldric bright ; 
 White were his buskins, on the heel 
 His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; 
 His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
 Was buttoned with a ruby rare: 
 And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen 
 A prince of such a noble mien. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Monarch's form was middle size ; 
 For feat of strength, or exercise, 
 Shaped in proportion fair; 
 
©^ 
 
 30 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 And hazel was his eagle eye, 
 And auburn of the darkest dye, 
 
 His short curled beard and hair. 
 Light was his footstep in the dance, 
 
 And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
 And, oh! he had that merry glance, 
 
 That seldom lady's heart resists. 
 Lightly from fair to fair he flew, 
 And loved to plead, lament, and sue ; — 
 Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain! 
 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 
 
 I said be joyed in banquet-bower; 
 But, mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, 
 How suddenly his cheer would change, 
 
 His look o'ercast and lower, 
 If, in a sudden turn, he felt 
 The pressure of his iron belt, 
 That bound his breast in penance-pain, 
 In memory of his father slain. 
 Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, 
 Soon as the passing pang was o'er, 
 Forward he rushed, with double glee, 
 Into the stream of revelry : . 
 Thus, dim-seen object of affright 
 Startles the courser in his flight, 
 And half he halts, half springs aside ; 
 But feels the quickening spur applied, 
 And, straining on the tightened rein, 
 Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 
 
 X. 
 O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
 Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway: 
 
 To Scotland's court she came, 
 To be a hostage for her lord, 
 Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, 
 And with the King to make accord, 
 
 Had sent his lovely dame. 
 Nor to that lady free alone 
 Did the gay King allegiance own; 
 
 For the fair Queen of France 
 Sent him a Turquois ring, and glove, 
 And charged him, as her knight and love, 
 
 For her to break a lance ; 
 And strike three strokes with Scottish brand, 
 And march three miles on so. " ern land, 
 And bid the banners of his band 
 
 In English breezes dance. 
 And thus, for France's Queen, he drest 
 His manly limbs in mailed vest ; 
 And thus admitted English fair, 
 His inmost counsels still to aire ; 
 And thus, for both, he madly planned 
 The ruin of himself and land ! 
 
 And yet, the sooth to tell, 
 Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, 
 Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, 
 
 From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
 His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgovr 
 
 bower, 
 All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour. 
 
 XL 
 
 The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, 
 
 And weeps the weary day, 
 The war against her native soil, 
 Her Monarch's risk in battle broil ; — 
 And in gay Holy- Rood, the while, 
 Dame Heron rises with a smile 
 
 Upon the harp to play. 
 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 
 
 The strings her fingers flew ; 
 And as she touched and tuned them all, 
 Ever her bosom's rise and fall 
 
 Was plainer given to view; 
 For, all for heat, was laid aside 
 Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
 
 And first she pitched her voice to sing, 
 
 Then glanced her dark eye on the King, 
 
 And then around the silent ring ; 
 
 And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say 
 
 Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay, 
 
 She could not, would not, durst not play! 
 
 At length, upon the harp, with glee, 
 
 Mingled with arch simplicity, 
 
 A soft, yet lively, air she rung, 
 
 While thus the wily lady sung. 
 
 XII. 
 
 LOCHINVAR. 
 
 3La&2? iron's Song. 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was the 
 best ; [none, 
 
 And save his good broad-sword he weapons had 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Loch- 
 invar. 
 
 He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for 
 stone, [none ; 
 
 He swam the Eske river where ford there was 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late: 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, 
 
 and all ; [sword, 
 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand" on his 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
 
 word,) 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin- 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 
 denied; — [tide — 
 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by 
 far, [invar.'' 
 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Loch- 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it 
 up, [cup. 
 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the 
 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to 
 sigh, 
 
 With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
 
 He took her soft hand, ere her mother could 
 bar, — [invar. 
 
 " Now tread we a measure!" said young Loch- 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
 "While her mother did fret, and her father did 
 
 fume, [and plume ; 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twer© 
 
 better by far [Lochinvar." 
 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 When they reached the hall-door, and the 
 
 charger stood near ; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
 "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, 
 
 and scaur ; [young Lochinvar. 
 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth 
 
-(d) 
 
 CANTO V.—THE COURT. 
 
 •31 
 
 Tlier? was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 
 
 Netherby clan ; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode 
 
 and they ran : 
 There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie 
 Lee, [see. 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- 
 invar ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Monarch o'er the syren hung, 
 And beat the measure as she sung, 
 And, pressing closer, and more near, 
 He whispered praises in her ear. 
 In loud applause the courtiers vied; 
 And ladies winked, and spoke aside. 
 
 The witching dame to Marmion threw 
 A glance, where seemed to reign 
 
 The pride that claims applauses due, 
 
 And of her royal conquest, too, 
 A real or feigned disdain: 
 
 Familiar was the look, and told, 
 
 Marmion and she were friends of old. 
 The King observed their meeting eyes, 
 With something like displeased surprise ; 
 For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
 Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
 Straight took he forth the parchment broad, 
 Which Marmion's high commission showed: 
 " Our Borders sacked by many a raid, 
 Our peaceful liege-men robbed," he said: 
 " On day of truce our Warden slain, 
 Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta'en — 
 Unworthy were we here to reign, 
 Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 
 Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, 
 Our herald has to Henry borne." — 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He paused, and led where Douglas stood, 
 And with stern eye the pageant viewed: 
 I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
 Who coronet of Angus bore, 
 And, when his blood and heart were high, 
 Did the third James in camp defy, 
 And all his minions led to die 
 
 On Lauder's dreary flat : 
 Princes and favourites long grew tame, 
 And trembled at the homely name 
 
 Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat. 
 The same who left the dusky vale 
 Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 
 
 Its dungeons, and its towers, 
 Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, 
 And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, 
 
 To fix his princely bowers. 
 Though now, in age, he had laid down 
 His armour for the peaceful gown, 
 
 And for a staff his brand, 
 Yet often would flash forth the fire, 
 That could, in youth, a monarch's ire 
 
 And minion's pride withstand; 
 And even that day, at council board, 
 
 Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, 
 
 Against the war had Angus stood, 
 And chafed his royal Lord. 
 
 XV. 
 
 His giant-form, like ruined tower, 
 Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt, 
 Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt, 
 
 Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower: 
 His locks and beard in silver grew; 
 His eye-brows kept their sable hue. 
 
 Near Douglas when the Monarch stood, 
 His bitter speech he thus pursued : — 
 " Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
 That in the North you needs must stay, 
 
 While slightest hopes of peace remain, 
 Uncourteous speech it were, and stern, 
 To say— Return to Lindisfarn, 
 
 Until my herald come again. — 
 Then rest you in Tantallon Hold ; 
 Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 
 A chief unlike his sires of old. 
 He wears their motto on his blade, 
 Their blazon o'er his towers displayed; 
 Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, 
 More than to face his country's foes. 
 
 And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, 
 
 But e'en this morn to me was given 
 A prize, the first fruits of the war, 
 Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 
 
 A bevy of the maids of heaven. 
 Under your guard, these holy maids 
 Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
 And while they at Tantallon stay, 
 Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." — 
 And, with the slaughtered favourite's name, 
 Across the Monarch's brow there came 
 A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 In answer nought could Angus speak ; 
 His proud heart swelled Avell nigh to break: 
 He turned aside, and down his cheek 
 
 A burning tear there stole. 
 His hand the monarch sudden took, 
 That sight his kind heart could not brook: 
 
 " Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
 Angus, my hasty speech forgive! 
 For sure as doth his spirit live, 
 As he said of the Douglas old, 
 
 I well may say of you — 
 That never king did subject hold, 
 In speech more free, in war more bold, 
 
 More tender, and more true : 
 Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
 And, while the King his hand did strain, 
 The old man's tears fell down like rain. 
 To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
 And Avhispered to the King aside: — 
 " Oh! let such tears unwonted plead 
 For respite short from dubious deed 
 A child will Aveep at bramble's smart, 
 A maid to see her sparroAv part, 
 A stripling for a woman's heart : 
 But Avoe awaits a country, Avhen 
 She sees the tears of bearded men. 
 Then, oh! Avhat omen, dark and high, 
 When Douglas Avets his manly eye!"— 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Displeased Avas James, that stranger vieAved 
 
 And tampered with his changing mood. 
 
 " Laugh those that can, Aveep those that may,' 
 
 Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
 
 " Southward I march by break of day ; 
 
 And if within Tantallon strong, 
 
 The good Lord Marmion tarries long, 
 
 Perchance our meeting next may fall 
 
 At TamAvorth, in his castle-hall." — 
 
 The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
 
 And ansAvered, grave, the royal vaunt: 
 
 " Much honoured Avere my humble home, 
 
 If in its halls King James should come; 
 
 But Nottingham has archers good, 
 
 And Yorkshire men are stern of mood; 
 
 Northumbrian prickers Avild and rude. 
 
 On Derby Hills the paths are steep ; 
 
 In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
 
© 
 
 32 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 And many a banner will be torn, 
 
 And many a knight to earth be borne, 
 
 And many a sheaf of arrows spent, 
 
 Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent: 
 
 Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may."* 
 
 The Monarch lightly turned away, 
 
 And to his nobles loud did call,— 
 
 " Lords, to the dance,— a hall! a hall!" 
 
 Himself his cloak and sword flung by, 
 
 And led Dame Heron gallantly ; . , ? 
 
 And minstrels, at the royal order, ~"~ ' 
 
 Rung out—" Blue Bonnets o'er the Border." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Leave we these revels now, to tell 
 What to Saint Hilda's maids befel, 
 Whose galley, as they sailed again 
 To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en, 
 Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 
 Till James should of their fate decide ; 
 
 And soon, by his command, 
 Were gently summoned to prepare 
 To journey under Marmion's care, 
 As escort honoured, safe, and fair, 
 
 Again to English land. 
 The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, 
 Nor knew which Saint she should implore ; 
 For when she thought of Constance, sore 
 
 She feared Lord Marmion's mood. 
 And judge what Clara must have felt! 
 The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, 
 
 Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
 Unwittingly, King James had given, 
 
 As guard to Whitby's shades, 
 The man most dreaded under heaven 
 
 By these defenceless maids ; 
 Yet what petition could avail, 
 Or who would listen to the tale 
 Of woman, prisoner and nun, 
 Mid bustle of a war begun? 
 They deemed it hopeless to avoid 
 The convoy of their dangerous guide. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Their lodging, so the King assigned, 
 To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined ; 
 And thus it fell, that, passing nigh, 
 The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 
 
 Who warned him by a scroll, 
 She had a secret to reveal, 
 That much concerned the Church's weal, 
 
 And health of sinners' soul ; 
 And, with deep charge of secrecy, 
 
 She named a place to meet, 
 Within an open balcony, 
 That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 
 
 Above the stately street ; 
 To which, as common to each home, 
 At night they might in secret come. 
 
 XX. 
 
 At night in secret there they came, ' 
 The Palmer and the holy dame. 
 The moon among the clouds rode high, 
 And all the city hum was by. 
 
 Upon the street, where late before 
 
 Did din of war and warriors roar, 
 You might have heard a pebble fall, 
 
 A beetle hum, a cricket sing, 
 
 An owlet flap his boding wing 
 On Giles's steeple tall. 
 The antique buildings, climbing high, 
 Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 
 
 Were here wrapt deep in shade ; 
 There on their brows the moon-beam broke, 
 Through the faint Avreaths of silvery smoke, 
 
 And on the casements played. 
 
 And other light was none to see, 
 
 Save torches gliding far, 
 Before some chieftain of degree, 
 Who left the royal revelry 
 
 To bowne him for the war.' — 
 A solemn scene the Abbess chose ; 
 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " O, holy Palmer!" she began, — 
 " For sure he must be sainted man, 
 Whose blessed feet have trod the ground 
 Where the Redeemer's tomb is found;— 
 For his dear Church's sake, my tale 
 Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
 Though I must speak of worldly love,— 
 How vain to those who wed above !■ — 
 De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed 
 Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood; 
 (Idle it were of Whitby's dame, 
 To say of that same blood I came ;) 
 And once, when jealous rage was high, 
 Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
 Wilton was traitor in his heart, 
 And had made league with Martin Swart, 
 When he came here on Simnel's part; 
 And only cowardice did restrain 
 His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
 And down he threw his glove: — the thing 
 Was tried, as wont, before the King; 
 Where frankly did De Wilton own, 
 That Swart in Guelders he had known ; 
 And that between them then there went 
 Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
 For this he to his castle sent ; 
 But when his messenger returned, 
 Judge how De Wilton's fury burned] 
 For in his packet there were laid 
 Letters that claimed disloyal aid, 
 And proved King Henry's cause betrayed. 
 His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
 He strove to clear, by spear and shield; — 
 To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
 For wondrous are His ways above ! 
 Perchance some form was unobserved ; 
 Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved : 
 Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
 Or how the blessed ordeal fail? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
 As recreant doomed to suffer law, 
 
 Repentant, owned in vain, 
 That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
 A stranger maiden, passing fair, 
 Had drenched him with a beverage rare ;*— 
 
 His words no faith could gain. 
 With Clare alone he credence won, 
 Who, rather than Aved Marmion, 
 Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 
 To give our house her livings fair, 
 And die a vestal vot'ress there. 
 The impulse from the earth was given, 
 But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
 A purer heart, a lovelier maid, 
 Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade, 
 No, not since Saxon Edelfled ; 
 
 Only one trace of earthly stain, 
 That for her lover's loss 
 
 She cherishes a sorrow vain, 
 And murmurs at the cross. — 
 And then her heritage ; — it goes 
 
 Along the banks of Tame ; 
 Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 
 In meadows rich the heifer lows, 
 The falconer, and huntsman, knows 
 
 Its woodlands for the game. 
 
£© 
 
 CANTO V.— THE COURT. 
 
 33 
 
 2): 
 
 Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
 And I, her humble vot'ress here, 
 
 Should do a deadly sin, 
 Her temple spoiled before mine eyes, 
 If this false Marmion such a prize 
 
 By my consent should win : 
 Yet hath our boisterous Monarch sworn, 
 That Clare shall from our house be torn ; 
 And grievous cause have I to fear, 
 Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed 
 To evil power, I claim thine aid, 
 
 By every step that thou hast trod 
 To holy shrine, and grotto dim ; 
 By every martyr's tortured limb : 
 By angel, saint, and seraphim, 
 And by the Church of God! 
 For mark: — When Wilton was betrayed, 
 And with his squire forged letters laid, 
 She was, alas! that sinful maid, 
 
 By whom the deed was done, — 
 O! shame and horror to be said! — 
 
 She was a perjured nun: 
 No clerk in all the land, like her, 
 Traced quaint and varying character. 
 Perchance you may a marvel deem, 
 
 That Marmi on's paramour, 
 (For such vile thing she was) should scheme 
 
 Her lover's nuptial hour ; 
 But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, 
 As privy to his honour's stain, 
 
 Illimitable power ; 
 For this she secretly retained 
 
 Each proof that might the plot reveal, 
 Instructions with his hand and seal; 
 And thus Saint Hilda deigned, 
 Through sinner's perfidy impure, 
 Her house's glory to secure, 
 And Clare's immortal weal. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " 'Twere long, and needless, here to tell, 
 How to my hand these papers fell ; 
 
 With me they must not stay. 
 Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! 
 Who knows what outrage he might do, 
 
 While journeying by the way? — 
 O! blessed saint, if e'er again 
 I venturous leave thy calm domain, 
 To travel or by land or main, 
 
 Deep penance may I pay! — 
 Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer ; 
 I give this packet to thy care, 
 For thee to stop they will not dare ; 
 
 And, O! with cautious speed, 
 To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, 
 That he may show them to the King ; 
 
 And, for thy well-earned meed, 
 Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 
 A weekly mass shall still be thine, 
 
 While priests can sing and read. — 
 What ail'st thou! — Speak!" — For as he took 
 The charge, a strong emotion shook 
 
 His frame ; and, ere reply, 
 They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone, 
 Like distant clarion feebly blown, 
 
 That on the breeze did die ; 
 And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear, 
 " Saint Withold save us! — What is here! 
 
 Look at yon City Cross! 
 See on its battled tower appear 
 Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, 
 
 And blazoned banners toss!" — 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone, 
 Rose on a turret octagon ; 
 
 (But now is razed that monument, 
 Whence royal edict rang, 
 
 And voice of Scotland's law was sent, 
 In glorious trumpet clang. 
 O! be his tomb as lead to lead, 
 Upon its dull destroyer's head! — 
 A minstrel's malison is said. — ) 
 Then on its battlements they saw 
 A vision, passing Nature's law, 
 
 Strange, wild, and dimly seen; 
 Figures, that seemed to rise and die, 
 Gibber and sign, advance and fly, 
 While nought confirmed could ear or eye 
 
 Discern of sound or mien. 
 Yet darkly did it seem, as there 
 Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, 
 With trumpet sound, and blazon fair, 
 
 A summons to proclaim ; 
 But indistinct the pageant proud, 
 As fancy forms of midnight cloud, 
 When flings the moon upon her shroud 
 
 A wavering tinge of flame ; 
 It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 
 From midmost of the spectre crowd, 
 
 This awful summons came ; — 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " 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 past 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, 
 Fore-doomed to Flodden's carnage pile, 
 
 Was cited there by name ; 
 And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
 Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbay, * 
 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. 
 
<m 
 
 34 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Shift we the scene. — The camp cloth move, 
 
 Dun-Edi-n'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 frocke, 
 Would first his metal 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. 
 
 Some half-hour's march behind, there came, 
 By Eustace governed fair, 
 
 A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
 With all her nuns, and Clare. 
 
 No audience had Lord Marmion sought; 
 Ever he feared to aggravate 
 Clara de Clara's suspicious hate ; 
 
 And safer 'twas, he thought, 
 
 To wait till, from the nuns removed, 
 The influence of kinsmen loved, 
 And suit by Henry's self approved, 
 
 Her slow consent had wrought, 
 
 His was no flickering flame, that dies 
 
 Unless when fanned by looks and sighs, 
 
 And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
 
 He longed to stretch his wide command 
 
 O'er luckless Clara's ample land: 
 
 Besides, when Wilton with him vied, 
 
 Although the pang of humbled pride 
 
 The place of jealousy supplied, 
 
 Yet conquest, by that meanness won 
 
 He almost loathed to think upon, 
 
 Led him, at times, to hate the cause, 
 
 Which made him burst through honour's laws. 
 
 If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone, 
 
 Who died within that vault of stone. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And now, when close at hand they saw 
 North-Berwick's town, and lofty Law, 
 Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while, 
 Before a venerable pile, 
 
 Whose turrets viewed, afar, 
 The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 
 
 The ocean's peace, or war. 
 At tolling of a bell, forth came 
 The convent's venerable Dame, 
 And prayed Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
 With her, a loved and honoured guest, 
 Till Douglas should a bark prepare, 
 To waft hprfb^efeto. Whitby fair. 
 Glad was the; Abbess, you may guess, 
 And thanked the Sj^otjtishiPjriOTSfs;*,,,',-* baA 
 And tediou^wierq fcoj tell, j ;ween, 
 The cou.|t^u5 ! spwchtl>at i Ra«^ I he>weieji^ / iYf 
 
 O'erjoyed the nuns their palfreys leave ; 
 But when fair Clara did intend, 
 Like them, from horse-back to descend, 
 
 Fitz-Eustace said, — " I grieve, 
 
 Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
 
 Such gentle company to part. — 
 Think not discourtesy, 
 
 But Lords' commands must be obeyed ; 
 
 And Marmion and the Douglas said, 
 That you must wend with me. 
 
 Lord Marmion had a letter broad, 
 
 Which to the Scottish Earl he showed, 
 
 Commanding, that, beneath his care, 
 
 Without delay, you shall repair, 
 
 To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare." 
 XXX. 
 The startled Abbess loud exclaimed ; 
 But she, at whom the blow was aimed, 
 Grew pale as death, and. cold as lead, — 
 She deemed she heard her death-doom read. 
 " Cheer thee, my child!" the Abbess said, 
 " They dare not tear thee from my hand, 
 To ride alone with armed band." — 
 
 " Nay, holy mother, nay," 
 Fitz-Eustace said, "the lovely Clare 
 Will be in Lady Angus' care, 
 
 In Scotland while we stay ; 
 And, when we move, an easy ride 
 Will bring us to the English side, 
 Female attendance to provide 
 
 Befitting Gloster's heir ; 
 Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord, 
 By slightest look, or act, or word, 
 
 To harass Lady Clare. 
 Her faithful guardian he will be, 
 Nor sue for slightest courtesy 
 
 That e'en to stranger falls, 
 Till he shall place her, safe and free, 
 
 Within her kinsman's halls." — 
 He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace ; 
 His faith was painted on his face, 
 
 And Clare's worst fear relieved. 
 The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed 
 On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, 
 
 Entreated, threatened, grieved ; 
 To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed, 
 Against Lord Marmion inveighed, 
 And called the Prioress to aid, 
 To curse with candle, bell, and book, — 
 Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 
 " The Douglas, and the King," she said, 
 " In their commands will be obeyed ; 
 Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall 
 The maiden in Tantallon hall." — 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,. 
 
 Assumed her wonted state again, — 
 For much of state she had, — 
 
 Composed her veil, and raised her head, 
 
 And—" Bid," in solemn voice she said, 
 " Thy master, bold and bad, 
 
 The records of his house turn o'er, 
 And, when he shall there written see, 
 That one of his own ancestry 
 Drove the Monks forth of Coventry, 
 
 Bid him his fate explore ! 
 
 Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 
 His charger hurled him to the dust, 
 And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
 
 He died his band before. 
 
 God judge 'twixt Marmion and me ; 
 He is a chief of high degree, 
 
 And I a poor recluse ; 
 Yet oft, in holy writ, we see 
 Even such weak minister as me 
 
 May the oppressor bruise: 
 
 :© 
 
CANTO VI.— THE BATTLE. 
 
 35 
 
 For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
 The mighty in his sin, 
 
 And Jael thus, and Deborah," — 
 Here hasty Blount broke in : 
 " Fitz-Eustace, we must march our hand ; 
 St Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
 All day, with bonnet in thy hand, 
 
 To hear the Lady preach? 
 By this good light! if thus we stay, 
 Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, 
 
 Will sharper sermon teach. 
 Come, d'on thy cap, and mount thy horse ; 
 The Dame must patience take perforce. "- 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Submit we then to force," said Clare; 
 " But let this barbarous lord despair 
 
 His purposed feim to win; 
 Let him take living, land, and life ; 
 But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
 
 In me were deadly sin: 
 And if it be the king's decree, 
 That I must find no sanctuary, 
 Where even a homicide might be, 
 
 And safely rest his head, 
 Though at its open portals stood, 
 Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, 
 
 The kinsmen of the dead ; 
 Yet one asylum is my oAvn, 
 
 Against the dreaded hour; 
 A low, a silent, and a lone, 
 
 Where kings have little power. 
 One victim is before me there. — 
 Mother, your blessing, and in prayer 
 Remember your unhappy Clare!" — 
 Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestow 
 
 Kind blessings many a one ; 
 Weeping and wailing loud arose 
 Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 
 
 Of every simple nun. 
 His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, 
 And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide. 
 
 Then took the squire her rein, 
 And gently led away her steed, 
 And, by each courteous word and deed, 
 
 To cheer her strove in vain. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But scant three miles the band had rode, 
 When o'er a height they passed, 
 
 And, sudden, close before them showed 
 His towers, Tantallon vast ; 
 
 Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
 
 And held impregnable in war. 
 
 On a projecting rock they rose, 
 
 And round three sides the ocean flows ; 
 
 The fourth did battled walls inclose, 
 And double mound and fosse. 
 
 By narrow draw-bridge, outworks strong, 
 Through studded gates, an entrance long, 
 
 To the main court they cross. 
 It was a wide and stately square 
 Around were lodgings, fit and fair, 
 
 And towers of various form, 
 Which on the court projected far, 
 And broke its lines quadrangular. 
 Here was square keep, there turret high, 
 Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 
 Whence oft the Warder could descry 
 
 The gathering ocean-storm. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Here did they rest' — The princely care 
 Of Douglas, Avhy should I declare, 
 Or say they met reception fair? 
 
 Or why the tidings say, 
 Which, varying, to Tantallon came, 
 By hurrying posts, or fleeter fame, 
 
 With every varying day? 
 And, first, they heard King James had won 
 
 Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then, 
 
 That Norham castle strong was ta'en. 
 At that sore marvelled Marmion ; — 
 And Douglas hoped his Monarch's hand 
 Would soon subdue Northumberland : 
 
 But whispered news there came, 
 That, while his host inactive lay, 
 And melted by degrees away, 
 King James was dallying off the day 
 
 With Heron's wily dame 
 
 Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 
 
 Go seek them there, and see : 
 Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 
 
 And not a history. — 
 At length they heard the Scottish host 
 On that high ridge had made their post, 
 
 Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain; 
 And that brave Surrey many a band 
 Had gathered in the southern land, 
 And marched into Northumberland, 
 
 And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
 Marmion, like charger in the stall, 
 That hears without the trumpet call, 
 
 Began to chafe, and swear: — , 
 " A sorry thing to hide my head 
 In castle, like a fearful maid, 
 
 When such a field is near! 
 Needs must I see this battle-day: 
 Death to my fame, if such a fray 
 Were fought, and Marmion away! 
 
 The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
 
 Hath 'bated of his courtesy: 
 No longer in his halls I'll stay."— 
 Then bade his band, they should array 
 For march against the dawning day. 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE BATTLE. 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 To Richard Heber, Esq. 
 
 Mertoun-House y Christmas, 
 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; 
 But let it whistle as it will, 
 
 keep our Christmas merry stil 
 
 We' 
 
 Each age has deemed the new-born year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer: 
 Even heathen yet, the savage Dane 
 At Iol more deep the mead did drain ; 
 
 High on the beach his galleys drew, 
 And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
 Then in his low and pine-built hall, 
 Where shields and axes decked the wall, 
 They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; 
 Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
 While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 
 The half-gnawed rib, and marrow-bone: 
 Or listened all, in grim delight, 
 While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. 
 Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, 
 While wildly loose their red locks fly, 
 
 ^t 
 
36 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 And dancing i*ound the blazing pile, 
 They make such barbarous mirth the while, 
 As best might to the mind recal 
 The boisterous joys of Odin's hall . 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year its course had rolled, 
 And brought blythe Christmas back again, 
 With all his hospitable train. 
 Domestic and religious rite 
 Gave honour to the holy night ; 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
 That only night, in all the year, 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
 The hall was dressed with holly green ; 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 To gather in the misletoe. 
 Then opened wide the baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
 And Ceremony doffed his pride. 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
 That night might village partner choose ; 
 The lord, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of " post and pair." 
 All hailed, with uncontrolled delight, 
 And general voice, the happy night, 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
 Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 
 The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
 Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, 
 Bore then upon its massive board 
 No mark to part the squire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
 By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
 Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high, 
 Crested with bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the green-garbed ranger tell, 
 How, when, and where, the monster fell ; 
 What dogs before his death he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the boar. 
 The wassel round in good brown bowls, 
 Garnished with ribbons, blythely trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
 Plump-porridge stood, and Christmas pye ; 
 Nor failed old Scotland to produce, 
 At such high-tide, her savoury goose. 
 Then came the merry masquers in, 
 And carols roared with blythesome din; 
 If unmelodious was the song, 
 It was a hearty note, and strong. 
 Who lists may in their mumming see 
 Traces of ancient mystery ; 
 White shirts supplied the masquerade, 
 And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 
 But, O! what masquers richly dight 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale ; 
 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the year. 
 
 Still linger in our northern clime 
 Some remnants of the good old time ; 
 And still, within our valleys her% 
 We hold the kindred title dear, 
 Even when perchance its far-fetched claim 
 To Southron ear sounds empty name* 
 For course of blood, our proverbs deem, 
 Is warmer than the mountain-stream. 
 And thus, my Christmas still I hold 
 Where my great-grandsire came of old ; 
 
 With amber beard, and flaxen hair, 
 
 And reverend apostolic air— 
 
 The feast and holy-tide to share, 
 
 And mix sobriety with wine, 
 
 And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 
 
 Small thought was his, in after time 
 
 E'er to be hitched into a rhyme. 
 
 The simple sire could only boast, 
 
 That he was loyal to his cost : 
 
 The banished race of kings revered, 
 
 And lost his land, — but kept his beard. 
 
 In these dear halls, where welcome kind, 
 Is with fair liberty combined ; 
 Where cordial friendship gives the hand, 
 And flies constraint the magic wand 
 Of the fair dame that rules the land. 
 Little we heed the tempest drear, 
 While music, mirth, and social cheer, 
 Speed on their wings the passing year. 
 And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, 
 When not a leaf is on the bough. 
 Tweed loves them well, and turns again, 
 As loath to leave the sweet domain ; 
 And holds his mirror to her face, 
 And clips her with a close embrace: — 
 Gladly as he, we seek the dome, 
 And as reluctant turn us home. 
 
 How just, that, at this time of glee, 
 My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee! 
 For many a merry hour we've known, 
 And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. 
 Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease, 
 And leave these classic tomes in peace! 
 Of Roman and of Grecian lore, 
 Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 
 These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
 Were " pretty fellows in their day," 
 But time and tide o'er all prevail — 
 On Christmas eve a Christmas tale^ — 
 Of wonder and of war — " Profane! 
 What! leave the lofty Latian strain, 
 Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 
 To hear the clash of rusty arms ; 
 In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, 
 To jostle conjuror and ghost, 
 Goblin and witch!'' — Nay, Heber dear, 
 Before you touch my charter, hear. 
 Though Leyden aids, alas! no more, 
 My cause with many-languaged lore, 
 This may I say: — in realms of death 
 Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith ; 
 iEneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
 The ghost of murdered Polydore ; 
 For omens, we in Livy cross, 
 At every turn, locutus Bos. 
 As grave and duly speaks that ox, 
 As if he told the price of stocks; 
 Or held, in Rome republican, 
 The place of Common-councilman. 
 
 All nations have their omens drear, 
 Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
 To Cambria look — the peasant see, 
 Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
 And shun " the spirit's blasted tree." 
 The Highlander, whose red claymore 
 The battle turned on Maida's shore, 
 Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
 If asked to tell a fairy tale ; 
 He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
 Who leaves that day his grassy ring ; 
 Invisible to human ken, 
 He walks among the sons of men. 
 
 Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
 Beneath the towers of'Franchemont, 
 
-© 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE BATTLE. 
 
 37 
 
 Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 
 
 Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? — 
 
 Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 
 
 A mighty treasure buried lay, 
 
 Amassed through rapine and through wrong, 
 
 By the last lord of Franchemont. 
 
 The iron chest is bolted hard, 
 
 A Huntsman sits, its constant guard ; 
 
 Around his neck his horn is hung, 
 
 His hanger in his belt is slung ; 
 
 Before his feet his blood-hounds lie: 
 
 An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, 
 
 Whose withering glance no heart can brook, 
 
 As true a huntsman doth he look, 
 
 As bugle e'er in brake did sound, 
 
 Or ever hollowed to a hound. 
 
 To chase the fiend, and win the prize, 
 
 In that same dungeon ever tries 
 
 An aged Necromantic Priest ; 
 
 It is an hundred years at least. 
 
 Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 
 
 And neither yet lias lost or won. 
 
 And oft the Conjuror's words will make 
 
 The stubborn Demon groan and quake ; 
 
 And oft the bands of iron break, 
 
 Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 
 
 Fast as 'tis opened, shuts again. 
 
 That magic strife within the tomb 
 
 May last until the day of doom, 
 
 Unless the Adept shall learn to tell 
 
 The very word that clenched the spell, 
 
 When Franch'mont locked the treasure cell, 
 
 An hundred years are past and gone, 
 
 And scarce three letters has he won. 
 
 Such general superstition may 
 Excuse for old Pitscottie say ; 
 Whose gossip history has given 
 My song the messenger from heaven, 
 That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, 
 Nor less the infernal summoning. 
 May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 
 Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail ; 
 May pardon plead for Fordun grave, 
 Who told of Gi fiord's Goblin-Cave. 
 But why such instances to you, 
 Who, in an instant, can review 
 Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
 And furnish twenty thousand more? 
 Hoards, not like their's whose volumes rest 
 Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest ; 
 While gripple owners still refuse 
 To others what they cannot vise ; 
 Give them the priest's whole century, 
 They shall not spell you letters three ; 
 Their pleasure in the book's the same 
 The magpie takes in pilfered gem. 
 Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
 Delight, amusement, science, art, 
 To every ear and eye impart ; 
 Yet who, of all who thus employ them, 
 Can, like the owner's self, enjoy them? — 
 But, hark! I hear the distant drum: 
 The day of Flodden field is come. — 
 Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, 
 And store of literary wealth. 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE BATTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 While great events were on the gale, 
 And each hour brought a varying tale, 
 And the demeanour, changed and cold, 
 Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold, 
 
 And, like the impatient steed of war, 
 
 He snuffed the battle from afar ; 
 
 And hopes were none, that back again, 
 
 Herald should come from Terouenne, 
 
 Where England's King in leaguer lay, 
 
 Before decisive battle-day ; 
 
 While these things were, the mournful Clare 
 
 Did in the Dame's devotions share : 
 
 For the good Countess ceaseless prayed, 
 
 To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid, 
 
 And, with short interval, did pass 
 
 From prayer to book, from book to mass, 
 
 And all in high Baronial pride, — 
 
 A life both dull and dignified ; — 
 
 Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed 
 
 Upon her intervals of rest, 
 
 Dejected Clara well could bear 
 
 The formal state, the lengthened prayer, 
 
 Though dearest to her wounded heart 
 
 The hours that she might spend apart. 
 
 II. 
 
 I I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
 
 Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
 ! Many a rude tower and rampart there 
 
 Repelled the insult of the air, 
 
 Which, when the tempest vexed the sky, 
 
 Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 
 
 Above the rest, a turret square 
 
 Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, 
 
 Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ; 
 
 The Bloody Heart was in the field, 
 
 And in the chief three mullets stood, 
 
 The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
 
 The turret held a narrow stair, 
 
 Which, mounted, gave you access Avhere 
 
 A parapet's embattled row 
 
 Did seaward round the castle go ; 
 
 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 
 
 Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, 
 
 Sometimes in platform broad extending, 
 
 Its varying circle did combine 
 
 Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, 
 
 And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign ; 
 
 Above the booming ocean leant 
 
 The far-projecting battlement ; 
 
 The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, 
 
 Upon the precipice below. 
 
 Where'er Tantallon faced the land, 
 
 Gate-works, and walls, were strongly manned ; 
 
 No need upon the sea-girt side ; 
 
 The steepy rock, and frantic tide, 
 
 Approach of human step denied ; 
 
 And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, 
 
 Were left in deepest solitude. 
 
 III. 
 
 And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
 Would to these battlements repair, 
 And muse upon her sorrows there, 
 
 And list the sea-bird's cry ; 
 Or slow, like noon-tide ghost, would glide 
 Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, 
 And ever on the heaving tide 
 
 Look down with weary eye. 
 Oft did the cliff*, and swelling main, 
 Recal the thoughts of Whitby's fane, — 
 A home she ne'er might see again ; 
 
 For she had laid adown, 
 So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
 And frontlet of the cloister pale, 
 
 And Benedictine gown : 
 It were unseemly sight, he said, 
 A novice out of convent shade. — 
 Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, 
 Again adorned her brow of snow ; 
 
 ® 
 
38 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, 
 A deep and fretted broidery bound, 
 In golden foldings sought the ground ; 
 Of holy ornament, alone 
 Remained a cross with ruby stone ; 
 
 And often did she look 
 On that which in her hand she bore, 
 With velvet bound, and broidered o'er, 
 
 Her breviary book. 
 In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
 At dawning pale, or twilight dim, 
 
 It fearful would have been, 
 To meet a form so richly dressed, 
 With book in hand, mid cross on breast, 
 
 And such a woeful mien. 
 Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, 
 To practise on the gull and crow, 
 Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, 
 
 And did by Mary swear, — 
 Some love-lorn Fay she might have been, 
 Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen; 
 For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen 
 
 A form so witching fair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Once walking thus, at evening tide, 
 
 It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 
 
 And, sighing, thought—" The Abbess there, 
 
 Perchance, does to her home repair; 
 
 Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, 
 
 Walks hand in hand with Charity; 
 
 Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
 
 Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, 
 
 That the enraptured sisters see 
 
 High vision, and deep mystery ; 
 
 The very form of Hilda fair, 
 
 Hovering upon the sunny air, 
 
 And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
 
 O! wherefore, to my duller eye, 
 
 Did still the Saint her form deny! 
 
 Was it, that, seared by sinful scorn. 
 
 My heart could neither melt nor burn? 
 
 Or lie my warm affections low, 
 
 With him that taught them first to glow? — 
 
 Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew, 
 
 To pay thy kindness grateful due, 
 
 And well could brook the mild command, 
 
 That ruled thy simple maiden band. — 
 
 How different now! condemned to bide 
 
 My doom from this dark tyrant "s pride. — 
 
 But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 
 
 That constant mind, and hate of wrong, 
 
 Descended to a feeble girl, 
 
 From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl: 
 
 Of such a stem, a sapling weak, 
 
 He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Rut see! — what makes this armour here?" 
 
 For in her path there lay 
 Targe,, corslet, helm ; — she viewed them near.— 
 " The breast-plate pierced! — Aye, much I fear. 
 Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's spear, 
 That hath made fatal entrance here, 
 
 As these dark blood-gouts say.-r- 
 Thus Wilton! — Oh! not corslet's ward, 
 Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
 Could be thy manly bosom's guard, 
 
 On yon disastrous day!" — 
 She raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
 Wilton himself before her stood! 
 It might have seemed his passing ghost, 
 For every youthful grace was lost ; 
 And joy unwonted, and surprize, 
 Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. — 
 Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
 That I can tell such scene in words : 
 
 What skilful limner e'er would choose 
 To paint the rainbows varying hues, 
 Unless to mortal it were given 
 To dip his brush in dyes of heaven? 
 Far less can my weak line declare 
 Each changing passion's shade ; 
 Brightening to rapture from despair, 
 Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, 
 And joy, with her angelic air, 
 And hope that paints the future fair, 
 Their varying hues displayed: 
 Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
 Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
 Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, 
 And mighty Love retains the field. 
 Shortly I tell what then he said, 
 By many a tender word delayed, 
 And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
 And question kind, and fond reply. 
 
 VI. 
 
 3Se Stilton's ^t'storg. 
 
 " Forget we that disastrous day, 
 
 When senseless in the lists I lay. 
 
 Thence dragged, — but how I cannot know, 
 For sense and recollection fled,— 
 
 I found me on a pallet low, 
 Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 
 
 Austin, remember'st thou, my Clare, 
 How thou didst blush, when the old man, 
 When first our infant love began, 
 
 Said we Avould make a matchless pair? — ' 
 Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled 
 From the degraded traitor's bed, — 
 He only held my burning head, 
 And tended me for many a day, 
 While wounds and fever held their sway 
 But far more needful was his care, 
 
 When sense returned to wake despair ; 
 For I did tear the closing wound, 
 And dash me frantic on the ground, 
 If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
 
 At length, to calmer reason brought, 
 
 Much by his kind attendance wrought, 
 With him I left my native strand, 
 
 And in a palmer's weeds arrayed, 
 
 My hated name and form to shade, 
 I journeyed many a land ; 
 
 No more a lord of rank and birth, 
 
 But mingled with the dregs of earth. 
 
 Oft Austin for my reason feared, 
 
 When I would sit, and deeply brood 
 On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, 
 
 Or wild mad schemes upreared. 
 
 My friend at length fell sick, and said, 
 
 God would remove him soon ; 
 And while upon his dying bed, 
 
 He begged of me a boon — 
 If ere my deadliest enemy 
 
 Beneath my brand should conquered lie, 
 Even then my mercy should awake, 
 And spare his life for Austin's sake. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Still, restless as a second Cain, 
 To Scotland next my route was ta'en. 
 
 Full well the paths I knew: 
 Fame of my fate made various sound 
 That death in pilgrimage I found, 
 That I had perished of my wound. — 
 
 None cared which tale was true: 
 And living eye could never guess 
 De Wilton in his palmer's dress ; 
 
 For now that sable slough is shed, 
 
 And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, 
 I scarcely iuiow me in the glass. 
 
CANTO VL— THE BATTLE. 
 
 39 
 
 ^ 
 
 I A chance most wondrous did provide, 
 That I should be that Baron's guide — 
 I will not name his name ! — 
 | Vengeance to God along belongs ; 
 But, when I think on all my wrongs, 
 My blood is liquid flame! 
 J And ne'er the time shall I forget, 
 When, in a Scottish hostel set, 
 Dark looks Ave did exchange : 
 What were his thoughts I cannot tell ; 
 But in my bosom mustered Hell 
 Its plans of dark revenge. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " A word of vulgar augury, 
 
 That broke from me, I scarce knew why, 
 
 Brought on a village tale ; 
 Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
 And sent him armed forth by night. 
 
 I borrowed steed and mail, 
 And Aveapons, from his sleeping band ; 
 
 And, passing from a postern door, 
 We met, and 'countered hand to hand, — 
 
 He fell on Giflbrd moor. 
 For the death-stroke my brand 1 drew, 
 (O then my helmed head he kneAV, 
 
 The palmer's coavI Avas gone,) 
 Then had three inches of my blade 
 The hea\y debt of vengeance paid, — 
 My hand the thought of Austin staid ; 
 
 I left him there alone. — 
 O good old man ! even from the grave, 
 Thy spirit could thy master save: 
 If I had slain my foeman, ne'er 
 Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, 
 Given to my hand this packet dear, 
 Of poAver to clear my injured fame, 
 And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
 Perchance you heard the Abbess tell 
 Of the strange pageantry of Hell, 
 
 That broke our secret speech — 
 It rose from the infernal shade, 
 Or featly Avas some juggle played, 
 
 A tale of peace to teach. 
 Appeal to Heaven I judged Avas best, 
 When my name came among the rest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Noav here, Avithin Tantallon Hold, 
 
 To Douglas late my tale I told, 
 
 To Avhom my house Avas known of old. 
 
 Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 
 
 This eve aneAv shall dub me knight. 
 
 These Avere the arms that once did turn 
 
 The tide of fight on Otterbume, 
 
 And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, 
 
 When the dead Douglas Avon the field. 
 
 These Angus gave — his armourer's care, 
 
 Ere morn, shall every branch repair ; 
 
 For nought, he said, Avas in his halls, 
 
 But ancient armour on the Avails, 
 
 And aged chargers in the stalls, 
 
 And Avomen, priests, and gray-haired men ; 
 
 The rest Avere all in Twisell glen. 
 
 And iioav I Avatch my armour here, 
 
 By laAv of arms, till midnight's near; 
 
 Then, once again a belted knight, 
 
 Seek Surrey's camp Avith dawn of light. 
 
 " There soon again Ave meet, my Clare! 
 This Baron means to guide thee there : 
 Douglas reveres his king's command, 
 Else Avould he take thee from his band. 
 And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too, 
 Will give De Wilton justice due. 
 
 Noav meeter far for martial broil, 
 Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, 
 
 Once more" «• 0, Wilton! must we then 
 
 Risk neAA'-found happiness again, 
 Trust fate of arms once more ! 
 
 And is there not a humble glen, 
 Where Ave, content and poor, 
 
 Might build a cottage in the shade, 
 
 A shepherd thou, and I to aid 
 Thy task on dale and moor? — 
 
 That reddening broAv! — too Avell I knoAv, 
 
 Not even thy Clare can peace bestoAv, 
 While falsehood stains thy name : 
 
 Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go! 
 
 Clare can a Avarrior's feelings knoAv, 
 And A\ r eep a Avarrior's shame ; 
 
 Can red Earl Gilbert's spirit i'eel, 
 
 Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, 
 
 And belt thee Avith thy brand of steel, 
 And send thee forth to fame!" — 
 XI. 
 That night upon the rocks and bay, 
 The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, 
 And poured its silver light, and pure, 
 Through loop-hole, and through embrazure, 
 
 Upon Tantallon toAver and hall ; 
 But chief Avhere arched windows Avide 
 Illuminate the chapel's pride, 
 
 The sober glances fall. [scars, 
 
 Much Avas there need; though, seamed with 
 Tavo veterans of the Douglas' Avars, 
 
 Though tAvo gray priests Avere there, 
 And each a blazing torch held high, 
 You could not by their blaze descry 
 
 The chapel's carving fair. 
 Amid that dim and smoky light, 
 Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright, 
 
 A Bishop by the altar stood, 
 
 A noble lord of Douglas blood, 
 With mitre sheen, and rocquet Avhite ; 
 
 Yet shoAved his meek and thoughtful eye 
 
 But little pride of prelacy: 
 
 More pleased that, in a barbarous age, 
 
 He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, 
 Than that beneath his rule he held 
 The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
 Beside him ancient Angus stood, 
 Doffed his furred gown, and sable hood: 
 O'er his huge form, and visage pale, 
 He Avore a cap and shirt of mail ; 
 And lean'd his large and Avrinkled hand ' 
 
 Upon the huge and sAveeping brand, 
 Which Avont, of yore, in battle-fray, 
 His foeman' s limbs to shred aAvay, 
 As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. 
 He seemed as, from the tombs around 
 
 Rising at judgment day, 
 Some giant Douglas may be found 
 
 In all his old array ; 
 So pale his face, so huge his limb, 
 So old his arms, his looks so grim. 
 
 XII. 
 Then at the altar Wilton kneels, 
 And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ; 
 And think Avhat next he must have felt, 
 At buckling of the falchion belt! 
 
 And judge hoAv Clara changed her hue, 
 While fastening to her lo\'er's side 
 A friend, which, though in danger tried, 
 
 He once had found untrue! 
 Then Douglas struck him with his blade: 
 " Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 
 
 I dub thee knight. 
 Arise Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir! 
 For king, for church, for lady fair, 
 
 See that thou fight." — 
 
 :<& 
 
40 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 And Bishop GaAvain, as he rose, 
 
 Said, — " Wilton! grieve not for thy woes, 
 
 Disgrace, and trouble, 
 For He, who honour best bestows, 
 
 May give thee double." — 
 De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must — 
 " Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 
 
 That Douglas is my brother!" — 
 " Nay, nay," old Angus said, "not so ; 
 To Surrey's camp thou now must go, 
 
 Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
 I have two sons in yonder field ; 
 And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
 Upon them bravely — do thy worst ; 
 And foul fall him that blenches first!"— 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 under tone, 
 " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
 The train from out the castle drew ; 
 But Marmion stopp'd 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 staid ; 
 
 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." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 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 irt 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 i 
 To beard the lion in his den. 
 
 The Douglas in his hall? 
 And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? — 
 No, by Saint Bryde 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 arch-way sprung, 
 The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
 To pass there was such scanty room, 
 The bars, descending, razed his plume. 
 
 XV. 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 Not lighter does the swallow skim 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim: 
 And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 "Horse! horse! "the Douglas cried, "and chase!" 
 But soon he reined his fury's pace: 
 " A royal messenger he came, 
 Though most unworthy of the name. — 
 A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! 
 Did ever knight so foul a deed! 
 At first in heart it liked me ill, 
 When the King praised his clerkly skill. 
 Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line : 
 So swore I, and I swear it still, 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
 Saint 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 recals, 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 XVI. 
 The day in Marmion's journey wore ; 
 Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, 
 They crossed the heights of Stanrigg-moor. 
 His troop more closely there he scann'd, 
 And missed the Palmer from the band. — 
 " Palmer or not," young Blount did say, 
 " He parted at the peep of day ; 
 Good sooth it was in strange array." — 
 " In what array?" said Marmion, quick. 
 " My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
 But all night long, with clink and bang, 
 Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
 At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
 And from a loop-hole while I peep, 
 Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep, 
 Wrapped in a gown of sables fair, 
 As fearful of the morning air ; 
 Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
 A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
 By Archibald won in bloody work, 
 Against the Saracen and Turk: 
 Last night it hung not in the hall ; 
 I thought some marvel would befal. 
 And next I saw them saddled lead 
 Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed ; 
 A matchless horse, though something old, 
 Prompt to his paces, cool and bold. 
 1 heard the Sheriff Sholto say, 
 The Earl did much the Master pray 
 To use him on the battle-day ; 
 But he preferred " — " Nay, Henry, cease! 
 Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.— 
 Eustace, thou bearst a brain — I pray, 
 What did Blount see at break of day?'' — 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " In brief, my lord, we both descried 
 (For I then stood by Henry's side) 
 The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, 
 Upon the Earl's own favourite steed ; 
 
CANTO VI.— THE BATTLE. 
 
 41 
 
 All sheathed he was in armour bright, 
 And much resembled that same knight, 
 Subdued by you in Cotswold fight: 
 
 Lord Angus wished him speed." — 
 The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
 A sudden light on Marmion broke ;- 
 
 Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!" 
 He muttered ; " 'Twas nor fay nor ghost, 
 I met upon the moonlight wold, 
 But living man of earthly mould. 
 
 O dotage blind and gross ! 
 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
 Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 
 
 My path no more to cross. — 
 How stand we now? — he told his tale 
 To Douglas ; and with some avail ; 
 
 'Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.' — ■ 
 Will Surrey dare to entertain, 
 'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain? 
 
 Small risk of that I trow. — 
 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun ; 
 Must separate Constance from the Nun — 
 
 what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we practise to deceive! — 
 A Palmer too ! — no wonder why 
 
 1 felt rebuked beneath his eye: 
 
 I might have known there was but one, 
 Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Sfcung with these thoughts, he urged to speed 
 His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed, 
 Where Lennel's convent closed their march* 
 (There now is left but one frail arch, 
 
 Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
 Our time a fair exchange has made ; 
 Hard by, in hospitable shade, 
 
 A reverend pilgrim dwells, 
 Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, 
 That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) 
 Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there 
 Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
 And lodging for his train, and Clare. 
 Next morn the Baron climbed the tower, 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 
 Encamped on Flodden edge : 
 The white pavilions made a show, 
 Like remnants of the winter snow, 
 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 Long Marmion looked: — at length his eye 
 Unusual movement might descry, 
 
 Amid the shifting lines: 
 The Scottish host draAvn out appears, 
 For, flashing on the hedge of spears 
 
 The eastern sun-beam shines. 
 Their front now deepening, now extending ; 
 Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
 Now drawing back, and now descending, 
 The skilful Marmion Avell could know, 
 They watched the motions of some foe, 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Even so it was ; — from Flodden ridge 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, 
 And heedful watched them as they crossed 
 The Till by Twisel Bridge. 
 High sight it is, and haughty, while 
 They dive into the deep defile; 
 Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 
 Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
 
 By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree, 
 Troop after troop are disappearing ; 
 Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
 
 Upon the eastern bank you see. 
 
 Still pouring down the rocky den, 
 
 Where flows the sullen Till, 
 And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
 Standards on standards, men on men, 
 
 In slow succession still, 
 And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
 And pressing, on, in ceaseless march, 
 
 To gain the opposing hill. 
 That morn, to many a trumpet-clang, 
 Twisel! thy rock's deep echo rang; 
 And many a chief of birth and rank, 
 Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank. 
 Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
 In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 
 Had then from many an axe its doom, 
 To give the marching columns room. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And why stands Scotland idly now, 
 Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow, 
 Since England gains the pass the while, 
 And struggles through the deep defile? 
 What checks the fiery soul of James ? 
 Why sits that champion of the Dames 
 
 Inactive on his steed, 
 And sees, between him and his land, 
 Between him and Tweed's southern strand, 
 
 His host Lord Surrey lead ? 
 What vails the vain knight-errant's brand? — 
 O, Douglas, for thy leading wand! 
 
 Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! 
 O for one hour of Wallace wight, 
 Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, 
 And cry — " Saint Andrew and our right!" 
 Another sight had seen that morn, 
 From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
 And Flodden had been Bannock-bourne !■ — 
 The precious hour has passed in vain, 
 And England's host has gained the plain ; 
 Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
 Around the base of Flodden-hill. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
 Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, — 
 " Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum! 
 
 And see ascending squadrons come 
 
 Between Tweed's river and the hill, 
 Foot, horse, and cannon: — hap what hap, 
 My basnet to a 'prentice cap, 
 
 Lord Surrey's o'er the Till! — 
 Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed 
 They file from out the hawthorn shade, 
 
 And sweep so gallant by! 
 With all their banners bravely spread, 
 
 And all their armour flashing high, 
 Saint George might waken from the dead, 
 
 To see fair England's standards fly." — [best, 
 " Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount ; " thoud'st 
 And listen to our lord's behest." — 
 With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,— . 
 " This instant be our band arrayed ; - 1 
 
 The river must be quickly crossed, 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
 If fight King James, — as well I trust, 
 That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry, while the battle joins." — 
 
 XXII. 
 Himself he swift on horseback threw, 
 Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
 Far less would listen to his prayer, 
 To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
 Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 
 And muttered, as the flood they view, 
 
42 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 " The pheasant in the falcon's claw, 
 He scarce will yield to please a daw: 
 Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 
 
 So Clare shall bide with me." 
 Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, 
 Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 
 
 He ventured desperately; 
 And not a moment will he bide, 
 Till squire, or groom, before him ride ; 
 Headmost of all he stems the tide, 
 
 And stems it gallantly. 
 Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 
 
 Old Hubert led her rein, 
 Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
 And, though far downward driven per force, 
 
 The southern bank they gain ; 
 Behind them, straggling, came to shore, 
 
 As best they might, the train: 
 Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 
 
 A caution not in vain ; 
 Deep need that day that every string, 
 By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. 
 A moment then Lord Marmion staid, 
 And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, 
 
 Then forward moved his band, 
 Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
 He halted by a cross of stone, 
 That, on a hillock standing lone, 
 
 Did all the field command. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Hence might they see the full array 
 
 Of either host, for deadly fray ; 
 
 Their marshalled lines stretched east and west. 
 
 And fronted north and south, 
 And distant salutation past 
 
 From the loud cannon mouth ; 
 Not in the close successive rattle, 
 That breathes the voice of modern battle, 
 
 But slow and far between, — 
 The hillock gained, Lord Marmion staid: 
 " Here, by this cross," he gently said, 
 
 " You well may view the scene. 
 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: 
 O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer! — 
 Thou wilt not? — well, — no less my care, 
 Shall watchful for thy weal prepare. ■ — 
 You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, 
 
 With ten picked archers of my train; 
 With England if the day go hard, 
 
 To Berwick speed amain. — 
 But, if we conquer, cruel maid! 
 My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 
 
 When here we meet again." — 
 He waited not for answer there, 
 And would not mark the maid's despair, 
 
 Nor heed the discontented look 
 From either squire ; but spurred amain, 
 And, dashing through the battle-plain, 
 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " The good Lord Marmion, by my life! 
 
 Welcome to danger's hour! 
 Short greeting serves in time of strife : — 
 
 Thus have 1 ranged my power: 
 Myself will rule this central host, 
 
 Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
 My sons command the vaward post, 
 
 With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; 
 
 Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, 
 
 Shall be in rear-ward of the fight, 
 And succour those that need it most. 
 
 Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, 
 
 Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
 Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, 
 With thee their charge will blythely share ; . [ 
 
 There fight thine own retainers too, 
 Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." — 
 "Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said, 
 Nor further greeting there he paid : 
 But, parting like a thunder-bolt, 
 First in the vanguard made a halt, 
 * Where such a shout there rose 
 Of" Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry 
 Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 
 
 Startled the Scottish foes. 
 XXV. 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 
 On which, (for far the day was spent,) 
 The western sun-beams now were bent. 
 The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 
 Could plain their distant comrades view: 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy office here to stay! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day.' — 
 But, see! look up — on Flodden bent, 
 The Scottish foe has fired his tent." — 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke, 
 From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
 All downward to the banks of Till, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke ; 
 Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's Avar, 
 
 As down the hill they broke ; 
 Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
 Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
 At times one warning trumpet blown, 
 
 At times a stifled hum, 
 Told England, from his mountain-throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. — 
 Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, 
 Until at weapon-point they close.- — 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust; 
 
 And such a yell was there, 
 Of sudden and portentous birth, 
 As if men fought upon the earth, 
 
 And fiends in upper air. 
 Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye 
 Could in the darkness nought descry. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
 And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightning cloud appears ; 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
 As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and far, 
 The broken billows of the war, 
 And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 
 But nought distinct they see: 
 Wide raged the battle on the plain; 
 Spears shook, and faulchions flashed amain ; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 
 
 Wild and disorderly. 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
 And stainless Tunstall's banner white. 
 And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
 Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 
 
 Although against them come, 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
 And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
 And many a rugged Border clan, 
 
 With Huntley, and with Home. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Far on the left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
 
^) 
 
 CANTO V r L— THE BATTLE. 
 
 Though there the western mountaineer 
 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
 And flung the feeble targe aside, 
 And with both hands the broad-sword plied: 
 'Twas vain.— But Fortune, on the right, 
 With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white, 
 
 The Howard's lion fell ; 
 Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
 
 Around the battle yell. 
 The Border slogan rent the sky! 
 A Home! a Gordon! was the cry; 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows ; 
 Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, 
 
 The pennon sunk and rose ; 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 
 
 It wavered mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear:— 
 " By heaven, and all its saints! I swear, 
 
 I will not see it lost! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 
 
 1 gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Followed by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
 Made, for a space, an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But darkly closed the war around, 
 Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 Then Eustace mounted too;— yet staid, 
 As loth to leave the helpless maid, 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly, 
 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head, 
 Housing and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara cast, 
 
 To mark he would return in haste, 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 XXVIII. 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels, 
 
 Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
 Perchance her reason stoops, or reels; 
 
 Perchance a courage, not her own, 
 
 Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
 The scattered van of England wheels ; — 
 
 She only said, as loud in air 
 
 The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there?" — 
 
 They fly, or, maddened by despair, 
 
 Fight but to die " Is Wilton there!-"' 
 
 With that, straight up the hill there rode 
 
 Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
 His arms were smeared with blood, and sand: 
 Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
 With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
 The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
 
 Can that be haughty Marmion! 
 
 Young Blount his armour did unlace, 
 And, gazing on his ghastly face, 
 
 Said, " By Saint George, he's gone! 
 That spear-wound has our master sped, 
 And see the deep cut on his head! 
 
 Good night to Marmion." — 
 " Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: 
 He opes his eyes," said. Eustace; "peace!" — 
 
 XXIX. 
 When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 
 Around gan Marmion wildly stare: — 
 I - , • - . i ..— 
 
 "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? 
 
 Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 
 Redeem my pennon, — charge again! 
 
 Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue!' — Vain! 
 
 Last of my race, on battle plain 
 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again! — 
 
 Yet my last thought is England's ; — fly, 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring ; 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring.. — 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie: 
 Tunstall lies dead upon the field; 
 His life-blood stains the spotless shield: 
 Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; — 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host, 
 Or victory and England's lost — 
 Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets! fly! 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." — 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 Clare drew her from the sight away, 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he murmured, — " Is there none, 
 
 Of all my halls have nurst, 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 Of blessed water, from the spring, 
 To slake my dying thirst!" — 
 
 XXX. 
 
 O, woman! in our hours of ease, 
 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 
 And variable as the shade 
 
 By the light quivering aspen made ; 
 
 "\\ hen pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 
 A ministering angel thou! — 
 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
 
 When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 
 
 To the nigh streamlet ran : 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stooped her by the runnel's side, 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain wide, 
 Where raged the war, a dark red tide 
 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn! — behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain-cell, 
 Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 
 
 In a stone bason fell. 
 Above, some half-worn letters say, 
 
 23rtnfe. toearp. silgrtm. fcrhtft. anir. yvap. 
 jFor. the. fetnU. soul. of. Sguil. ^reg. 
 
 gUfco. hutlt. this, tross. anfc. toell. 
 She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A Monk supporting Marmion's head; 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 
 To Shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stooped his brow to lave — 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 " Or injured Constance, bathes my head!" 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose, — 
 " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! 
 
 1 must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, are mine to spare; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!". — 
 
 "Alas!" she said, " the while, — 
 O think of your immortal weal! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She died at Holy Isle."— 
 
44 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
 As light as if he felt no wound; 
 Though in the action burst the tide, 
 In torrents, from his wounded side. 
 " Then it was truth!" — he said — " I knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. — 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 
 Would spare me but a day! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
 And priests slain on the altar stone, 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be! — this dizzy trance- — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." — 
 Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
 Supported by the trembling Monk. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 With fruitless labour, Clara bound, 
 And strove to staunch, the gushing wound: 
 The Monk, with unavailing cares, 
 Exhausted all the Church's prayers ; 
 Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
 A lady's voice was in his ear, 
 And that the priest he could not hear, 
 
 For that she ever sung;" 
 
 " In the lost battle, borne down by thejlijing, 
 Where mingles war's, rattle with groans of the 
 dying/" 
 
 So the notes rung ; 
 " Avoid thee Fiend! — with cruel hand, 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand! — 
 O look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine; 
 
 O think on faith and bliss! 
 By many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's parting seen, 
 
 But never aught like this." — 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, 
 
 And — Stanley ! was the cry ; — 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread, 
 
 And fired his glazing eye: 
 With dying hand above his head 
 He shook the fragment of his blade, 
 
 And shouted " Victory! — 
 "Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on!" 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 By this, though deep the evening fell, 
 Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
 For still the Scots, around their king, 
 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
 Where's now their victor vaward wing, 
 
 Where Huntly, and where Home? — 
 O for a blast of that dread horn, 
 On Fontarabian echoes borne, 
 
 That to King Charles did come, 
 When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
 And every paladin and peer, 
 
 On Roncesvalles died! 
 Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
 To quit the plunder of the slain, 
 And turn the doubtful day again, 
 
 While yet on Flodden side, 
 Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 
 And round it toils and bleeds and dies, 
 
 Our Caledonian pride ! 
 In vain the wish — for far away, 
 While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
 Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray.— 
 " O Lady," cried the monk, " away — !" 
 
 And placed her on her steed ; 
 And led her to the chapel fair, 
 
 Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. 
 There all the night they spent in prayer, 
 And, at the dawn of morning, there 
 She met her kinsmen, Lord Fitz-Clare. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
 More desperate grew the strife of death. 
 The English shafts in vollies hailed, 
 In headlong charge their horse assailed: 
 Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep, 
 To break the Scottish circle deep, 
 
 That fought around their king. 
 But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
 Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, 
 Though bill-men plie the ghastly blow, 
 
 Unbroken was the ring : 
 The stubborn spear-men still made good 
 Their dark impenetrable wood, 
 Each stepping where his comrade stood, 
 
 The instant that he fell . 
 No thought was there of dastard flight ;— 
 Linked in the serried phalanx tight, 
 Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 
 
 As fearlessly and well ; 
 Till utter darkness closed her wing 
 O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
 Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
 Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 
 
 And from the charge they drew, 
 As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, 
 
 Sweep back to ocean blue, 
 Then did their loss his foemen know : 
 Their king, their lords, their mightiest low 
 They melted from the field as snow, 
 When streams are swoln and south winds blow, 
 
 Dissolves in silent dew. 
 Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 
 While many a broken band, 
 Disordered, through her currents dash, 
 
 To gain the Scottish land ; 
 To town and tower, to down and dale, 
 To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
 And raise the universal wail. 
 Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
 Shall many an age that wail prolong: 
 Still from the sire the son shall hear 
 Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, 
 
 Of Flodden's fatal field, 
 Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear 
 
 And broken was her shield ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Day dawns upon the mountain's side : 
 There Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, 
 Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one ; 
 The sad survivors all are gone. — 
 View not that corpse mistrustfully, 
 Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
 Nor to yon Border castle high 
 Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 
 
 Nor cherish hope in vain, 
 That, journeying far on foreign strand, 
 The Royal Pilgrim to his land 
 
 May yet return again. 
 He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
 Reckless of life he desperate fought, 
 
 And fell on Flodden plain: 
 And well in death his trusty brand, 
 Firm clenched within his manly hand, 
 
 Beseemed the monarch slain. 
 But, O! how changed since yon blythe night!— 
 Gladly I turn me from the sight, 
 
 Unto my tale again. 
 
NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 =® 
 
 45 
 
 XXX VI. 
 
 Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care 
 
 A pierced and mangled body bare 
 
 To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
 
 And there, beneath the southern aisle, 
 
 A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, 
 
 Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. 
 
 (Now vainly for its site you look ; 
 
 'Twas levelled, when fanatic Brook 
 
 The fair cathedral stormed and took ; 
 
 But, thanks to heaven, and good Saint Chad, 
 
 A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) 
 
 There erst was martial Marmion found, 
 
 His feet upon a couchant hound, 
 
 His hands to heaven upraised ; 
 And all around, on scutcheon rich, 
 And table carved, and fretted niche, 
 
 His arms and feats Avere blazed. 
 And yet, though all was carved so fair, 
 And priests for Marmion breathed the prayer, 
 The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
 From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain 
 Followed his lord to Flodden plain : 
 One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 
 In Scotland mourns as " wede away:" 
 Sore wounded, Sybil's cross he spied, 
 And dragged him to its foot, and died, 
 Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
 The spoilers striped and gashed the slain, 
 And thus, their corpses were mista'en; 
 And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb, 
 The lowly woodsman took the room. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Less easy task it were, to show 
 Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 
 They dug his grave e'en where he lay, 
 
 But every mark is gone ; 
 Time's wasting hand has done away 
 The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, 
 
 And broke her font of stone : 
 But yet from out the little hill 
 Oozes the slender springlet still. 
 
 Oft halts the stranger there, 
 For thence may best his curious eye 
 The memorable field descry ; 
 And shepherd boys repair 
 To seek the water-flag and rush, 
 And rest them by the hazel bush, 
 
 And plait their garlands fair ; 
 Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 
 That holds the bones of Marmion brave. — 
 When thou shalt find the little hill, 
 With thy heart commune, and be still. 
 If ever, in temptation strong, 
 Thou left'st the right path for the wrong ; 
 If every devious step, thus trode, 
 Still led thee farther from the road : 
 
 Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom, 
 On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
 But say, " He died a gallant knight, 
 With sword in hand, for England's right." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 
 
 Who cannot image to himself, 
 
 That all through Flodden's dismal night, 
 
 Wilton was foremost in the fight ; 
 
 That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 
 
 'Twas Wilton mounted him again ; 
 
 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed, 
 
 Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: 
 
 Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall, 
 
 He was the living soul of all ; 
 
 That after fight, his faith made plain, 
 
 He won his rank and lands again ; 
 
 And charged his old paternal shield 
 
 With bearings won on Flodden field. — 
 
 Nor sing I to that simple maid, 
 
 To whom it must in terms be said, 
 
 That king and kinsmen did agree, 
 
 To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 
 
 Who cannot, unless I relate, 
 
 Paint to her mind the bridal's state ; 
 
 That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 
 
 More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke 
 
 That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 
 
 And Catherine's hand the stocking threw ; 
 
 And afterwards, for many a day, 
 
 That it was held enough to say, 
 
 In blessing to a wedded pair, 
 
 "Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" — 
 
 iL'lEttbog. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 Why then a final note prolong, 
 
 Or lengthen out a closing song, 
 
 Unless to bid the gentles speed, 
 
 Who long have listed to my rede? — 
 
 To Statesman grave, if such may deign 
 
 To read the Minstrel's idle strain, 
 
 Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, 
 
 And patriotic heart — Pitt! 
 
 A garland for the hero's crest, 
 
 And twined by her he loves the best ; 
 
 To every lovely lady bright, 
 
 What can I wish but faithful knight? 
 
 To every faithful lover too, 
 
 What can I wish but lady true ? 
 
 And knowledge to the studious sage ; 
 
 And pillow soft to head of age. 
 
 Too thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 
 
 Has cheated of thy hour of play, 
 
 Light task, and merry holiday! 
 
 To all, to each, a fair good night, 
 
 And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light! 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 Day set on Norham's castle steep, — Stanza i. 
 The ruinous castle of Norham, (anciently 
 called Ubbanford,) is situated on the southern 
 bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Ber- 
 wick, and where that river is still the boundary 
 between England and Scotland. The extent of 
 its ruins, as well as its historical importance, 
 shows it to have been a place of magnificence, as 
 well as strength. Edward I. resided there when 
 he was created umpire of the dispute concern- 
 ing the Scottish succession. It was repeatedly 
 
 I taken and retaken during the wars between 
 England and Scotland; and, indeed, scarce any 
 happened, in which it had not a principal share. 
 Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank, 
 which overhangs the river. 
 
 The donjon keep. — Stanza i. 
 It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my 
 readers, that the donjon, in its proper significa- 
 tion, means the strongest part of a feudal castle ; 
 a high square tower, with walls of tremendous 
 thickness, situated in the centre of the other 
 buildings, from which, however, it was usually 
 
46 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 detached. Here, in case of the outward defences 
 being gained, the garrison retreated to make 
 their last stand. The donjon contained the 
 great hall, and principal rooms of state for 
 solemn occasions, and also the prison of the for- 
 tress ; from which last circumstance we derive 
 the modern and restricted use of the word 
 dungeon. 
 
 Largesse, largesse. — Stanza xi. 
 
 This was the ciy with which heralds and 
 pursuivants were wont to acknowledge the 
 bounty received from the knights. The heralds, 
 like the minstrels, were a race allowed to have 
 great claims upon the liberality of the knights, 
 of whose feats they kept a record, and pro- 
 claimed them aloud, as in the text, upon suit- 
 able occasions. 
 
 At Berwick, Norham, and other Border for- 
 tresses of importance, pursuivants usually re- 
 sided, whose inviolable character rendered them 
 the only persons that could, with perfect assur- 
 ance of safety, be sent on necessary embassies 
 into Scotland. This is alluded to in Stanza XXI. 
 They hailed Lord Marmion.— Stanza xi. 
 
 Lord Marmion, the principal character of the 
 present romance, is entirely a fictitious person- 
 age. In earlier times, indeed, the family of 
 Marmion, lords of Fontenay, in Normandy, was 
 highly distinguished. Robert de Marmion, 
 Lord of Fontenay, a distinguished follower of 
 the Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle 
 and town of Tamworth, and also of the manor 
 of Scrivelby, in Lincolnshire. One, or both, of 
 these noble possessions was held by the honour- 
 able service of being the royal champion, as the 
 ancestors of Marmion had formerly been to the 
 Dukes of Normandy. But after the castle and 
 demesne of Tamworth had passed through four 
 successive barons from Robert, the family be- 
 came extinct in the person of Philip de Marmion, 
 who died in 20th Edward I., without issue male. 
 He was succeeded in his castle of Tamworth by 
 Alexander de Freville, who married Mazera, 
 his grand-daughter. Baldwin de Freville, 
 Alexander's descendant, in the reign of Richard 
 I., by the supposed tenure of his castle of Tam- 
 worth, claimed the office of royal champion, and 
 to do the service appertaining ; namely, on the 
 day of coronation, to ride completely armed, 
 upon a barbed horse, into Westminster Hall, 
 and there to challenge the combat against any 
 who would gainsay the king's title. But this 
 office was adjudged to Sir John Dymoke, to 
 whom the manor of Scrivelby had descendecTby 
 another of the co-heiresses of Robert de Mar- 
 mion; and it remains in that family, whose 
 representative is Hereditary Champion of Eng- 
 land at the present day. The family and pos- 
 sessions of Freville have merged in the Earls of 
 Ferrars: I have not, therefore, created a new 
 family, but only revived the titles of an old one 
 in an imaginary personage. 
 
 Sir Hugh the Heron bold.— Stanza xiii. 
 Were accuracy of any consequence in a fic- 
 titious narrative, this castellan's name ought to 
 have been William : for William Heron of Ford 
 was husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose 
 syren charms are said to have cost our James IV. 
 so dear. Moreover,- the said William Heron 
 was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scot- 
 land, being surrendered by Henry VIII., on 
 account of his share in the slaughter of Sir 
 Robert Ker of Cessford. His wife, represented 
 in the text as residing at the court of Scotland, 
 was, in fact, living in her own castle at Ford. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 Where from high Whitby's cloistered pile, 
 Bound to St Cuthbert's Holy Isle.— Stanza i. 
 
 The Abbey of Whitby, in the Archdeaconry ! 
 of Cleaveland, on the coast of Yorkshire, was 
 founded A. D. 657, in consequence of a vow of 
 Oswy, King of Northumberland. It contained 
 both monks and nuns of the Benedictine order; 
 but, contrary to what was usual in such estab- 
 lishments, the abbess was superior to the abbot. 
 The monastery was afterwards ruined by the 
 Danes, and rebuilded by William Percy, in 
 the reign of the Conqueror. There were no 
 nuns there in Henry the Eighth's time, nor long 
 before it. The ruins of Whitby Abbey are very 
 magnificent. Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast 
 of Northumberland, was called Holy Island, 
 from the sanctity of its ancient monastery, and 
 from its having been the episcopal seat of the 
 see of Durham during the early ages of British 
 Christianity. A succession of holy men held 
 that office ; but their merits were swallowed up 
 in the superior fame of St Cuthbert, who was 
 sixth bishop of Durham, and who bestowed the 
 name of his " patrimony " upon the extensive 
 property of the see. 
 
 Even Scotland's dauntless king and heir, &c. 
 Before his standard fled.— Stanza xv. 
 
 Every one has heard, that when David I., 
 with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland in 
 1136, the English host marched against them 
 under the holy banner of St Cuthbert ; to the 
 efficacy of which was imputed the victory which 
 they obtained in the bloody battle of Northaller- 
 ton, or Cuton-moor. The conquerors were at 
 least as much indebted to the jealousy and in- 
 tractability of the different tribes who composed 
 David's army ; among whom, as mentioned in 
 the text, were the Galwegians, the Britons of 
 Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale and 
 Lothian, with many Norman and German war- 
 riors, who asserted the cause of the Empress 
 Maud. 
 
 On those the waii was to enclose 
 Alive within the tomb. — Stanza xxv. 
 
 It is well known, that the religious who broke 
 their vows of chastity, were subjected to the 
 same penalty as the Roman vestals in a similar 
 case. A small niche, sufficient to enclose their 
 bodies, was made in the massive wall of the 
 convent; a slender pittance of food and water 
 was deposited in it, and the awful words, Vade 
 in Pacem, were the signal for immuring the 
 criminal. It is not likely that in latter times 
 this punishmeut was often resorted to; but, 
 among the ruins of the abbey of Coldingham, 
 were some years ago discovered the remains of 
 a female skeleton, which, from the shape of the 
 niche, and position of the figure, seemed to be 
 that of an immured nun. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 The Goblin Hall.— Stanza xix. 
 A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of 
 GifFord, or Yester, (for it bears either name in- 
 differently,) the construction of which has, from 
 a very remote period, been ascribed to magic. 
 
 There floated Haco's banner trim, 
 
 Above Norweyan warriors grim.— Stanza xx. 
 
 In 1263, Haco, king of Norway, came into 
 the Firth of Clyde with a powerful armament, 
 and made a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire. Here 
 
 J 
 
NOTES TO CANTO IV.— V. 
 
 47 
 
 he was encountered and defeated, on the 2d 
 October, by Alexander III. Haco retreated to 
 Orkney, where he died soon after this disgrace 
 to his arms. There are still existing, near the 
 place of battle, many barrows, some of which 
 having been opened, were found, as usual, to 
 contain bones and urns. 
 
 As born upon that blessed nig-ht.— Stanza xxii. 
 It is a popular article of faith, that those who 
 are born on Christmas, or good Friday, have the 
 power of seeing spirits, and even of commanding 
 them. The Spaniards imputed the haggard and 
 downcast looks of their Philip II. to the disa- 
 greeable visions to which this privilege sub- 
 jected him. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 Friar Rush.— Stanza i. 
 This personage is a strolling demon, or esprit 
 follet, who, once upon a time, got admittance 
 into a monastery as a scullion, and played the 
 monks many pranks. 
 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount.— Stanza vii. 
 
 Sir David Lindesay was well known for his 
 
 ) early efforts in favour of the reformed doctrines ; 
 
 j and, indeed, his play, coarse as it now seems, 
 
 must have had a powerful effect upon the people 
 
 of iiis age. I am uncertain if I abuse poetical 
 
 licence, by introducing Sir David Lindesay in 
 
 the character of Lion-Herald, sixteen years 
 
 before he obtained that office. 
 
 Crichton Castle.— Stanza x. 
 
 A large ruinous castle on the banks of the 
 Tyne, about seven miles from Edinburgh. As 
 indicated in the text, it was built at different 
 times, and with a very differing regard to 
 splendour and accomodation. The oldest part 
 of the building is a Marrow keep, or tower, such 
 as formed the mansion of a lesser Scottish 
 baron ; but so many additions have been made to 
 it, that there is now a large court-yard, sur- 
 rounded by buildings of different ages. 
 
 For that a messenger from heaven.— Stanza xiv. 
 
 This story is told by Pitscottie with charac- 
 teristic simplicity: "The king, seeing that 
 France could get no support of him for that 
 time, made a proclamation, full hastily, through 
 all the realm of Scotland, both east and west, 
 south and north, as well in the Isles as in the 
 firm land, to all manner of man betwixt sixty 
 and sixteen years, that they should be ready, 
 within twenty days, to pass with him, with 
 forty days victual, and to meet at the Burrow- 
 muir of Edinburgh, and there to pass forward 
 where he pleased. His proclamations were 
 hastily obeyed, contrary to the Council of Scot- 
 land's will ; but every man loved his prince so 
 well, that they would, on no ways, disobey him ; 
 but every man caused make his proclamation 
 so hastily, conform to the charge of the king's 
 proclamation. 
 
 " The king came to Lithgow, where he hap- 
 pened to be for the time at the Council, very 
 sad and dolorous, making his devotion to God, 
 to send him good chance and fortune in his 
 voyage. In this mean time, there came a man 
 clad in a blue gown in at the kirk-door, and 
 belted about him in a roll of linen-cloth ; a pair 
 of brotikings [buskins] on his feet, to the great 
 of his legs ; with all other hose and clothes con- 
 form thereto ; but he had nothing n his head, 
 but syde [long] red yellow hair behind, and on 
 his haffets, [cheeksj which wan down to his 
 
 shoulders ; but his forehead was bald and bare. 
 He seemed to be a man of two-and-fifty years, 
 with a great pike-staff in his hand, and came 
 first forward among the lords, crying and speir- 
 jng [asking] for the king, saying, he desired to 
 Fpeak with him. While, at the last, he came 
 where the king was sitting in the desk at his 
 prayers ; but when he saw the king, he made 
 him little reverence or salutation, but leaned 
 down grofling on the desk before him, and said 
 to him in this manner, as after follows: 'Sir 
 king, my mother hath sent me to you, desiring 
 you not to pass, at this time, where thou art 
 purposed; for if thou does, thou wilt not fare 
 well in thy journey, nor none that passeth with 
 thee. Further, she bade thee mell [meddle] 
 Avith no woman, nor use their counsel, nor let 
 them touch thy body, nor thou theirs; for, if 
 thou do it, thou wilt be confounded and brought 
 to shame. 
 
 " By this man had spoken thir words unto 
 the king's grace, the evening song was near 
 clone, and the king paused on thir words, study- 
 ing to give him an answer ; but, in the mean 
 time, before the king's eyes, and in the presence 
 of all the lords that were about him for the 
 time, this man vanished aAvay, and could no i 
 ways be seen or comprehended, but vanished 
 away as he had been a blink of the sun, or a 
 whip of the whirlwind, and could no more be 
 seen. I heard say, Sir David Lindesay, lyon- 
 herauld, and John Inglis the marshal, who 
 were, at that time, young men, and special 
 servants to the king's grace, were standing 
 presently beside the king, who thought to have 
 laid hands on this man, that they might have 
 speired further tidings at him: But all for 
 nought ; they could not touch him : for he van- 
 ished away betwixt them, and was no more 
 seen." 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO V. 
 
 -his iron belt, 
 
 That bound his breast in penance-pain, 
 In memory of his father slain.— Stanza ix. 
 
 Few readers need to be reminded of this belt, 
 to the weight of which James added certain 
 ounces, every year that he lived. Pitscottie 
 founds his belief, that James was not slain in 
 the battle of Flodden, because the English never 
 had this token of the iron-belt to show to any 
 Scottishman. The person and character of 
 James are delineated according to our best his- 
 torians. His romantic disposition, which led 
 him highly to relish gaiety, approaching to 
 licence, was, at that same time, tinged with 
 enthusiastic devotion. These propensities some- 
 times formed a strange contrast. He was wont, 
 during his fits of devotion, to assume the dress, 
 and conform to the rules, of the order of Fran- 
 ciscans ; and when he had thus done penance for 
 some time in Stirling, to plunge again into the 
 tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no un- 
 usual inconsistence, he sometimes laughed at 
 the superstitious observances to which he at 
 other times subjected himself. 
 
 For the fair Queen of France. — Stanza x. 
 
 "Also the Queen of France wrote a love-letter 
 to the King of Scotland, calling him her love, 
 showing him that she had suffered much rebuke 
 in France for the defending of his honour. She 
 believed surely that he would recompense her 
 again with some of his kingly support in her 
 necessity ; that is to say, that he would raise her 
 an army, and come three foot of ground on Eng- 
 
m — 
 
 48 
 
 MARMION. 
 
 =@ 
 
 lish ground, for her sake. To that effect she 
 sent him a ring off her finger, with fourteen 
 thousand French crowns to pay his expenses." 
 Pitscottie, p. 110. A turquois ring; — pro- 
 bably this fatal gift is, with James's sword and 
 daggar, preserved in the College of Heralds, 
 London. 
 
 Archibald Bell-the-Cat. — Stanza xiv. 
 
 Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man 
 remarkable for strength of body and mind, ac- 
 quired the popular name of Bell-the-Cat, upon, 
 the following remarkable occasion: — James III., 
 of whom Pitscottie complains, that he delighted 
 more in music and "policies of building" than 
 in hunting, hawking, and other noble exercises, 
 was so ill advised as to make favourites of his 
 architects and musicians, whom the same his- 
 torian irreverently terms masons and fiddlers. 
 His nobilty, who did not sympathise in the 
 king's respect for the fine arts, were extremely 
 incensed at the honours conferred on these 
 persons, particularly on Cochrane, a mason, who 
 had been created Earl of Mar. And seizing 
 the opportunity, when, in 1482, the king had 
 convoked the whole array of the country to 
 march against the English, they held a mid- 
 night council in the church of Lauder, for the 
 purpose of forcibly removing these minions from 
 the king's person. When all had agreed on the 
 propriety of'the measure, Lord Gray told the 
 assembly the Apologue of the Mice, who had 
 formed a resolution, that it would be highly 
 advantageous to their community to tie a bell 
 round the cat's neck, that they might hear her 
 approach at a distance ; but which public measure 
 unfortunately miscarried, from no mouse being 
 willing to undertake the task of fastening the 
 bell. "I understand the moral," said Angus; 
 " and that what we propose may not lack execu- 
 tion, I will bell the cat," which he did. 
 
 This awful summons came. — Stanza xxv. 
 
 This supernatural citation is mentioned by all 
 our Scottish historians. It was probably, like 
 the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt, by 
 those averse to the war, to impose upon the 
 superstitious temper of James IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO VI. 
 
 A Bishop by the altar stood — Stanza xii. 
 The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop of 
 Dunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, Earl 
 of Angus. He was author of a Scottish metri- 
 cal version of the iEneid, and of many other 
 poetical pieces of great merit. He had not at 
 this period attained the mitre. 
 
 As woodknife shreds the sapling spray.— Stanza xi. 
 Angus had strength and personal activity 
 corresponding to his courage. Spens of Kil- 
 spindie, a favourite of James IV., having 
 spoken of him lightly, the Earl met him while 
 hawking, and compelling him to single combat, 
 at one blow cut asunder his thigh bone, and 
 killed him on the spot. But ere he could ob- 
 tain James's pardon for this slaughter, Angus 
 was obliged to yield his castle of Hermitage, in 
 exchange for that of Bothwell, which was some 
 
 diminution to the family greatness. The sword 
 with which he struck so remarkable a blow, was 
 presented by his descendant, James Earl of Mor- 
 ton, afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord 
 Lindesay of the Byres, when he defied Both- 
 well to single combat on Carberry-hill. 
 
 Of either host, for battle fray.— Stanza xxiii. 
 The reader cannot here expect a full account 
 of the battle of Flodden ; but, so far as is neces- 
 sary to understand the following pages, I beg to 
 remind him, that, when the English army, by 
 their skilful counter-march, were fairly placed 
 between King James and his own country, the 
 Scottish monarch resolved to fight ; and, setting 
 fire to his tents, descended from the ridge of 
 Flodden to secure the neighbouring eminence 
 of Brankstone, on which that village is built. 
 Thus the two armies met, almost without seeing 
 each other, according to the old poem of "Flod- 
 den Field:" 
 
 The English line stretched east and west, 
 And southward were their faces set ; 
 
 The Scottish northward proudly prest, 
 And manfully their foes they met. 
 
 The spot from which Clara views the battle, 
 must be supposed to have been on a hillock 
 commanding the rear of the English right wing, 
 which was defeated, and in which conflict Mar- 
 mion is supposed to have fallen. 
 
 View not that corpse mistrustfully. — Stanza xxxv. 
 
 There can be no doubt that King James fell 
 in the battle of Flodden. He was killed, says 
 the curious French Gazette, within a lance's 
 length of the Earl of Surrey; and the same 
 account adds that none of his division were 
 made prisoners, though many were killed; a 
 circumstance that testifies the desperation of 
 their resistance. The Scottish historians record 
 many of the idle reports which passed among 
 the vulgar of their day. Home was accused, by 
 the popular voice, not only of failing to support 
 the king, but even of having carried him out of 
 the field, and murdered him. And this tale 
 was revived in my remembrance, by an unau- 
 thenticated story of a skeleton, wrapped in a 
 bull's hide, and surrounded with an iron chain, 
 said to have been found in the well of Home 
 Castle: for which, on inquiry, I could never 
 find any better authority, than the sexton of the 
 parish having said, that, "if the well were 
 cleaned out, he would not be surprised at such 
 a discovery." Home was the chamberlain of 
 the king, and his prime favourite ; he had much 
 to lose (in fact did lose all) in consequence of 
 James's death, and nothing earthly to gain by 
 that event: but the retreat, or inactivity, of the 
 left wing, which he commanded, after defeating 
 Sir Edmund Howard; and even the circum- 
 stance of his returning unhurt, and loaded with 
 spoil, from so fatal a conflict, rendered the pro- 
 pagation of any calumny against him easy and 
 acceptable. Other reports gave a still more 
 romantic turn to the king's fate, and averred, 
 that James, weary of greatness after the carnage 
 among his nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage to 
 merit absolution for the death of his lather, and 
 the breach of his oath of amity'to Henry. — An 
 unhewn column marks the spot where James 
 ; fell, still called the King's Stone. 
 
 END OF MARMION. 
 
 & 
 
THE 
 
 LADY OF THE LAKE 
 
 % $ cent, in &ix ©antos, 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 The Scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch- Katrine, in the Western Highlands of 
 Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the transactions of each day occupy a Canto, 
 
 CANTO I.— THE CHASE. 
 
 Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast 
 hung [spring, 
 
 On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's 
 And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, 
 
 Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
 Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, — 
 O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents 
 sleep? 
 Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, 
 Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence 
 keep, [weep? 
 
 Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to 
 
 Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
 
 Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, 
 When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
 
 Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. 
 At each according pause, was heard aloud 
 
 Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! 
 Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; 
 
 For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy 
 Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's 
 
 matchless eye. 
 3 wake once more ! how rude soe'er the hand 
 
 That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray,* 
 O wake once more ; though scarce my skill com- 
 mand 
 Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: 
 Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, 
 
 And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
 Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
 
 The wizard note has not been touched in vain. 
 Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake 
 again ! 
 
 I. 
 
 The Stag at eve had drunk his fill, 
 
 Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, 
 
 And deep his midnight lair had made 
 
 In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 
 
 But, when the sun his beacon red 
 
 Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, 
 
 The deep-mouthed blood-hound's heavy bay 
 
 Resounded up the rocky way, 
 
 And faint, from farther distance borne, 
 
 Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 
 
 II. 
 
 As chief who hears his Avarder call, 
 To arms! the foemen storm the Avail," — 
 
 The antler'd monarch of the Avaste 
 
 Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 
 
 But, ere his fleet career he took, 
 
 The dew-drops from his flanks he shook' 
 
 Like crested leader proud and high, 
 
 Toss'd his beamed frontlet to the sky ; 
 
 A moment gazed adoAvn the dale, 
 
 A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 
 
 A moment listened to the cry, 
 
 That thickened as the chase drew nigh: 
 
 Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 
 
 With one brave bound the copse he cleared, 
 
 And, stretching forward free and far, 
 
 Sought the Avild heaths of Uam-Var. 
 
 III. 
 Yelled on the view the opening pack, 
 Rock glen and cavern paid them back ; 
 To many a mingled sound at once 
 The aAvakened mountain gave response. 
 A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, 
 Clattered an hundred steeds along, 
 Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
 A hundred voices joined the shout; 
 With hark and whoop and Avild halloo, 
 No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
 Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
 Close in her covert coAvered the doe, 
 The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
 Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 
 Till far beyond her piercing ken 
 The hurricane had SAvept the glen. 
 Faint, and more faint, its failing din 
 Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
 And silence settled, Avide and still, 
 On the lone Avood and mighty hill. 
 
 IV. 
 Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
 Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 
 And roused the cavern, Avhere 'tis told 
 A giant made his den of old ; 
 For ere that steep ascent Avas Avon, 
 High in his path-Avay hung the sun, 
 And many a gallant, stayed per-force, 
 Was fain to breath his faltering horse ; 
 And of the trackers of the deer 
 Scarce half the lessening pack Avas near; 
 So shreAvdly, on the mountain side, 
 Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 
 
 V. 
 The noble Stag Avas pausing hoav, 
 Upon the mountain's southern broAv, 
 
 •RINTED BY GEO. BROOKMAN,] 
 
 [FOR RICHARD GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOW, 
 
9f 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Where broad extended, far beneath 
 The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
 With anxious eye he wander'd o'er 
 Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
 And pondered refuge from his toil, 
 By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
 But nearer was the copse-wood gray, 
 That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
 And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
 On the bold cliffs of Ben-venue. 
 Fresh vigour with the hope returned, 
 With flying foot the heath he spurned, 
 Held westward with unwearied race, 
 And left behind the panting chase. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 
 As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; 
 What reins were tightened in despair, 
 When rose Benledi's ridge in air ; 
 Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, 
 Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, — 
 For twice, that day, from shore to shore, 
 The gallant Stag swam stoutly o'er. 
 Few were the stragglers, following far, 
 That reached the lake of Vennachar ; 
 And when the Brigg of Turk was won, 
 The headmost Horseman rode alone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Alone, but with unbated zeal, 
 
 That horseman plied the scourge and steel ; 
 
 For, jaded now, and spent with toil, 
 
 Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, 
 
 While every gasp with sobs he drew, 
 
 The labouring Stag strained full in view. 
 
 Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 
 
 Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, 
 
 Fast on his flying traces came, 
 
 And all but won that desperate game ; 
 
 For, scarce a spear's length from his haunch, 
 
 Vindictive toiled the blood-hounds staunch ; 
 
 Nor nearer might the dogs attain, 
 
 Nor farther might the quarry strain. 
 
 Thus up the margin of the lake, 
 
 Between the precipice and brake, 
 
 O'er stock and rock their race they take. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The hunter marked that mountain high, 
 The lone lake's western boundary, 
 And deemed the Stag must turn to bay, 
 Where that huge rampart barred the way ; 
 Already glorying in the prize, 
 Measured his antlers with his eyes ; 
 For the death-wound, and death-halloo, 
 Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew ; 
 But thundering as he came prepared, 
 With ready arm and weapon bared, 
 The wily quarry shunned the shock, 
 And turned him from the opposing rock ; 
 Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
 Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, 
 In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
 His solitary refuge took. 
 There while, close couched, the thicket shed 
 Cold dews and wild flowers on his head, 
 He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
 Rave through the hollow pass amain, 
 Chiding the rocks that yelled again. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Close on the hounds the hunter came, 
 To cheer them on the vanished game ; 
 But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 
 The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
 The impatient rider strove in vain 
 To rouse him with the spur and rein, 
 
 For the good steed, his labours o'er, 
 Stretched his stiff' limbs to rise no more. 
 Then, touched with pity and remorse, 
 He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 
 " I little thought, when first thy rein 
 I slacked upon the banks of Seine, 
 That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
 On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! 
 Woe worth the chase, Avoe worth the day, 
 That costs thy life, my gallant grey!" — 
 
 X. 
 
 Then through the dell his horn resounds, 
 From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
 Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, 
 The sulky leaders of the chase ; 
 Close to their master's side they pressed, 
 With drooping tail and humbled crest ; 
 But still the dingle's hollow throat 
 Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. 
 The oAvlets started from their dream, 
 The eagles answered with their scream, 
 Round and around the sounds were cast, 
 Till echo seemed an answering blast ; 
 And on the hunter hied his way, 
 To join some comrades of the day ; 
 Yet often paused, so strange the road, 
 So wondrous were the scenes it show'd. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 
 Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
 Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 Within the dark ravines below, 
 Where twined the path, in shadow hid, 
 Round many a rocky pyramid, 
 Shooting abruptly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splintered pinnacle ; 
 Round many an insulated mass, 
 The native bulwarks of the pass, 
 Huge as the tower which builders vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 The rocky summits, split and rent, 
 Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
 Or seemed fantastically set 
 With cupola or minaret, * 
 Wild crests as pagod ever decked, 
 Or mosque of eastern architect. 
 Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 
 Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; 
 For, from their shivered brows displayed, 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
 All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen, 
 The briar-rose fell in streamers green, 
 And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes, 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Boon nature scattered, free and wild, 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. 
 Here eglantine embalmed the air, 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; 
 The primrose pale, and violet flower, 
 Found in each clift a narrow bower ; 
 Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, 
 Emblems of punishment and pride, 
 Grouped their dark hues with every stain, 
 The weather-beaten crags retain. 
 With boughs that quaked at every breath, 
 Grey birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
 Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
 Cast anchor in the rifted rock : 
 4nd higher yet the pine-tree hung 
 His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
 
CANTO I.— THE CHASE. 
 
 Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, 
 Bis boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 
 
 Holiest of all, where white peaks glanced, 
 Where glistening streamers waved and danced, 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
 
 o wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
 The scenery of a fairy dream. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
 A narrow inlet still and deep, 
 Affording scarce such breadth of brim, 
 As served the wild-duck's brood to swim ; 
 Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
 But broader when again appearing. 
 
 Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
 Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
 
 \nd farther as the hunter stray 'd, 
 Still broader sweep its channels made. 
 The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
 Emerging from entangled wood, 
 
 But, wave-encirled, seemed to float, 
 
 Like castle girdled with its moat; 
 
 Yet broader floods extending still, 
 
 Divide them from their parent hill, 
 
 Till each, retiring, claims to be 
 
 An islet in an inland sea. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And now, to issue from the glen, 
 
 No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 
 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 
 A far projecting precipice. 
 
 The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 
 
 The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 
 
 And thus an airy point he won, 
 
 Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 
 
 One burnish'd sheet of living gold, 
 
 Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled: 
 
 In all her length far winding lay, 
 
 With promontory, creek, and bay, 
 
 And islands that empurpled bright, 
 
 Floated amid the livelier light ; 
 
 And mountains, that like giants stand, 
 
 To centinel enchanted land. 
 
 High on the south, huge Benvenue 
 
 Down to the lake in masses threw 
 
 Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, 
 
 The fragments of an earlier world ; 
 
 A wildering forest feathered o'er 
 
 His ruined sides and summit hoar, 
 
 While on the north, through middle air, 
 
 Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 
 
 XV. 
 
 From the steep promontory gazed 
 The Stranger, raptured and amazed. 
 And, " What a scene were here," he cried, 
 " For princely pomp or churchman's pride ! 
 On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; 
 In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 
 On yonder meadow, far away, 
 The turrets of a cloister grey. 
 How blithely might the bugle-horn 
 Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! 
 How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute 
 Chime, when the groves were still and mute! 
 And, when the midnight moon should lave 
 Her forehead in the silver wave, 
 How solemn on the ear would come 
 The holy matin's distant hum, 
 While the deep peal's commanding tone . 
 Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
 A sainted hermit from his cell, 
 j To drop a bead with every knell — 
 
 And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, 
 Should each bewildered stranger call 
 To friendly feast, and lighted hall. , 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Blithe were it then to wander here! 
 But now, — beshrew yon nimble deer,' — 
 Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, 
 The copse must give my evening fare ; 
 Some mossy bank my couch must be, 
 Some rustling oak my canopy. 
 Yet pass we that ; — the war and chase 
 Give little choice of resting-place ; — 
 A summer night, in green-wood spent, 
 Were but to-morrow's merriment ; 
 But hosts may in these wilds abound, 
 Such as are better missed than found ; 
 To meet with Highland plunderers here 
 Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — 
 I am alone ; — my bugle strain 
 May call some straggler of the train ; 
 Or, fall the worst that may betide, 
 Ere now this falchion has been tried." — 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But scarce again his horn he wound, 
 
 When lo! forth starting at the sound, 
 
 From underneath an aged oak, 
 
 That slanted from the islet rock, 
 
 A Damsel guider of its way, 
 
 A little skiif shot to the bay, 
 
 That round the promontory steep 
 
 Led its deep line in graceful sweep, 
 
 Eddying, in almost viewless wave, 
 
 The weeping willow twig to lave, 
 
 And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 
 
 The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 
 
 The boat had touch 'd this silver strand, 
 
 Just as the Hunter left his stand, 
 
 And stood concealed amid the brake, 
 
 To view this Lady of the Lake. 
 
 The maiden paused, as if again 
 
 She thought to catch the distant strain. 
 
 With head up-raised, and look intent, 
 
 And eye and ear attentive bent, 
 
 And locks flung back, and lips apart, 
 
 Like monument of Grecian art, 
 
 In listening mood, she seemed to stand 
 
 The guardian Naiad of the strand. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of finer form, or lovelier face! 
 What though the sun, with ardent frown, 
 Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,' — 
 •The sportive toil, which, short and light, 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 
 Served too in hastier swell to show- 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow ■ 
 What though no rule of courtly grace 
 To measured mood had trained her pace, — 
 A foot more light, a step more true, 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew 
 E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread: 
 What though upon her speech there hung 
 The accents of the mountain tongue, — 
 Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear 
 The list'ner held his breath to hear. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid ; 
 Her satin snood, her silken plaid, 
 Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 
 
 :Q 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 And seldom was a snood amid 
 Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
 "Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
 The plumage of the raven's wing ; 
 And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 
 Mantled a plaid with modest care, 
 And never brooch the folds combined 
 Above a heart more good and kind. 
 Her kindness and her worth to spy, 
 You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 
 Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, 
 Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 
 Than every free-born glance confessed 
 The guileless movements of her breast ; 
 Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 
 Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, 
 Or filial love was glowing there, 
 Or meek devotion poured a prayer, 
 
 ?r tale of injury called forth 
 he indignant spirit of the north. 
 One only passion, unrevealed, 
 With maiden pride the maid concealed, 
 Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 
 O need I tell that passion's name ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Impatient of the silent horn, 
 
 Now on the gale her voice was borne :• — 
 
 " Father!" she cried; the rocks around 
 
 Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
 
 A while she paused, no answer eame,- 
 
 " Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the name 
 
 Less resolutely uttered fell, 
 
 The echoes could not catch the swell. 
 
 " A stranger I," the Huntsman said, 
 
 Advancing from the hazel shade. 
 
 The maid alarmed, with hasty oar, 
 
 Pushed her light shallop from the shore, 
 
 And when a space was gained between, 
 
 Closer she drew her bosom's screen ; 
 
 (So forth the startled swan would swing, 
 
 So turn to prune his ruffled wing,) 
 
 Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, 
 
 She paused, and on the stranger gazed. 
 
 Not his the form, nor his the eye, 
 
 That youthful maidens wont to fly. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 On his bold visage middle age 
 
 Had slightly pressed its signet sage, 
 
 Yet had not quenched the open truth, 
 
 And fiery vehemence of youth; 
 
 Forward and frolic glee was there, 
 
 The will to do, the soul to dare, 
 
 The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, 
 
 Of hasty love, or headlong ire. 
 
 His limbs were cast in manly mould, 
 
 For hardy sports, or contest bold ; 
 
 And though in peaceful garb arrayed, 
 
 And weaponless, except his blade, 
 
 His stately mien as well implied 
 
 A high-born heart, a martial pride, 
 
 As if a baron's crest he wore, 
 
 And sheathed in armour trod the shore. 
 
 Slighting the petty need he showed, 
 
 He told of his benighted road; 
 
 His ready speech flowed fair and free, 
 
 In phrase of gentlest courtesy: 
 
 Yet seemed that tone, and gesture bland, 
 
 Less used to sue than to command. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A while the maid the stranger eyed, 
 And, re -assured, at last replied, 
 That highland halls were open still, 
 To wildered wanderers of the hill. 
 
 ®: 
 
 " Nor think you unexpected come 
 To yon lone isle, our desert home ; 
 Before the heath had lost the dew, 
 This morn, a couch was pulled for you ; 
 On yonder mountain's purple head 
 Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, 
 And our broad nets have swept the mere, 
 To furnish forth your evening cheer." — 
 " Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
 Your courtesy has erred," he said ; 
 " No right have I to claim, misplaced, 
 The welcome of expected guest. 
 A wanderer, here by fortune tost, 
 My way, my friends, my courser lost, 
 I ne'er before, believe me, fair, 
 Have ever drawn your mountain air, 
 Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
 1 found a fay in fairy land. "• — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " I well believe," the maid replied, 
 As her light skiff" approached the side, 
 " I Avell believe, that ne'er before 
 Your foot has trod Loch-Katrine's shore ; 
 But yet, as far as yesternight, 
 Old Allan-bane foretold your plight,- 
 A grey-haired sire, whose eye intent 
 Was on the visioned future bent. 
 He saw your steed, a dappled grey, 
 Lie dead beneath the birchen way ; 
 Painted exact your form and mien, 
 Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt, 
 That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, 
 That cap with heron's plumage trim, 
 And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 
 He bade that all should ready be, 
 To grace a guest of fair degree ; 
 But light I held his prophecy, 
 And deemed it was my father's horn, 
 Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Stranger smiled: — " Since to your home, 
 
 A destined errant knight I come, 
 
 Announced by prophet sooth and old, 
 
 Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, 
 
 I'll lightly front each high emprize, 
 
 For one kind glance of those bright eyes: 
 
 Permit me, first, the task to guide, 
 
 Your fairy frigate o'er the tide."' — 
 
 The maid, with smile suppressed and sly, 
 
 The toil unwonted saw him try ; 
 
 For seldom, sure, if e'er before, 
 
 His noble hand had grasp'd an oar: 
 
 Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, 
 
 And o'er the lake the shallop flew ; 
 
 With heads erect, and whimpering cry, 
 
 The hounds behind their passage ply. 
 
 Nor frequent does the bright oar break 
 
 The darkening mirror of the lake, 
 
 Until the rocky isle they reach, 
 
 And moor their shallop on the beach. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Stranger viewed the shore around ; 
 'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound, 
 Nor track nor path-way might declare 
 That human foot frequented there, 
 Until the mountain-maiden showed 
 A clambering unsuspected road, 
 That winded through the tangled screen, 
 And opened on a narrow green, 
 Where weeping birch and willow round 
 With their long fibres swept the ground ; 
 Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
 Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 
 
CANTO L— THE CHASE. 
 
 3D 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 It was a lodge of ample size, 
 
 But strange of structure and device ; 
 
 Of such materials, as around 
 
 The workman's hand had readiest found. 
 
 Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared 
 
 And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
 
 To give the walls their destined height, 
 
 The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
 
 While moss and clay and leaves combined 
 
 To fence each crevice from the wind, 
 
 The lighter pine-trees, over-head, 
 
 Their slender length for rafters spread, 
 
 And withered heath and rushes dry 
 
 Supplied a russet canopy. 
 
 Due westward, fronting to the green, 
 
 A rural portico was seen, 
 
 Aloft on native pillars borne, 
 
 Of mountain fir with bark unshorn, 
 
 Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine, 
 
 The ivy and Idaean vine, 
 
 The clematis, the favoured flower, 
 
 Which boasts the name of virgin-bower, 
 
 And every hardy plant could bear 
 
 Loch-Katrine's keen and searching air. 
 
 An instant in this porch she staid, 
 
 And gaily to the Stranger said, 
 
 " On heaven and on thy lady call, 
 
 And enter the enchanted hall!" 
 
 XXVII. 
 "My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, 
 My gentle guide, in following thee." — 
 He crossed the threshold — and a clang 
 Of angry steel that instant rang. 
 To his bold brow his spiritjrushed, 
 But soon for vain alarm he blushed, 
 When on the floor he saw displayed, 
 Cause of the din, a naked blade 
 Dropped from the sheath, that careless flung 
 Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ; 
 For all around, the walls to grace, 
 Hung trophies of the fight or chase: 
 A target there, a bugle here, 
 A battle-axe, a hunting spear, 
 And broad-swords, bows, and arrows store, 
 With the tusked trophies of the boar. 
 Here grins the wolf as when he died, 
 And there the wild-cat's brindled hide 
 The frontlet of the elk adorns, 
 Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ; 
 Pennons and flags defaced and stained, 
 That blackening streaks of blood retained, 
 And deer-skin, dappled, dun, and white, 
 With otter's fur and seal's unite, 
 In rude and uncouth tapestry all, 
 To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 The wondering Stranger round him gazed, 
 And next the fallen weapon raised ; — 
 Few were the arms whose sinewy strength 
 Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. 
 And as the brand he poised and swayed, 
 " I never knew but one," he said, 
 " Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield 
 A blade like this in battle field." — 
 She sighed, then smiled and took the word ; 
 " You see the guardian champion's sword: 
 As light it trembles in his hand, 
 As in my grasp a hazel wand ; 
 My sire's tall form might grace the part 
 Of Ferragus, or Ascabart; 
 But in the absent giant's hold 
 Are women now, and menials old." — 
 
 XXIX. 
 The mistress of the mansion came, 
 Mature of age, a graceful dame ; 
 
 © -— —-— - 
 
 Whose easy step and stately port 
 
 Had well become a princely court, 
 
 To whom, though more than kindred knew, 
 
 Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
 
 Meet welcome to her guest she made, 
 
 And every courteous rite was paid, 
 
 That hospitality could claim, 
 
 Though all unasked his birth and name. 
 
 Such then the reverence to a guest, 
 
 That fellest foe might join the feast, 
 
 And from his deadliest foeman's door 
 
 Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 
 
 At length his rank the Stranger names, 
 
 " The knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz- James; 
 
 Lord of a barren heritage, 
 
 Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
 
 By their good swords had held with toil ; 
 
 His sire had fallen in such turmoil, 
 
 And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
 
 Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
 
 This morning with Lord Moray's train 
 
 He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
 
 Out-stripped his comrades, missed the deer, 
 
 Lost his good steed, and wandered here." — 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Fain would the Knight in turn require 
 The name and state of Ellen's sire ; 
 Well showed the elder lady's mien, 
 That courts and cities she had seen; 
 Ellen, though more her looks displayed 
 The simple grace of sylvan maid, 
 In speech and gesture, form and face, 
 Showed she was come of gentle race ; 
 'Twere strange in ruder rank to find 
 Such looks, such manners, and such mind. 
 Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, 
 Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; 
 Or Ellen, innocently gay, 
 Turned all inquiry light away: — 
 " Wierd women we ! by dale and down, 
 We dwell afar from tower and town. 
 We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
 On wandering knights our spells we cast ; 
 While viewless minstrels touch the string, 
 'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing." — 
 She sung, and still a harp unseen 
 Filled up the symphony between. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Song. 
 " Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
 Dream of battle fields no more, 
 
 Days of danger, nights of waking. 
 In our isle's enchanted hall, 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch axe strewing, 
 Fairy strains of music fall, 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 
 Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
 
 " No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 
 Armour's clang or war-steed's champing, 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 
 At the day-break from the fallow, 
 And the bittern sound his drum, 
 
 Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
 Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
 Guards nor warders challenge here 
 Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, 
 Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. " — 
 
 -J 
 
Qr. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 She paused — then, blushing, led the lay 
 To grace the stranger of the day ; 
 Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
 The cadence of the flowing song, 
 Till to her lips in measured frame 
 The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 
 
 Song ©ontimtfU. 
 
 " Huntsman, rest ; thy chase is done, 
 
 While our slumbrous spells assail ye, 
 Dream not, with the rising sun, 
 
 Bugles here shall sound reveillie. 
 Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 
 
 Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
 Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, 
 
 How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
 Huntsman, resM thy chase is done, 
 Think not of the rising sun, 
 For at dawning to assail ye, 
 Here no bugles sound reveillie." — 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The hall was cleared — the Stranger's bed 
 
 Was there of mountain heather spread, 
 
 Where oft a hundred guests had lain, 
 
 And dreamed their forest sports again. 
 
 But vainly did the heath-flower shed 
 
 Its moorland fragrance round his head; 
 
 Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest 
 
 The fever of his troubled breast. 
 
 In broken dreams the image rose 
 
 Of varied perils, pains, and woes; 
 
 His stead now flounders in the brake, 
 
 Now sinks his barge upon the lake ; 
 
 Now leader of a broken host, 
 
 His standard falls, his honour's lost. 
 
 Then, — from my couch may heavenly might 
 
 Chase that worst phantom of the night! — 
 
 Again returned the scenes of youth, 
 
 Of confident undoubting truth: 
 
 Again his soul he interchanged 
 
 With friends whose hearts were long estranged. 
 
 They come, in dim procession led, 
 
 The cold, the faithless, and the dead; 
 
 As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 
 
 As if they parted yesterday. 
 
 And doubt distracts him at the view, 
 
 were his senses false or true! 
 
 Dreamed he of death, or broken vow, 
 
 Or is it all a vision now ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 At length, with Ellen in a grove, 
 
 He seemed to walk, and speak of love ; 
 
 She listened with a blush and sigh, 
 
 His suit was warm, his hopes were high 
 
 He sought her yielded hand to clasp, 
 
 And a cold gauntlet met his grasp : 
 
 The phantom's sex was changed and gone 
 
 Upon its head a helmet shone ; 
 
 Slowly enlarged to giant size, 
 
 With darkened cheek and threatening eyes, 
 
 The grisly visage stern and hoar, 
 
 To Ellen still a likeness bore.. — 
 
 He woke, and, panting with affright, 
 
 Recalled the vision of the night. 
 
 The hearth's decaying brands were red, 
 
 And deep and dusky lustre shed, 
 
 Half showing, half concealing all 
 
 The uncouth trophies of the hall. 
 
 Mid those the Stranger fixed his eye 
 
 Where that huge falchion hung on high, 
 
 And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, 
 
 Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along, 
 
 Until, the giddy whirl to cure, 
 
 He rose, and sought the moon-shine pure. 
 
 XXXV. 
 The wild-rose, eglantine, and broom, 
 Wasted around their rich perfume ; 
 The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 
 The aspens slept beneath the calm ; 
 The silver light, with quivering glance, 
 Played on the water's still expanse, — 
 Wild were the heart whose passion's sway 
 Could rage beneath the sober ray ? 
 He felt its calm, that warrior guest, 
 While thus he communed with his breast: 
 " Why is it at each turn I trace 
 Some memory of that exiled race? 
 Can I not mountain maiden spy, 
 But she must bear the Douglas' eye? 
 Can I not view a highland brand, 
 But it must match the Douglas' hand? 
 Can I not frame a fevered dream, 
 But still the Douglas is the theme? — 
 I'll dream no more — by manly mind 
 Not even in sleep is will resigned. 
 My midnight orisons said o'er, 
 I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." — 
 His midnight orison he told, 
 A prayer with every bead of gold, 
 Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, 
 And sunk in undisturbed repose ; 
 Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, 
 And morning dawned on Benvenue. 
 
 CANTO II.— THE ISLAND. 
 
 Qr 
 
 At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, 
 
 'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, 
 All Nature's children feel the matin spring 
 
 Of life reviving, with reviving day; 
 And while yon little bark glides down the bay, 
 
 Wafting the stranger on his way again, 
 Morn's genial influence roused a Minstrel grey, 
 And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, 
 Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white-haired 
 Allan-bane ! 
 
 II. 
 Song. 
 " Not faster yonder rowers' might 
 Flings from their oars the spray, 
 
 Not faster yonder rippling bright, 
 
 That tracks the shallop's course in light, 
 
 Melts in the lake away, 
 Than men from memory erase 
 The benefits of former days ; 
 Then, Stranger, go! good speed the while, 
 Nor think again of the lonely isle. 
 " High place to thee in royal court, 
 
 High place in battled line, 
 Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, 
 Where beauty sees the brave resort, 
 
 The honoured meed be thine ! 
 True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, 
 Thy lady constant, kind and dear, 
 And lost in love's and friendship's smile, 
 Be memory of the lonely isle. 
 
CD- 
 
 CANTO II.— THE ISLAND. 
 
 =3© 
 
 7 I 
 
 III. 
 
 Song (Sonttnufft. 
 " But if beneath y«n southern sky 
 
 A plaided stranger roam 
 Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, 
 Ami sunken cheek and heavy eye, 
 
 Pine for his highland home ; 
 Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
 The care that soothes a wanderer's woe ; 
 Remember then thy hap ere while 
 A stranger in the lonely isle. 
 " Or if on life's uncertain main 
 
 Mishap shall mar thy sail ; 
 If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
 Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 
 
 Beneath the fickle gale ; 
 Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, 
 On thankless courts, or friends estranged, 
 But come where kindred worth shall smile, 
 To greet thee in the lonely isle."— 
 
 IV. 
 
 As died the sounds upon the tide, 
 
 The shallop reached the main-land side, 
 
 And ere his onward way he took, 
 
 The Stranger cast a lingering look, 
 
 Where easily his eye might reach 
 
 The Harper on the islet beach, 
 
 Reclined against a blighted tree, 
 
 And wasted, grey, and worn as he. 
 
 To minstrelmeditation given, 
 
 His reverend brow was raised to heaven, 
 
 As from the rising sun to claim 
 
 A sparkle of inspiring flame. 
 
 His hand, reclined upon the wire, 
 
 Seemed watching the awakening fire ; 
 
 So still he sate, as those who wait 
 
 Till judgment speak the doom of fate ; 
 
 So still, as if no breeze might dare 
 
 To lift one lock of hoary hair ; 
 
 So still, as life itself were fled, 
 
 In the last sound his harp had sped. 
 
 V. 
 
 Upon a rock with lichens wild, 
 Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. 
 Smiled she to see the stately drake 
 Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, 
 While her vexed spaniel, from the beach, 
 Bayed at the prize beyond his reach? 
 Yet tell me then the maid who knows, 
 Why deepened on her cheek the rose? — 
 Forgive, forgive, Fidelity! 
 Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
 Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, 
 And stop and turn to wave anew ; 
 And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
 Condemn the heroine of my lyre, 
 Show me the fair would, scorn to spy 
 And prize such conquest of her eye! 
 
 VI. 
 
 While yet he loitered on the spot, 
 It seemed as Ellen marked him not ; 
 But when he turned him to the glade, 
 One courteous parting sign she made ; 
 And after, oft the knight would say, 
 That not when prize of festal day 
 Was dealt him by the brightest fair, 
 Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, 
 So highly did his bosom swell, 
 As at that simple mute farewell. 
 Now with a trusty mountain guide, 
 And his dark stag-hounds by his side, 
 He parts — the maid, unconscious still, 
 j Watched him wind slowly round the hill ; 
 
 (CJZ 
 
 But when his stately form was hid, 
 
 The guardian in her bosom chid — 
 
 " Thy Malcolm! vain and selfish maid!" 
 
 'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said, 
 
 " Not so had Malcolm idly hung 
 
 On the smooth phrase of southern tongue ; 
 
 Not so had Malcolm strained his eye 
 
 Another step than thine to spy." — 
 
 " Wake, Allan-bane," aloud she cried, 
 
 To the old Minstrel by her side, 
 
 " Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! 
 
 I'll give thy harp heroic theme, 
 
 And warm thee with a noble name ; 
 
 Pour forth the glory of the Graeme." 
 
 Scarce from her lip the word had rushed, 
 
 When deep the conscious maiden blushed ; 
 
 For of his clan, in hall and bower, 
 
 Young Malcolm Graeme was held the flower. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Minstrel waked his harp — three times 
 
 Arose the well-known martial chimes, 
 
 And thrice their high heroic pride 
 
 In melancholy murmurs died. 
 
 — "Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid," 
 
 Clasping his withered hands, he said, 
 
 "Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, 
 
 Though all unwont to bid in vain. 
 
 Alas! than mine a mightier hand 
 
 Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned! 
 
 I touch the chords of joy, but low, 
 
 And mournful answer notes of Avoe ; 
 
 And the proud march which victors tread, 
 
 Sinks in the wailing for the dead. — 
 
 O well for me, if mine alone 
 
 That dirge's deep prophetic tone! 
 
 If, as my tuneful fathers said, 
 
 This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, 
 
 Can thus its master's fate foretel, 
 
 Then welcome be the minstrel's knell ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " But ah! dear lady, thus it sighed 
 
 The eve thy sainted mother died ; 
 
 And such tlie sounds which, while I strove 
 
 To wake a lay of war or love, 
 
 Came marring all the festal mirth, 
 
 Appalling me who gave them birth, 
 
 And, disobedient to my call, 
 
 Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered hall, 
 
 Ere Douglasses to ruin driven, 
 
 Were exiled from their native heaven.— 
 
 Oh ! if yet worse mishap and woe 
 
 My master's house must undergo, 
 
 Or aught but weal to Ellen fair, 
 
 Brood in these accents of despair, 
 
 No future bard, sad harp ! shall fling 
 
 Triumph or rapture from thy string ; 
 
 One short, one final strain shall flow, 
 
 Fraught with unutterable woe, 
 
 Then shivered shall thy fragments lie, 
 
 Thy master cast him down and die." — 
 
 IX. 
 
 Soothing she answered him, " Assuage, 
 
 Mine honoured friend, the fears of age ; 
 
 All melodies to thee are known, 
 
 That harp has rung, or pipe has blown. 
 
 In lowland vale or highland glen, 
 
 From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, then, 
 
 At times, unbidden notes should rise, 
 
 Confusedly bound in memory's ties 
 
 Entangling, as they rush along, 
 
 The war-march with the funeral song ? 
 
 Small ground is now for boding fear ; 
 
 Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 My sire, in native virtue great. 
 
 Resigning" lordship, lands, and state, 
 
 Not then to fortune more resigned, 
 
 Than yonder oak might give the wind; 
 
 The graceful foliage storms may reave, 
 
 The noble stem they cannot grieve. 
 
 For me,' 7 — she stooped, and, looking round, 
 
 Plucked a blue hare-hell from the ground, 
 
 " For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
 
 An image of more splendid days, 
 
 This little flower, that loves the lea. 
 
 May well my simple emblem be: 
 
 It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 
 
 That in the King's own garden grows, 
 
 And when I place it in my hair, 
 
 Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
 
 He ne'er saw coronet so fair. " — 
 
 Then playfully the chaplet wild 
 
 She wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled. 
 
 X. 
 Her smile, her speech, with winning sway 
 Wiled the old harper's mood away. 
 With such a look as hermits throw 
 When angels stoop to soothe their woe, 
 d, till fond regret and pride 
 
 Thrilled t0 a tear, then thus replied: 
 
 " Loveliest and best ! then little know'st 
 The rank, the honours thou hast 1 
 
 ( ) might 1 live to see thee g] 
 
 In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, 
 To 5( e my favourite's step adi 
 The lightest in the courtly dance, 
 The cause of every gallant's Bigh, 
 
 And leading star ol 
 
 And theme of e\ cry minstrel's art, 
 
 The Lady of the Bleeding Heart 1"— 
 XL 
 
 " Fair dreams are these," the maiden Cried, 
 (Light was her accent, yet she sighed,) 
 '• Yet is this mossy rock to me 
 Worth, splendid chair and canopy ; 
 Nor would my footstep spring more gay 
 In courtly dance than blithe strath) 
 Nor half so pleased mine ear incline, 
 To royal minstrel's lay as thine ; 
 And then for suitors proud and 
 To bend before my conquering 
 Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say, 
 That grim Sir Roderick owns its -v 
 The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride, 
 The terror of Loch-Lomond's side, 
 Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
 A Lennox foray — for a day."— 
 
 XII. 
 
 The ancient bard his glee repressed: 
 
 " 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest! 
 
 For who, through all this western wild, 
 
 Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and smiled! 
 
 In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ; 
 
 I saw, when back the dirk he drew, 
 
 Courtiers give place before the stride 
 
 Of the undaunted homicide ; 
 
 And since, though out-lawed, hath his hand 
 
 Full sternly kept his mountain land. 
 
 Who else dared give,— ah! woe the day, 
 
 That I such hated truth should say — 
 
 The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
 
 Disowned by every noble peer, 
 
 lvven the rude refuge we nave here? 
 
 Alas, this wild marauding chief 
 
 Alone might hazard our relief, 
 
 And now thy maiden charms expand, 
 
 Looks for his guerdon in thy hand ; 
 
 Full soon may dispensation sought, 
 
 To back his suit, from Rome be brought. 
 
 Then, though an exile on the hill, 
 Thy father, as the Douglas, still 
 lie held in reverence and fear ; 
 And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear, 
 That thou might'st guide with silken thread, 
 Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread : 
 Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! 
 Thy hand is on a lion's mane." — 
 
 XIII. 
 " Minstrel," the maid replied, and high 
 Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 
 " My debts to Roderick's house 1 know: 
 All that a mother could bestow, 
 To Lady Margaret's care 1 owe. 
 Since first an orphan in the wild 
 She sorrowed o'er her sister's child ; 
 To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
 Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 
 A deeper, holier debt is owed; 
 And, could 1 pay it with my blood, 
 j Allan! Sir Roderick should command 
 My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 
 Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
 A votaress in Maronnan's cell ; 
 
 Rather through realms beyond the sea, 
 
 Seeking the world's cold pharity, 
 
 Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word, 
 Ami ne'er the name of Douglas heard, 
 An outcast pilgrim will she rove 
 Than wed the man she cannot Love, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses gray- 
 That pleading look, -u hat can it say 
 Rut what 1 own? — I grant him brave, 
 Rut wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave; 
 And generous — Bave vindictive mood, 
 
 Or jealous transport, chafe his blood: 
 
 I grant him true to friendly band, 
 As his claymore is to his hand ; 
 Rut 0! that very blade of steel 
 .More mercy for a foe would feel: 
 I grant him liberal, to fling 
 Among his clan tin; wealth they bring, 
 
 When back by lake and glen they wind, 
 
 And in the Lowland leave behind, 
 
 Where once some pleasant, hamlet stood, 
 
 A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 
 
 The hand that for my father fought, 
 
 1 honour, as his daughter ought ; 
 
 Hut can I clasp it reeking red, 
 
 From peasants slaughtered in their shed? 
 
 No! wildly while his virtues gleam, 
 
 They make his passions darker seem, 
 
 And flash along his spirit high, 
 
 Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 
 
 While yet a child, — and children know, 
 
 Instinctive taught, the friend and foe,— 
 
 I shuddered at his brow of gloom, 
 
 His shadowy plaid, and sable plume; 
 
 A maiden grown, I ill could bear 
 
 His haughty mien and lordly air; 
 
 But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, 
 
 In serious mood, to Roderick's name, 
 
 1 thrill with anguish! or, if e'er 
 
 A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 
 
 To change such odious theme were best,— 
 
 What think'st thou of our stranger guest?"— 
 
 XV. 
 
 " What think I of him? — woe the while 
 That brought such wanderer to our isle! 
 Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
 For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, 
 What time he leagued, no longer foes, 
 His Border spears with Hotspur's bows, 
 
 :© 
 

 CANTO II.— THE ISLAND- 
 
 O 
 
 ©: 
 
 Did, self-uhscabbarded, foreshow 
 
 The footstep of a secret foe. 
 
 If courtly spy, anil harboured here, 
 
 What may we for the Douglas fear? 
 
 What for this island, deemed of old 
 
 Clan- Alpine's last and surest hold! 
 
 if neither spy nor foe, I pray 
 
 What yet may jealous Roderick say? 
 
 — Nay, wave not thy disdainful head! 
 
 Bethink thee of the discord dread, 
 
 That kindled when at Beltane game 
 
 Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme ; 
 
 Still, though thy sire the peace renewed, 
 
 Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud ; 
 
 Beware! — But hark, what sounds are these? 
 
 My dull ears catch no faultering breeze, 
 
 No weeping birch, nor aspens wake, 
 
 Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, 
 
 Still is the c anna's hoary beard 
 
 Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard— 
 
 And hark again! some pipe of war 
 
 Sends the bold pibroch from afar." — 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Far up the lengthened lake were spied 
 Four darkening specks upon the tide, 
 That, slow enlarging on the view, 
 Four manned and masted barges grew, 
 And bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
 Steered full upon the lonely isle ; 
 The point of Brianchoil they passed, 
 And, to the windward as they cast, 
 Against the sun they gave to shine 
 The bold Sir Roderick's bannered pine. 
 Nearer and nearer as they bear, 
 Spears, pikes, and axes Hash in air. 
 Now might you sec the tartans brave, 
 And plaids and plumage dance and wave ; 
 Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
 As his tough oar the rower plies ; 
 See, Hashing at each sturdy stroke, 
 The wave ascending into smoke ; 
 See the proud pipers on the bow. 
 And mark the gaudy streamers flow 
 From their loud chanters down, and sweep 
 The furrowed bosom of the deep, 
 As, rushing through the lake amain, 
 They plied the ancient highland strain. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Ever, as on they bore, more loud 
 
 And louder rung the pibroch proud. 
 
 At first the sound, by distance tame, 
 
 Mellowed along the waters came, 
 
 And, lingering long by cape and bay, 
 
 Wailed every harsher note away ; 
 
 Then bursting bolder on the ear, 
 
 The clan's shrill gathering they could hear ; 
 
 Those thrilling sounds that call the might 
 
 Of old Clan- Alpine to the fight. 
 
 Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 
 
 The mustering hundreds shake the glen, 
 
 And, hurrying at the signal dread, 
 
 The battered earth returns their tread. 
 
 Then prelude light, of livelier tone, 
 
 Expressed their merry marching on, 
 
 Ere peal of closing battle rose, 
 
 With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows ; 
 
 And mimic din of stroke and ward, 
 
 As broad-sword upon target jarred ; 
 
 And groaning pause, ere yet again, 
 
 Condensed, the battle yelled amain, 
 
 The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
 
 Retreat borne headlong into rout, 
 
 And bursts of triumph, to declare 
 
 Clan- Alpine's conquest — all were there. 
 
 Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow, 
 Sunk in a moan prolonged and low, 
 And changed the conquering clarion swell, 
 For wild lament o'er those that fell. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The war-pipes ceased ; but lake and hill 
 Were busy with their echoes still ; 
 And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
 Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, 
 While loud a hundred clansmen raise 
 Their voices in their Chieftain's praise. 
 Each boat-man, bending to his oar, 
 iWith measured sweep the burthen bore, 
 Jn such wild cadence, as the breeze 
 Makes through December's leafless trees. 
 The chorus firsl could Allan know, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! iro!" 
 And near, and nearer as they rowed, 
 Distinct the martial ditty flowed. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 i3oat Song. 
 Hail to the chief who in triumph advances! 
 
 Honoured and blessed lie the ever-green Pine! 
 Long may the tree in his banner that glances, 
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 
 I It as en send it happy dew, 
 Earth lend it sap anew, 
 Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
 While every highland glen 
 Sends our shout back agen, 
 11 Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" 
 
 Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, 
 
 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade : 
 When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on 
 the mountain, [shade, 
 
 The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in h<-r 
 Moored in the rifted rock, 
 Proof to the tempest's shock, 
 Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 
 Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 
 Echo his praise agen, 
 '* Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe?" 
 
 XX. 
 
 Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, 
 And Banochai J s groans to our slogan replied ; 
 Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in 
 ruin, [side. 
 
 And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid, 
 Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with woe ; 
 Lennox and Leven-glen 
 Shake when they hear agen, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" 
 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the High- 
 lands ! 
 Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine! 
 O ! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands, 
 Were wreathed in a garland around him to 
 O that some seedling gem, [twine ! 
 
 Worthy such noble stem, 
 
 fgr< 
 
 Honoured and blessed in their shadow might 
 Loud should Clan- Alpine then 
 Ring from her deepmost glen, 
 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 With all her joyful female band, 
 Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. 
 Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 
 And high their snowy arms they threw, 
 As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 
 And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name : 
 
 =© 
 
9 
 
 10 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 "9 
 
 While prompt to please, with mothers art, 
 
 The darling passion of his heart, 
 
 The Dame called Ellen to the strand, 
 
 To greet her kinsman ere he land: 
 
 '* Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, 
 
 And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?" 
 
 Reluctantly and slow, the maid 
 
 The unwelcome summoning obeyed, 
 
 And when a distant bugle rung, 
 
 In the mid-path aside she sprung: — 
 
 " List, Allan-bane! From main-land cast, 
 
 ! hear my fall ert signal blast. 
 
 Be OUT'S," she cried, " the skiff to guide, 
 
 And waft him from the mountain sitle."— 1 
 
 Then like a sun-beam, swift, and bright, 
 
 She darted to her shallop light, 
 And, eagerly while Roderick scanned, 
 For her dear form, his mother's band, 
 ; let far behind her lay, 
 
 And she had landed in the bay. 
 
 XXII. 
 Some feelings are to mortals given. 
 
 With less 01 earth in them than l.c;i\ en : 
 And if there be a human 
 
 Prom pas i< n's dro is n lined and (dear. 
 
 ... limpid and so meek, 
 h would 1 beek, 
 
 "Pis tha 1, which pious fathers shed 
 Upon a du' id. 
 
 And as the Douglas to bis breast 
 
 : ling Ellen closely pressed, 
 Such holy drops hi . ep'd, 
 
 Though : »\-' ep'd. 
 
 N( i « idle on Film's faltering UmgM 
 
 Her tili:.'. welcomes crowded bung, 
 
 Marked she, that fear, (affection's proof,) 
 S ill held a graceful youth aloof; 
 
 No! no1 'id Douglas named bis ],;. 
 Although the youth was Malcolm Gnrme. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Allan, with wistful look the while, 
 
 M rked Roderick landing on the isle ; 
 
 rter piteoosly he e) ed, 
 Then e ized upon the chieftain's pride, 
 Th.n dashed, with hasty hand, away 
 
 Prom his dimmed eye the gathering spray; 
 
 And Douglas, as his hand be laid 
 
 On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said, 
 
 " Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy 
 
 In my poor follower's glistening eye? 
 
 I'll tell thee: — he recalls the day, 
 
 When in my praise he led the lay 
 
 O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud, 
 
 While many a minstrel answered loud, 
 
 When Percy's Norman pennon, won 
 
 In bloody field before me shone, 
 
 And twice ten knights, the least a name 
 
 As mighty as yon chief may claim, 
 
 Gracing my pomp behind me came. 
 
 Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 
 
 Was I of all that marshalled crowd, 
 
 Though the waned crescent owned my might, 
 
 And in my train trooped lord and knight, 
 
 Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays, 
 
 And Bothwell 's bards flung back my praise, 
 
 As when this old man's silent tear, 
 
 And this poor maid's affection dear, 
 
 A welcome give more kind and true, 
 
 Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
 
 Forgive, my friend, a father's boast; 
 
 O! it out-beggars all I lost!" — 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Delightful praise! — like summer rose, 
 That bri ghter in the dew-drop glows, 
 
 The bashful maiden's cheek appeared, 
 For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
 The flush of shame-faced joy to hide, 
 The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide ; 
 The loved caresses of the maid 
 The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; 
 And, at her whistle, on her hand 
 The falcon took his favourite stand, 
 Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye, 
 Nor, though unbonded, sought to fly. 
 And, trust, while in such guise she stood, 
 Like fabled Goddess of the Wood, 
 That if a lather's partial thought 
 O'erweighed her worth and beauty aught, 
 Well might the lover's judgment fail 
 To balance with ajuster scale; 
 For with each secret glance he stole, 
 The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 
 
 XXV. 
 Of stature fair, and sh nder frame, 
 But tirmly knit, was Malcolm Grams. 
 
 The belt) d plaid and tartan hose 
 
 Did ne'er nunc graceful limbs disclose; 
 
 I [is flaxen hair, of sunn)' hue, 
 
 Curled closely round his bonnet blue. 
 
 Trained to the chase, his eagle eye 
 
 The ptarmij an in snow could spy ; 
 
 Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, 
 
 He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; 
 
 Vain was the bound of dark brown doe, 
 When Malcolm benl his sounding bow, 
 And scarce that doe, though winged with fei 
 Out-stripped in speed the mountaineer: 
 Righl up Ben-Lomond could he press, 
 And not a Bob his toil confess, 
 I lis form accorded with a mind 
 Li\ ( ly and ardent , frank and kind ; 
 A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
 Did never love nor sorrow tame; 
 It danced as lightsome in his breast, 
 
 •. ed the feather on his ere it, 
 Vet friends, who nearest knew the youth, 
 J lis BC0I7] (if wrong, Ins zeal for truth, 
 And baids, who saw his features bold, 
 When kindled by the tales of old, 
 Said, were that youth to manhood grown, 
 Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
 lie foremost voiced by mountain fame, 
 But quail to that of Malcolm Gricme. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Now back they wend their watery way, 
 And, " O my sire!" did Ellen say, 
 " Why urge thy chase so far astray? 
 And why so late returned? And why" — 
 The rest was in her speaking eye. 
 " My child, the chase I follow far, 
 'Tis mimicry of noble war: 
 And with that gallant pastime reft 
 Were all of Douglas I have left. 
 1 met young Malcolm as I strayed 
 Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade, 
 Nor strayed I safe ; for, all around, 
 Hunters and horsemen scoured the ground. 
 This youth, though still a royal ward, 
 Risked life and land to be my guard, 
 And through the passes of the wood 
 Guided my steps, not unpursued; 
 And Roderick shall his Avelcome make, 
 Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
 Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
 Nor peril aught for me agen." — 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, 
 Reddened at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
 
 @ 
 
CANTO II.— THE ISLAND. 
 
 o 
 
 1 1 
 
 & 
 
 Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
 Palled aught in hospitality. 
 In talk and sporl they uhiU'tl away 
 The morning of that summer day ; 
 Bu1 at high noon a courier light 
 Held secret parley with the knight, 
 Whose moody aspect soon declared, 
 That evil were the news he heard. 
 I Deep thought seemed toiling in his head; 
 I Yet was the evening banquet made, 
 [ Ere lie assembled round the flame, 
 I His mother, Douglas, and the Grteme, 
 And Ellen, too; then cast around 
 His eyes, then fixed them on the ground, 
 As studying phrase that might avail 
 Best to convey unpleasant talc. 
 Long with his dagger's hilt he played, 
 Then raised his haughty brow, and said: 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Short be my speech; — nor time affords, 
 
 Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 
 
 Kinsman and father, — if such name 
 
 Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim; 
 
 Mine honoured mother ; Ellen — why 
 
 My cousin, turn away thine eye? — 
 
 And Grteme ; in whom 1 hope to know 
 
 Full soon a noble friend or Joe, 
 
 When age shall give thee thy command, 
 
 And leading in thy native land, — 
 
 List all! — the King's vindictive pride 
 
 Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
 
 Where chiefs, with hound and hawk who came 
 
 To share their monarch's sylvan game, 
 
 Themselves in bloody toils were snared. 
 
 And when the banquet they prepared, 
 
 And wide their loyal portals Hung, 
 
 O'er their own gate-way struggling hung. 
 
 Loud cries their blood from Meggat's mead, 
 
 From Yarrow braes, and banks of Tweed, 
 
 Where the lone streams of Ettricke glide, 
 
 And from the silver Teviot's side ; 
 
 The dales, where martial clans did ride, 
 
 Are now one sheep-walk waste and wide. 
 
 This tyrant of the Scottish throne, 
 
 So faithless, and so ruthless known, 
 
 Now hither comes ; his end the same, 
 
 The same pretext of sylvan game. 
 
 What grace for Highland chiefs judge ye, 
 
 By fate of Border chivalry. 
 
 Yet more ; amid Glenfinlass green, 
 Douglas, thy stately form was seen. 
 
 This by espial sure I know: 
 
 Your counsel in the streight I show." — 
 XXIX. 
 
 Ellen and Margaret fearfully 
 
 Sought comfort^n each other's eye, 
 
 Then turned their ghastly look, each one, 
 
 This to her sire, that to her son. 
 
 The hasty colour went and came 
 
 In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme ; 
 
 But from his glance it well appeared, 
 
 'Twas but for Ellen that he feared ; 
 
 While sorrowful, but undismay'd. 
 
 The Douglas thus his counsel said, 
 
 " Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar, 
 
 It may but thunder and pass o'er; 
 
 Nor will I here remain an hour, 
 
 To draw the lightning on thy bower; 
 
 For well thou know'st, at this grey head 
 
 The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 
 
 For thee, who, at thy King's command, 
 
 Canst aid him with a gallant band, 
 
 Submission, homage, humbled pride, 
 
 Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 
 
 Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, 
 
 Ellen and I will seek, apart, 
 
 The refuge of some forest cell ; 
 There, like the hunted quarry, dwell, 
 Till on the mountain and the moor 
 The stern pursuit be passed and o'er." — 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " No, by mine honour," Roderick said, 
 
 " So help me heaven, and my good blade ! 
 
 No, never! Blasted be yon pine, 
 
 My father's ancient crest, and mine, 
 
 If from its shade in danger part 
 
 The lineage of the Bleeding Heart! 
 
 Hear my blunt speech: grant me this maid 
 
 To wife, thy counsel to mine aid; 
 
 To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dim, 
 
 Will friends and allies flock enow; 
 
 Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, 
 
 Will bind to ns each Western Chief. 
 
 When the loud pipes my bridal tell, 
 The Links of Forth shall hear the knell, 
 'The guards shall start in Stirling's porch ; 
 And when I light the nuptial torch, 
 A thousand villages in flames, 
 Shall scare the slumbers of King James! 
 — Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, 
 And, mother, cease these signs, I pray; 
 I meant not all my heat might say. — " 
 Small need of inroad, or of flight, 
 When the sage Douglas may unite 
 Each mountain clan in friendly band, 
 To guard the passes of their land, 
 Till the foiled King, from pathless glen, 
 Shall bootless turn him home agen." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 There are who have, at midnight hour, 
 
 In slumber scaled a dizzy tower, 
 
 And, on the verge that beetled o'er 
 
 The ocean-tide's incessant roar, 
 
 Dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream 
 
 Till wakened by the morning beam ; 
 
 When, dazzled by the eastern glow, 
 
 Such startler cast his glance below, 
 
 And saw unmeasured depth around, 
 
 And heard unintermitted sound, 
 
 And thought the battled fence so frail, 
 
 It waved like cobweb in the gale;— 
 
 Amid his senses' giddy wheel, 
 
 Did he not desperate impulse feel, 
 
 Headlong to plunge himself below, 
 
 And me^t the worst his fears foreshow? — 
 
 Thus,^Ellen, dizzy and astound, 
 
 As sudden ruin yawned around, 
 
 By crossing terrors wildly tossed, 
 
 Still for the Douglas fearing most, 
 
 Could scarce the desperate thought withstand, 
 
 To buy his safety with her hand. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy 
 In Ellen's quivering lip and eye, 
 And eager rose to speak — but ere 
 His tongue could hurry forth his fear, 
 Had Douglas marked the hectic strife, 
 Where death seemed combating with life ; 
 F'or to her cheek in feverish flood, 
 One instant rushed the throbbing blood, 
 Then ebbing back, with sudden sway, 
 Left its domain as wan as clay. 
 " Roderick, enough! enough!" he cried, 
 " My daughter cannot be thy bride ; 
 Not that the blush to wooer dear, 
 Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 
 It may not be — forgive her, chief, 
 Nor hazard aught for our relief. 
 Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 
 Will level a rebellious spear. 
 
 m 
 
-a 
 
 12 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 'Twas I that taught his youthful hand 
 
 To rein a steed and wield a brand ; 
 
 I see him yet, the princely boy! 
 
 Not Ellen more my pride and joy ; 
 
 I love him still, despite my wrongs, 
 
 By hasty wrath, and slanderous tongues. 
 
 seek the grace you well may find, 
 Without a cause to mine combined." — 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode ; 
 The waving of his tartans broad, 
 And darkened brow, where wounded pride 
 With ire and disappointment vied, 
 Seemed by the torch's gloomy light, 
 Like the ill Demon of the night, 
 Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
 Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: 
 But, unrequited Love! thy dart 
 Plunged deepest its envenomed smart, 
 And, Roderick, with thine anguish' stung, 
 At length the hand of Douglas wrung, 
 While eyes, that mocked at tears before, 
 With bitter drops were running o'er. 
 The death-pangs of long-cherished hope 
 Scarce in that ample breast had scope, 
 But, struggling with his spirit proud, 
 Convulsive heaved its chequered shroud, 
 While every sob — so mute were all — 
 Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
 The son's despair, the mother's look, 
 111 might the gentle Ellen brook; 
 She rose, and to her side there came, 
 To aid her parting steps, the Gncme. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then Roderick from the Douglas broke— 
 As flashes flame through sable smoke, 
 Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low, 
 To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 
 So the deep anguish of despair 
 Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 
 With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 
 On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid: 
 " Back, beardless boy!" he sternly said, 
 " Back, minion! hold'st thou thus at naught 
 The lesson I so lately taught? 
 This roof, the Douglas, and that maid, 
 Thank thou for punishment delayed." — 
 Eager as greyhound on his game, 
 Fiercely with Roderick grappled Grceme. 
 " Perish my name, if aught afford 
 Its chieftain safety, save his sword!" — 
 Thus as they strove, their desperate hand 
 Griped to the dagger or the brand, 
 And death had been — but Douglas rose, 
 And thrust between the struggling foes 
 His giant strength: — " Chieftains, forego! 
 
 1 hold the first who strikee, my foe. — 
 Madmen, forbear your franctic jar! 
 What ! is the Douglas fallen so far, 
 His daughter's hand is deemed the spoil 
 Of such dishonourable broil !" — 
 Sullen and slowly, they unclasp, 
 
 As struck with shame, their desperate grasp, 
 
 And each upon his rival glared, 
 
 With foot advanced, ^nd blade half-bared. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
 Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung, 
 And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, 
 As faltered through terrific dream. 
 Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword, 
 And veil'd his wrath in scornful w r ord. 
 " Rest safe till morning; pity 'twere 
 Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
 
 Then mayst thou to James Stuart tell, 
 Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
 Nor lackey, with his free-born clan, 
 The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
 More would he of Clan-Alpine know, 
 Thou canst our strength and passes show. — 
 Malise, what ho?'' — his bench-man came , 
 " Give our safe conduct to the Graeme." — 
 Young Malcolm answered, calm and buhl, 
 " Fear nothing for thy favourite hold ; 
 The spot, an angel deigned to grace, 
 Is blessed, though robbers haunt the place. 
 Thy churlish courtesy for those 
 Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 
 As safe to me the mountain way 
 At midnight, as in blaze of day, 
 Though with his boldest at his back, 
 Even Roderick Dhu beset the track. — 
 Brave Douglas,— lovely Ellen, — nay, 
 Nought here of parting will I say. 
 Earth does not hold a lonesome glen, 
 So secret, but we meet agen.^ — 
 Chieftain! we too shall find an hour." — 
 He said, and left the sylvan bower. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Old Allan followed to the strand, 
 
 (Such was the Douglas's command,) 
 
 And anxious told, how, on the morn, 
 
 The stem Sir Roderick deep had sworn, 
 
 The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
 
 Dale, glen, and valley, down, and moor. 
 
 Much were the peril to the Graeme, 
 
 From those avIio to the signal came ; 
 
 Far up the lake 'twere safest land, 
 
 Himself would row him to the strand. 
 
 He gave his counsel to the wind, 
 
 While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, 
 
 Round dirk and pouch and broad-sword rolled, 
 
 His ample plaid in tightened fold, 
 
 And stripped his limbs to such array, 
 
 As best might suit the watery way. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Then spoke abrupt : " Farewell to thee, 
 Pattern of old fidelity!"— 
 The minstrel's hand he kindly pressed, — 
 " O! could I point a place of rest! 
 My sovereign holds in ward my land, 
 My uncle leads my vassal band ; 
 To tame his foes, his friends to aid, 
 Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 
 Yet, if there be one faithful Grceme, 
 Who loves the Chieftain of his name, 
 Not long sbr** honoured Douglas dwell, 
 Like hunted stag in mountain cell ; 
 Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,— 
 I may not give the rest to air! — 
 Tell Roderick Dhu, I owed him nought, 
 Not the poor service of a boat, 
 To waft me to yon mountain side." — 
 Then plunged he in the flashing tide. 
 Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, 
 And stoutly steered him from the shore ; 
 And Allan strained his anxious eye, 
 Far 'mid the lake his form to spy. 
 Darkening across each puny wave, 
 To which the moon her silver gave, 
 Fast as the cormorant could skim, 
 The swimmer plied each active limb ; 
 Then landing in the moonlight dell, 
 Loud shouted of his Aveal to tell. 
 The Minstrel heard the far halloo, 
 And joyful from the shore withdrew. 
 
CANTO III.— THE GATHERING. 
 
 13 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 I. 
 
 Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore 
 Who danced our infancy upon their knee, 
 
 And told our marvelling boy-hood legends store, 
 Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, 
 
 How are they blotted from the things that be ! 
 How few, all weak and withered of their force, 
 
 Wait, on the verge of dark eternity, 
 Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, 
 
 To sweep them from our sight ! Time rolls his 
 ceaseless course. 
 
 Yet live there still who can remember well, 
 
 How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, 
 Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell, 
 
 And solitary heath, the signal knew ; 
 And fast the faithful clan around him drew, 
 
 What time the warning note was keenly wound, 
 What time aloft their kindred banner flew, 
 
 While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gather- 
 ing sound, 
 And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor 
 round. 
 
 II. 
 
 The summer dawn's reflected hue 
 
 To purple changed Loch-Katrine blue ; 
 
 Mildly and soft the western breeze 
 
 Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees, 
 
 And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
 
 Trembled but dimpled not for joy ; 
 
 The mountain shadows on her breast 
 
 Were neither broken nor at rest ; 
 
 In bright uncertainty they lie, 
 
 Like future joys to fancy's eye. 
 
 The water lily to the light 
 
 Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ; 
 
 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
 
 Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn ; 
 
 The grey mist left the mountain side, 
 
 The torrent showed its glistening pride ; 
 
 Invisible in flecked sky, 
 
 The lark sent down her revelry ; 
 
 The black-bird and the speckled thrush 
 
 Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; 
 
 In answer cooed the cushet dove 
 
 Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 
 
 III. 
 
 No thought of peace, no thought of rest, 
 Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. 
 With sheathed broad-sword in his hand, 
 Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 
 And eyed the rising sun, and laid 
 His hand on his impatient blade. 
 Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 
 Was prompt the ritual to prepare, 
 With deep and deathful meaning fraught ; 
 For such Antiquity had taught 
 Was preface meet, ere yet abroad 
 The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
 The shrinking band stood oft aghast 
 At the impatient glance he cast; — 
 Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
 As, from the cliffs of Ben-venue, 
 She spread her dark sails on the wind, 
 And, high in middle heaven reclined, 
 With her broad shadow on the lake, 
 Silenced the warblers of the brake. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A heap of withered boughs was piled, 
 Of juniper and rowan wild, 
 
 Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
 Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. 
 Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, 
 Bare-footed, in his frock and hood. 
 His grisled beard and matted hair 
 Obscured a visage of despair; 
 His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er, 
 The scars of frantic penance bore. 
 That Monk, of savage form and face, 
 The impending danger of his race 
 Had drawn from deepest solitude, 
 Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 
 Not his the mien of Christian priest, 
 But Druid's from the grave released, 
 Whose hardened heart and eye might brook- 
 On human sacrifice to look. 
 And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore 
 Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er; 
 The hallowed creed gave only worse 
 And deadlier emphasis of curse ; 
 No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, 
 His cave the pilgrim shunned with care, 
 The eager huntsman knew his bound, 
 And in mid chase called off his hound 
 Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 
 The desert-dweller met his path, 
 He prayed, and signed the cross between, 
 While terror took devotion's mien. 
 
 V. 
 
 Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. 
 
 His mother watched a midnight fold, 
 
 Built deep within a dreary glen, 
 
 Where scattered lay the bones of men, 
 
 In some forgotten battle slain, 
 
 And bleached by drifting wind and rain. 
 
 It might have tamed a warrior's heart, 
 
 To view such mockery of his art! 
 
 The knot grass fettered there the hand, 
 
 Which once could burst an iron band ; 
 
 Beneath the broad and ample bone, 
 
 That bucklered heart to fear unknown, 
 
 A feeble and a timorous guest, 
 
 The field-hare framed her lowly nest ; 
 
 There the slow blind-worm left his slime 
 
 On the fleet limbs that mocked at time ; 
 
 And there, too, lay the leader's skull, 
 
 Still Avreathed with chaplet flushed and full, 
 
 For heath-bell, with her purple bloom, 
 
 Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 
 
 All night, in this sad glen, the majd 
 
 Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade : 
 
 — She said, no shepherd sought her side, 
 
 No hunter's hand her snood untied, 
 
 Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
 
 The virgin snood did Alice wear ; 
 
 Gone was her maiden glee and sport, 
 
 Her maiden girdle all too short, 
 
 Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 
 
 Or holy church or blessed rite, 
 
 But locked her secret in her breast, 
 
 And died in travail, unconfessed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alone, among his young compeers, 
 Was Brian from his infant years ; 
 A moody and heart-broken boy, 
 Estranged from sympathy and joy, 
 Bearing each taunt Avhich careless tongue 
 On his mysterious lineage flung. 
 Whole nights he spent by moon-light pale., 
 To wood and stream his hap to wail, 
 Till, frantic, he as truth received 
 What of his birth the crowd believed, 
 
©-- 
 
 14 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 ©- 
 
 And sought, in mist and meteor fire, 
 To meet and know his Phantom Sire ! 
 In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, 
 The cloister oped her pitying gate ; 
 In vain, the learning of the age 
 Unclasped the sable-lettered page ; 
 Even in its treasures he could find 
 Food for the fever of his mind. 
 Eager he read whatever tells 
 Of magic, cabala, and spells, 
 And every dark pursuit allied 
 To curious and presumptuous pride, 
 Till, with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung 
 And heart with mystic horrors wrung, 
 Desperate he sought Benharrow's den, 
 And hid him from the haunts of men. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The desert gave him visions wild, 
 
 Such as might suit the Spectre's child. 
 
 Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, 
 
 He watched the wheeling eddies boil, 
 
 Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes 
 
 Beheld the river-demon rise ; 
 
 The mountain mist took form and limb, 
 
 Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ; 
 
 The midnight wind came wild and dread, 
 
 Swelled with the voices of the dead ; 
 
 Far on the future battle-heath 
 
 His eye beheld the ranks of death: 
 
 Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled, 
 
 Shaped forth a disembodied world. 
 
 One lingering sympathy of mind 
 
 Still bound him to the mortal kind ; 
 
 The only parent he could claim 
 
 Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 
 
 Late had he heard, in prophet's dream, 
 
 The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ; 
 
 Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast, 
 
 Of charging steeds, careering fast 
 
 Along Benharrow's shingly side, 
 
 Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride ; 
 
 The thunderbolt had split the pine,— 
 
 All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 
 
 He girt his loins, and came to show 
 
 The signals of impending woe, 
 
 And now stood prompt to bless or ban, 
 
 As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Twas all prepared ;— and from the rock, 
 A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 
 Before the kindling pile was laid, 
 And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. 
 Patient the sickening victim eyed 
 The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
 Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, 
 Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
 The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
 A slender crosslet formed with care, 
 A cubit's length in measure due ; 
 The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 
 Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
 Their shadows o'er Clan- Alpine's grave, 
 And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, 
 Soothe many a cheftain's endless sleep. 
 The Cross, thus formed, he held on high, 
 With wasted hand, and haggard eye, 
 And strange and mingled feelings woke, 
 While his anathema he spoke. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Woe to the clans-man, who shall view 
 This symbol of sepulchral yew, 
 Forgetful that its branches grew 
 Where weep the heavens their holiest dew 
 On Alpine's dwelling low! 
 
 Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, 
 He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, 
 But, from his sires and kindred thrust, 
 Each clans-man's execration just 
 
 Shall doom him wrath and woe. " 
 He paused ; — the word the Vassals took, 
 With forward step and fiery look, 
 On high their naked brands they shook. 
 Their clattering targets wildly strook ; 
 
 And first, in murmur low, 
 Then, like the billow in his course, 
 That far to seaward finds his source, 
 And flings to shore his mustered force, 
 Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, 
 
 " Woe to the traitor, woe!" 
 Ben-an's grey scalp the accents knew, 
 The joyous wolf from covert drew, 
 The exulting eagle scream'd afar, — 
 They knew the voice of Alpine's war. 
 
 X. 
 
 The shout was hushed on lake and fell, 
 The Monk resumed his muttered spell. 
 Dismal and low its accents came, 
 The while he scathed the Cross with flame ; 
 And the few words that reached the air, 
 Although the holiest name was there, 
 Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
 But when he shook above the crowd 
 Its kindled points, he spoke aloud: — 
 " Woe to the wretch, who fails to rear 
 At this dread sign the ready spear! 
 For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
 His home, the refuge of his fear, 
 
 A kindred fate shall know ; 
 Far o'er its roof the volumed flame 
 Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, 
 While maids and matrons on his name 
 Shall call down wretchedness and shame, 
 
 And infamy and woe." — 
 Then rose the cry of females, shrill 
 As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill, 
 Denouncing misery and ill, 
 Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 
 
 Of curses stammered slow; 
 Answering, with imprecations dread, 
 " Sunk be his home in embers red! 
 And cursed be the meanest shed 
 That e'er shall hide the houseless head, 
 
 We doom to want and woe ! " 
 A sharp and shrieking echo gave. 
 Coir-uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 
 And the grey pass where birches wave, 
 
 On Beala-nam-bo. 
 
 XL 
 Then deeper paused the priest anew, 
 And hard his labouring breath he drew, 
 While with set teeth and clenched hand, 
 And eyes that glowed like fiery brand, 
 He meditated curse more dread, 
 And deadlier, on the clans-man's head, 
 Who, summoned to his Chieftain's aid, 
 The signal saw and disobeyed. 
 The crosslet's points of sparkling wood, 
 He quenched among the bubbling blood, 
 And, as again the sign he reared, 
 Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: 
 " When flits this Cross from man to man, 
 Vich- Alpine's summons to his clan, 
 Burst be the ear that fails to heed! 
 Palsied the foot that shuns to speed! 
 May ravens tear the careless eyes, 
 W r olves make the coward heart their prize ! 
 As sinks the blood-stream in the earth, 
 So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth'. 
 As dies in hissing gore the spark, 
 Quench thou his light, Destruction dark! 
 
 ^© 
 
e 
 
 r^ 
 
 )ANTO III.— THE GATHERING. 
 
 15 
 
 ft 
 
 I And, be the grace to him denied, 
 I Bought by this sign to all beside!" — 
 I He ceased: no echo gave agen 
 i The murmur of the deep Amen. 
 
 I 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
 , From Brian's hand the symbol took: 
 " Speed, Malise, speed!" he said, and gave 
 The crosslet to his hench-man brave. 
 " The muster-place be Lanric mead — 
 Instant the time — speed, Malise, speed!" — 
 Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, 
 A, barge across Loch-Katrine flew; 
 High stood the hench-man on the prow, 
 So rapidly the bargemen row, 
 The bubbles, where they launched the boat, 
 Were all unbroken and afloat, 
 Dancing in foam and ripple still, 
 When it had neared the mainland hill ; 
 And from the silver beach's side 
 Still was the prow three fathom wide, 
 When lightly bounded to the laud, 
 The messenger of blood and brand. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide 
 On fleeter foot was never tied. 
 Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste 
 Thine active sinews never braced. 
 Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 
 Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
 With short and springing footstep pass 
 The trembling bog and false morass ; 
 Across the brook like roe-buck bound, 
 And thread the brake like questing hound ; 
 The crag is high, the scar is deep, 
 Yet shrink not from the desperate leap : 
 Parched are thy burning lips and brow, 
 Yet by the fountain pause not now, 
 Herald of battle, fate, and fear, 
 Stretch onward in thy fleet career! 
 The wounded hind thou track'st not now, 
 Pursu'st not maid through greenwood bough, 
 Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace 
 With rivals in the mountain race ; 
 But danger, death, and warrior deed, 
 Are in thy course— Speed, Malise, speed! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
 In arms the huts and hamlets rise ; 
 From winding glen, from upland brown, 
 They poured each hardy tenant down. 
 Nor slacked the messenger his pace ; 
 He showed the sign, he named the place, 
 And, pressing forward like the wind, 
 Left clamour and surprise behind. 
 The fisherman forsook the strand, 
 The swarthy smith took dirk and brand ; 
 With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
 Left in the half-cut swathe his scythe ; 
 The herds without a keeper strayed, 
 The plough was in mid-furrow staid, 
 The falc'ner tossed his hawk away, 
 The hunter left the stag at bay ; 
 Prompt at the signal of alarms, 
 Each son of Alpine rushed to arms ; 
 So swept the tumult and affray 
 Along the margin of Achray. 
 Alas, thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
 Thy banks should echo sounds of fear! 
 The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
 So stilly on thy bosom deep, 
 The lark's blithe carol from the cloud, 
 Seems for the scene too gaily loud. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past, 
 
 Duncraggan's huts appear at last, 
 
 And peep, like moss-groAvn rocks, half seen, 
 
 Half hidden in the copse so green; 
 
 There mayst thou rest, thy labour done, 
 
 Their Lord shall speed the signal on. — 
 
 As stoops the hawk upon his prey, 
 
 The hench-man shot him down the way. 
 
 — What woeful accents load the gale? 
 
 The funeral yell, the female wail! 
 
 A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 
 
 A valiant warrior fights no more. 
 
 Who, in the battle or the chase, 
 
 At Roderick's side shall fill his place! — 
 
 Within the hall, where torches' ray 
 
 Supplies the excluded beams of day, 
 
 Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 
 
 And o'er him streams his widow's tear. 
 
 His stripling son stands mournful by, 
 
 His youngest weeps, but knows not why ; 
 
 The village maids and matrons round 
 
 The dismal coronach resound. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ©oronanj. 
 
 He is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest, 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font, re-appearing, 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no cheering, 
 
 To Duncan no morrow. 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary, 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory ; 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest, 
 But our flower was in flushing, 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber! 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like the foam on the river, 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone, and for ever! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 See Stumah, who, the bier beside, 
 His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 
 Poor Stumah! whom his least halloo 
 Could send like lightning o'er the dew, 
 Bristles his crest, and points his ears, 
 As if some stranger step he hears. 
 'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, 
 Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 
 But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 
 Urge the precipitate career. 
 All stand aghast : — unheeding all, 
 The hench-man burst into the hall ; 
 Before the dead man's bier he stood, 
 Held forth the Cross besmeared with blood : 
 " The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 
 Speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 
 Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 
 In haste the stripling to his side 
 His father's dirk and broad-sword tied; 
 
16 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 But when he saw his mother's eye 
 
 Watch him in speechless agony, 
 
 Back to her opened arms he flew, 
 
 Pressed on her lips a fond adieu- — 
 
 " Alas!" she sobbed, — " and yet begone, 
 
 And speed thee forth like Duncan's son!" — 
 
 One look he cast upon the bier, 
 
 Dashed from his eye the gathering tear, 
 
 Breathed deep, to clear his labouring breast, 
 
 And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest, 
 
 Then like the high-bred colt, when freed 
 
 First he essays his fire and speed, 
 
 He vanished, and o'er moor and moss 
 
 Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 
 
 Suspended was the widow's tear, 
 
 While yet his footsteps she could hear; 
 
 And when she marked the hench-man's eye 
 
 Wet with unwonted sympathy, 
 
 " Kinsman," she said, " his race is run, 
 
 That should have sped thine errand on ; 
 
 The oak has fallen, — the sapling bough 
 
 Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 
 
 Yet trust I well, his duty done, 
 
 The orphan's God will guard my son.— . 
 
 And you, in many a danger true, 
 
 At Duncan's liest your blades that drew, 
 
 To arms, and guard that orphan's head ! 
 
 Let babes and women wail the dead." — 
 
 Then weapon-clang, and martial call, 
 
 Resounded through the funeral hall, 
 
 While from the walls the attendant band 
 
 Snatched sword and targe, with hurried hand ; 
 
 And short and Hitting energy 
 
 Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
 
 As if the sounds to warrior dear 
 
 Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. 
 
 But laded soon that borrowed force ; 
 
 Grief claimed his right, and tears their course. 
 
 XIX. 
 Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 
 It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. 
 O'er dale and hill the summons flew, 
 Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew ; 
 The tear, that gathered in his eye, 
 He left the mountain breeze to dry : 
 Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
 Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
 That graced the sable strath with green, 
 The chapel of Saint Bride Avas seen. 
 Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, 
 But Angus paused not on the edge ; 
 Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
 Though reeled his sympathetic eye, 
 He dashed amid the torrent's roar; 
 His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
 His left the polo-axe grasped to guide 
 And stay his footing on the tide. 
 He stumbled twice — the foam splashed high, 
 With hoarser swell the stream raced by; 
 And had he fallen, — for ever there, 
 Farewell Duncraggan's oqihanheir! 
 But still, as if in parting life, 
 Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife, 
 Until the opposing bank he gained, 
 And up the chapel path-way strained. 
 
 XX. 
 
 A blithesome rout, that morning tide, 
 Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride. 
 Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
 To Norman, heir of Armandave, 
 And, issuing from the Gothic arch, 
 The bridal now resumed their march. 
 In rude, but glad procession, came 
 Bonnetted sire and coif-clad dame ; 
 And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, 
 Which snooded maiden would not hear; 
 
 And children, that, unwitting why, 
 Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry ; 
 And minstrels, that in measures vied 
 Before the young and bonny bride, 
 Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
 The tear -and blush of morning rose. 
 With virgin step, and bashful hand, 
 She held the kerchief's snowy band ; 
 The gallant bridegroom, by her side, 
 Beheld his prize with victor's pride, 
 And the glad mother in her ear 
 Was closely Avhispering word of cheer. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Who meets them at the church-yard gate?- 
 
 The messenger of fear and fate ! 
 
 Haste in his hurried accent lies, 
 
 And grief is swimming in his eyes. 
 
 All dripping from the recent flood, 
 
 Panting and travel-soiled he stood, 
 
 The fatal sign of fire and sword 
 
 Held forth, and spoke the appointed word ; 
 
 " The muster-place is Lanrick mead. 
 
 Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!" — 
 
 And must he change so soon the hand, 
 
 Just linked to his by holy band, 
 
 For the fell Cross of blood and brand? 
 
 And must the day, so blithe that rose, 
 
 And promised rapture in the close, 
 
 Before its setting hour, divide 
 
 The bridegroom from the plighted bride? 
 
 fatal doom! — it must! it must! 
 Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 
 Her summons dread, brooks no delay ; 
 Stretch to the race — away! away! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 
 
 And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, 
 
 Until he saw the starting tear 
 
 Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; 
 
 Then, trusting not a second look, 
 
 In haste he sped him up the brook, 
 
 Nor backward glanced till on the heath 
 
 Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. 
 
 — What in the racer's bosom stirred? 
 
 The sickening pang of hope deferred, 
 
 And memory, with a torturing train 
 
 Of all his morning visions vain. 
 
 Mingled with love's impatience, came 
 
 The manly thirst for martial fame ; 
 
 The stormy joy of mountaineers, 
 
 Ere yet they rush upon the spears ; 
 
 And zeal for clan and chieftain burning, 
 
 And hope, from well-fought field returning, 
 
 With war's red honours on his crest, 
 
 To clasp his Mary to his breast. 
 
 Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, 
 
 Like fire from flint he glanced away, 
 
 While high resolve, and feeling strong, 
 
 Burst into voluntary song. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Song. 
 The heath this night must be my bed, 
 The bracken curtain for my head, 
 My lullaby the warder's tread, 
 
 Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; 
 To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
 My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
 My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 
 
 It will not waken me, Mary I 
 
 1 may not, dare not, fancy now 
 
 The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 
 I dare not think upon thy vow, 
 And all it promised me, Mary. 
 
 --© 
 
CANTO III.— THE GATHERING. 
 
 17 
 
 =@ 
 
 No fond regret must Norman know ; 
 
 When burst Clan- Alpine on the foe, 
 
 His heart must be like bended bow, 
 
 His foot like arrow free, Mary. 
 
 A time will come with feeling fraught! 
 For, if I fall in battle fought, 
 Thy hapless lover's dying thought 
 
 Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
 And if returned from conquered foes, 
 How blithely will the evening close, 
 How sweet the linnet sing repose, 
 
 To my young bride and me, Mary! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
 Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, 
 Rushing, in conflagration strong, 
 The deep ravines and dells along, 
 Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, 
 And reddening the dark lakes below ; 
 Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, 
 As o'er thy heaths the voice of war, 
 The signal roused to martial coil 
 The sullen margin of Loch-Voil, 
 Waked still Loch-Doine, and to the source 
 Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course; 
 Thence southward turned its rapid road 
 Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad, 
 Till rose in arms each man might claim 
 A portion in Clan- Alpine's name ; 
 From the grey sire, whose trembling hand 
 Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
 To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
 Were yet scarce terror to the crow. 
 Each valley, each sequestered glen, 
 Mustered its little horde of men, 
 That met as torrents from the height 
 In Highland dale their streams unite, 
 Still gathering, as they pour along, 
 A voice more loud, a tide more strong, 
 Till at the rendezvous they stood 
 By hundreds prompt for blows and blood ; 
 Each trained to arms since life began, 
 Owning no tie but to his clan, 
 No oath, but by his Chieftain's hand, 
 No law, but Roderick Dhu's command. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 That summer morn had Roderick Dhu 
 Surveyed the skirts of Benvenue, 
 And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, 
 To view the frontiers of Menteith. 
 All backward came with news of truce ; 
 Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, 
 In Rednock courts no horsemen wait, 
 No banner waved on Cardross gate, 
 On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, 
 Nor scared the herons from Loch-con ; 
 All seemed at peace. — Now, wot ye why 
 The Chieftain, with such anxious eye, 
 Ere to the muster he repair, 
 This western frontier scann'd with care? 
 In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, 
 A fair, though cruel, pledge was left ; 
 For Douglas, to his promise true, 
 That morning from the isle withdrew, 
 And in a deep sequestered dell 
 Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
 By many a bard, in Celtic tongue, 
 Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung ; 
 A softer name the Saxons gave, 
 And called the grot the Goblin-cave. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 It was a wild and strange retreat, 
 As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
 
 The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
 Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast ; 
 Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
 Hurled by primeval earthquake shock 
 From Benvenue's grey summit wild, 
 And here, in random ruin piled, 
 They frowned incumbent o'er the spot, 
 And formed the rugged sylvan grot. 
 The oak and birch, with mingled shade, 
 At noontide there a twilight made, 
 Unless when short and sudden shone 
 Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, 
 With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
 Gains on thy depth, Futurity. 
 No murmur waked the solemn still, 
 Save twinkling of a fountain rill ; 
 But when the wind chafed with the lake, 
 A sullen sound would upward break, 
 With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
 The incessant war of wave and rock. 
 Suspended cliffs, with hideous sway, 
 Seemed nodding o'er the cavern grey. 
 From such a den the wolf had sprung, 
 In such the wild cat leaves her young ; 
 Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
 Sought for a space their safety there. 
 Grey Superstition's whisper dread 
 Debarred the spot to vulgar tread, 
 For there, she said, did fays resort, 
 And satyrs hold their sylvan court, 
 By moon-light tread their mystic maze, 
 And blast the rash beholder's gaze. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Now eve, with western shadows long, 
 
 Floated on Katrine bright and strong, 
 
 When Roderick with a chosen few, 
 
 Repassed the heights of Benvenue. 
 
 Above the Goblin-cave they go, 
 
 Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-Bo; 
 
 The prompt retainers speed before, 
 
 To launch the shallop from the shore, 
 
 For cross Loch-Katrine lies his way 
 
 To view the passes of Acliray, 
 
 And place his clansmen in array. 
 
 Yet lags the Chief in musing mind, 
 
 Unwonted sight, his men behind. 
 
 A single page, to bear his sword, 
 
 Alone attended on his lord: 
 
 The rest their Avay through thickets break, 
 
 And soon await him by the lake. 
 
 It Avas a fair and gallant sight, 
 
 To view them from the neghbouring height, 
 
 By the low-levelled sun-beams light ; 
 
 For strength and stature, from the clan 
 
 Each warrior was a chosen man, 
 
 As even afar might well be seen, 
 
 By their proud step and martial mien. 
 
 Their feathers dance, their tartans float, 
 
 Their targets gleam, as by the boat 
 
 A wild and Avarlike group they stand, 
 
 That well became such mountain strand. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Their Chief, with step reluctant, still 
 Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
 Hard by where turned apart the road 
 To Douglas's obscure abode. 
 It was but with that dawning morn 
 That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn, 
 To drown his love in Avar's Avild roar, 
 Nor think of Ellen Douglas more ; 
 But he who stems a stream with sand, 
 And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
 Has yet a harder task to prove — 
 By firm resolve to conquer love ! 
 
18 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 =@ 
 
 Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, 
 Still hovering near his treasure lost; 
 For though his haughty heart deny 
 A parting meeting to his eye, 
 Still fondly strains his anxious ear, 
 The accents of her voice to hear, 
 And inly did he curse the breeze 
 That waked to sound the rustling trees. 
 But, hark! what mingles in the strain? 
 It is the harp of Allan-bane, 
 That wakes its measures slow and high, 
 Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 
 What melting voice attends the strings? 
 'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 ^»mn to the Ftrgt'n. 
 
 Ave Maria.' maiden mild! 
 
 Listen to a maiden's prayer; 
 Thou canst hear though from the wild, 
 
 Thou canst save amid despair. 
 Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 
 
 Though banished, outcast, and reviled — 
 Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 
 
 Mother, hear a suppliant child! Arc Maria ! 
 Ave Maria! undefiled! 
 
 The flinty couch we now must share, 
 Shall seem with down of eider piled, 
 
 If thy protection hover there. 
 The murky cavern's heavy air 
 
 Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled ; 
 Then, Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer, 
 
 Mother, list a suppliant child! Ave Maria ! 
 Ave Maria ! Stainless styled! 
 
 Foul demons of the earth and air, 
 From this their wonted haunt exiled, 
 
 Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
 We bow us to our lot of care, 
 
 Beneath thy guidance reconciled: 
 Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, 
 
 And for a father hear a child! Are Maria ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Died on the harp the closing hymn — 
 Unmoved in attitude and limb, 
 As listening still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
 Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 
 Until the page, with humble sign, 
 Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
 Then, while his plaid he round him cast, 
 " It is the last time — 'tis the last," — 
 He muttered thrice,—" the last time e'er 
 That angel voice shall Roderick hear!"— 
 It was a goading thought — his stride 
 Hied hastier down the mountain side ; 
 Sullen he flung him in the boat, 
 And instant cross the lake it shot. 
 They landed in that silvery bay, 
 And eastward held their hasty way, 
 Till, with the latest beams of light, 
 The band arrived on Lanrick height, 
 Where mustered in the vale below, 
 Clan-Alpine's men in martial show. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A various scene the clansmen made, 
 
 Some sate, some stood, some slowly strayed ; 
 
 But most, with mantles folded round, 
 
 Were couched to rest upon the ground, 
 
 Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
 
 From the deep heather where they lie, 
 
 So well was matched the tartan screen 
 
 With heath-bell dark and brackens green ; 
 
 Unless where, hero and there, a blade, 
 
 Or lance's point, a glimmer made, 
 
 Like glow-worm twinkling through the shade. 
 
 But, when, advancing through the gloom, 
 
 They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, 
 
 Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, 
 
 Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
 
 Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
 
 Three times returned the martial yell. 
 
 It died upon Bochastle's plain* 
 
 And Silence claimed her evening reign. 
 
 CANTO IV— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 " The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 
 
 A nd hope is brightest when i t dawns from fears ; 
 The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, 
 
 And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. 
 O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, 
 
 I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 
 Emblem of hope and love through future years!" 
 
 Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Arman- 
 
 dave, [wave. 
 
 What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad 
 
 II. 
 
 Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, 
 
 Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. 
 
 All while he stripped the wild-rose spray, 
 
 His axe and bow beside him lay, 
 
 For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood, 
 
 A wakeful sentinel he stood. 
 
 Hark! — on the rock a footstep rung, 
 
 And instant to his arms he sprung. 
 
 " Stand, or thou diest! — What, Malise? — soon 
 
 Art thou returned from Braes of Doune. 
 
 By thy keen step and glance I know, 
 
 Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe." — 
 
 (For while the Fiery Cross hied on, 
 
 On distant scout had Malise gone.) 
 
 " Where sleeps the Chief?" the hench-man said. 
 
 " Apart in yonder misty glade ; 
 
 ®= 
 
 To his lone couch I'll be your guide." — 
 Then called a slumberer by his side, 
 And stirred him with his slackened bow — 
 " Up, up, Glentarkin! rouse thee, ho! 
 We seek the Chieftain ; on the track, 
 Keep eagle watch till I come back." — 
 
 III. 
 Together up the pass they sped: 
 " What of the foeman?'' Norman ?aid.- — 
 " Varying reports from near and far ; 
 This certain, — that a band of war 
 Has for two days been ready boune, 
 At prompt command, to march from Doune ; 
 King James, the while, with princely powers, 
 Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
 Soon will this dark and gathering cloud 
 Speak on our glens in thunder loud. 
 Inured to bide such bitter bout, 
 The warrior's plaid may bear it out ; 
 But, Norman, how wilt thou provide 
 A shelter for thy bonny bride?'' — 
 " What! know ye not that Roderick's care 
 To the lone isle hath caused repair 
 Each maid and matron of the clan, 
 And every child and aged man 
 Unfit for arms? and given his charge, 
 Nor skiff* nor shallop, boat nor barge, 
 Upon these lakes shall float at large, 
 
 -£) 
 
Q 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 19 
 
 ■o 
 
 But all beside the islet moor, 
 
 That such dear pledge may rest secure?" — 
 
 IV. 
 
 " 9 Tis well advised — the Chieftain's plan 
 
 Bespeaks the father of his clan. 
 
 But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu 
 
 Apart from all his followers true?"— 
 
 "It is, because last evening-tide 
 
 Brian an augury hath tried, 
 
 Of that dread kind which must not be 
 
 Unless in dread extremity, 
 
 The Taghairm called; by which, afar, 
 
 Our sires foresaw the events of war. 
 
 Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew," 
 
 MALISE. 
 
 " Ah! well the gallant brute I knew, 
 
 The choicest of the prey we had, 
 
 When swept our merry-men Gallangad. 
 
 His hide was snow, his horns were dark, 
 
 His red eye glowed like fiery spark; 
 
 So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, 
 
 Sore did he cumber our retreat, 
 
 And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 
 
 Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 
 
 But steep and flinty was the road, 
 
 And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, 
 
 And when we came to Dennan's Row, 
 
 A child might scatheless stroke his brow." — 
 
 V. 
 
 " That bull was slain: his reeking hide 
 They stretched the cataract beside, 
 Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
 Adown the black and craggy boss 
 Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
 Tradition calls the Hero's Targe. 
 Couched on a shelve beneath its brink, 
 Close where the thundering torrents sink, 
 Rocking beneath their headlong sway, 
 And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, 
 Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream, 
 The wizard waits prophetic dream. 
 Nor distant rests the Chief: — but hush! 
 See, gliding slow through mist and bush, 
 The Hermit gains yon rock, and stands. 
 To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
 Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, 
 That hovers o'er a slaughtered host? 
 Or raven on the blasted oak, 
 That, watching while the deer is broke, 
 His morsel claims with sullen croak ?'' — 
 — " Peace ! peace ! to other than to me, 
 Thy words were evil augury ; 
 But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 
 Clan- Alpine's omen and her aid, 
 Not aught that, gleaned from heaven or hell, 
 Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 
 The Chieftain joins him, see — and now, 
 Together they descend the brow." — 
 
 VI. 
 
 And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord 
 The Hermit Monk held solemn word: ' 
 " Roderick! it is a fearful strife, 
 For man endowed with mortal life, 
 Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
 Feel feverish pang and fainting chill, 
 Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
 Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance, — 
 'Tis hard for such to view, unfurl'd, 
 The curtain of the future world. 
 Yet, witness every quaking limb, 
 My sunken pulse, mine eye-balls dim, 
 My soul with harrowing anguish torn, 
 This for my Chieftain have I borne!— 
 
 The shapes that sought my fearful couch, 
 
 A human tongue may ne'er avouch ; 
 
 No mortal man, — save he, who, bred 
 
 Between the living and the dead, 
 
 Is gifted beyond nature's law, — 
 
 Had e'er survived to say he saw. 
 
 At length the fateful answer came, 
 
 In characters of living flame! 
 
 Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 
 
 But borne and branded on my soul ; — 
 
 Which spills the foremost foeman's life, 
 
 That party conquers in the strife." 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care! 
 Good is thine augury, and fair. 
 Clan- Alpine ne'er in battle stood, 
 But first our broad-swords tasted blood. 
 A surer victim still I know, 
 Self-offered to the auspicious blow ; 
 A spy has sought my land this morn, — 
 No eve shall witness his return! 
 My followers guard each pass's mouth, 
 To east, to westward, and to south ; 
 Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, 
 Has charge to lead his steps aside, 
 Till, in deep path or dingle brown, 
 He light on those shall bring him down. 
 — But see, who comes his news to show! 
 Malise! what tidings of the foe ?" — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive, 
 
 Two Barons proud their banners wave. 
 
 I saw the Moray's silver star, 
 
 And marked the sable pale of Mar." — 
 
 " By Alpine's soul, high tidings those! 
 
 I love to hear of worthy foes. 
 
 When move they on?" — " To-morrow's noon 
 
 Will see them here for battle boune." — 
 
 " Then shall it see a meeting stern!' — 
 
 But, for the place — say, couldst thou learn 
 
 Nought of the friendly clans of Earn? 
 
 Strengthened by them we well might bide 
 
 The battle on Benledi's side. 
 
 Thou couldst not? — well! Clan- Alpine's men 
 
 Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen ; 
 
 Within Loch-Katrine's gorge we'll fight. 
 
 All in our maids' and matrons' sight, 
 
 Each for his hearth and household fire, 
 
 Father for child, and son for sire, — 
 
 Lover for maid beloved! — but why — 
 
 Is it the breeze affects mine eye? 
 
 Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear 
 
 A messenger of doubt or fear? 
 
 No ! sooner may the Saxon lance 
 
 Unfix Benledi from his stance, 
 
 Than doubt or terror can pierce through 
 
 The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu; 
 
 'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe.- — 
 
 Each to his post! — all know their charge."—- 
 
 The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, 
 
 The broad-swords gleam, the banners dance, 
 
 Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. 
 
 —I turn me from the martial roar, 
 
 And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Where is the Douglas? — he is gone ; 
 And Ellen sits on the grey stone 
 Fast by the cave, and makes her moan; 
 While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
 Are poured on her unheeding ear. — 
 "He will return — dear lady, trust! — 
 With joy return; — he will— he must. 
 Well was it time to seek afar, 
 Some refuge from impending war, 
 
 I 
 
20 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 O 
 
 When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm 
 Are cow'd by the approaching storm. 
 I saw their boats, with many a light, 
 Floating the live-long yesternight, 
 Shifting like flashes darted forth 
 By the red streamers of the north ; 
 I marked at morn how close they ride, 
 Thick moored by the lone islet's side, 
 Like wild ducks couching in the fen, 
 When stoops the hawk upon the glen, 
 Since this rude race dare not abide 
 The peril on the main-land side, 
 Shall not thy noble father's care 
 Some safe retreat for thee prepare?"— 
 
 X. 
 
 " No, Allan, no! Pretext so kind 
 My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
 When in such tender tone, yet grave, 
 Douglas a parting blessing gave, 
 The tear that glistened in his eye 
 Drowned not his purpose fixed and high. 
 My soul, though feminine and weak, 
 Can image his; e'en as the lake, 
 Itself disturbed by slightest stroke, 
 Reflects the invulnerable rock. 
 He hears reports of battle rife, 
 He deems himself the cause of strife. 
 I saw him redden, when the theme 
 Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream, 
 Of Malcolm Grfcme in fetters bound, 
 Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. 
 Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen aught? 
 Oh no! 'twas apprehensive thought 
 For the kind youth, — for Roderick too — 
 (Let me be just) that friend so true ; 
 In danger both, and in our cause! 
 Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 
 Why else that solemn warning given. 
 ' If not on earth, we meet in heaven?' 
 Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane, 
 If eve return him not again, 
 Am 1 to hie and make me known? 
 Alas! he goes to Scotland's throne, 
 Buys his friends' safety with his own; — 
 He goes to do— what 1 had done, 
 Had Douglas' daughter been his son!" 
 
 XL 
 
 " Nay, lovely Ellen! — dearest, nay! 
 If aught should his return delay, 
 He only named yon holy fane, 
 As fitting place to meet again. 
 Be sure he's safe ; and for the Graeme,- — 
 Heaven's blessing on his gallant name! — 
 I\ly visioned sight may yet prove true, 
 Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
 When did my gifted dream beguile? 
 Think of the stranger at the isle, 
 And think upon the harpings slow, 
 That presaged this approaching woe! 
 Sooth was my prophecy of fear ; 
 Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
 Would we had left this dismal spot! 
 Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
 Of such a wondrous tale I know — 
 Dear lady, change that look of woe! 
 My harp was wont thy grief to cheer,"-— 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 " Well, be it as thou wilt ; I hear, 
 But cannot stop the bursting tear." — 
 The Minstrel tried his simple art, 
 But distant far was Ellen's heart. 
 
 XII. 
 
 3Saiiafcr. 
 
 ALICE BRAND. 
 
 Merry it is in the good green wood, 
 
 When the mavis and merle are singing, 
 
 When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are 
 in cry, 
 And the hunter's horn is ringing. 
 
 " O Alice Brand, my native land 
 
 Is lost for love of you ; 
 And we must hold by wood and wold, 
 
 As outlaws wont to do. 
 
 " O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
 And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 
 
 That on the night of our luckless flight, 
 Thy brother bold I slew. 
 
 " Now must I teach to hew the beech, 
 
 The hand that held the glaive, 
 For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 
 
 And stakes to fence our cave. 
 
 " And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, 
 
 That wont on harp to stray, 
 A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer, 
 
 To keep the cold away." — 
 
 " O Richard! if my brother died, 
 
 'Twas but a fatal chance ; 
 For darkling was the battle tried, 
 
 And fortune sped the lance. 
 
 "If pall and vair no more I wear, 
 
 Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
 As warm, avc'11 say, is the russet grey, 
 
 As gay the forest green. 
 
 " And Richard, if our lot be hard, 
 
 And lost thy native land, 
 Still Alice has her own Richard, 
 
 And he his Alice Brand." — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ISallatf ecntmurti. 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green wood, 
 
 So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 
 On the beech's pride, and the oak's brown side, 
 
 Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 
 
 Up spoke the moody Elfin king, 
 
 Who won'd within the hill, — 
 Like wind in the porch of a ruined church, 
 
 His voice was ghostly shrill. 
 
 Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 
 
 is yc 
 Our moonlight circle 
 
 's screen.'' 
 
 Or who comes here to chace the deer, 
 
 Beloved of our Elfin Queen? 
 Or who may dare on wold to wear 
 
 The fairie's fatal green? 
 
 " Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, 
 
 For thou wert christened man ; 
 For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
 
 For muttered word or ban. 
 
 " Lay on him the curse of the withered heart, 
 
 The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
 Till he wish and pray that his life would part, 
 
 Nor yet find leave to- die." — 
 
 XIV. 
 
 2SalIa& ©rmttttueti, 
 
 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good green wood, 
 Though the birds have stilled their singing; 
 
 The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
 And Richard is faggots bringing. 
 
© 
 
 -© 
 
 CANTO IV.— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 21 
 
 Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, 
 
 Before Lord Richard stands, 
 And as he crossed and blessed himself, 
 '< I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, 
 
 " That is made with bloody hands.-'— 
 
 But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
 
 That Avoman void of fear, — 
 " And if there's blood upon his hand, 
 
 'Tis but the blood of deer."— 
 
 " Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! 
 
 It cleaves unto his hand, 
 The stain of thine own kindly blood, 
 
 The blood of Ethert Brand."— 
 
 Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 
 
 And made the holy sign,— 
 " And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 
 
 A spotless hand is mine. 
 
 " And I conjure thee, Demon elf, 
 
 By Him whom Demons fear, 
 To show us whence thou art thyself? 
 And what thine errand here?" 
 XV. 
 3MIa& (£onitmte&. 
 11 'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy land, 
 
 When fairy birds are singing, 
 When the court doth ride by their monarch's 
 side, 
 With bit and bridle ringing- 
 
 " And gaily shines the Fairy lard — 
 
 But all is glistening show, 
 Like the idle gleam that December's beam 
 
 Can dart on ice and snow. 
 
 " And fading, like that varied gleam, 
 
 Is our inconstant shape, 
 Who now like knight and lady seem, 
 
 And now like dwarf and ape. 
 
 " It was between the night and day, 
 
 When the Fairy King has power, 
 That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
 And, 'twixt life and death, was snatched away, 
 
 To the joyless Elfin bower. 
 
 " But wist I of a woman bold, 
 
 Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
 I might regain my mortal mold, 
 
 As lair a form as thine." — 
 
 She crossed him once — she crossed him twice — 
 
 That lady was so brave ; 
 The fouler grew his goblin hue, 
 
 Tue darker grew the cave. 
 
 She crosse ! him thrice, that lady bold j 
 
 He rose beneath her hand 
 The fairest knight on Scottish mold, 
 
 Her brother, Ethert Brand! 
 
 Merry it is in good green wood, 
 
 When the mavis and merle are singing, 
 
 But merrier were they in Dunfermline grey, 
 When all the bells were ringing; 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, 
 
 A stranger climbed the steepy glade ; 
 
 His martial step, his stately mien, 
 
 His hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
 
 His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 
 
 'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz-James. 
 
 Ellen beheld as in a dream, 
 
 Then starting, scarce suppressed a scream : 
 
 " O stranger! in such hour of fear, 
 
 What evil hap has brought thee here?" — 
 
 "An evil hap how can it be, 
 That bids me look again on thee?^ 
 By promise bound, my former guide 
 Met me betimes this morning tide, 
 And marshall'd, over bank and bourne, 
 The happy path of my return." — 
 " The happy path! — what! said he nought 
 Of war, of battle to be fought, 
 Of guarded pass?" — " No, by my faith! 
 Nor saw I aught could augur scathe." — 
 "Oh haste thee, Allan, to the kern, 
 — Yonder his tartans I discern; 
 Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
 That he will guide the stranger sure! — 
 What prompted thee, unhappy man? 
 The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
 Had not been bribed by love or fear, 
 Unknown to him, to guide thee here." — 
 
 XVII. 
 " Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, 
 Since it is worthy care from thee ; 
 Yet life I hold but idle breath, 
 When love or honour's weighed with death. 
 Then let me profit by my chance, 
 And speak my purpose bold at once. 
 I come to bear thee from a wild, 
 Where ne'er before such blossom smiled ; 
 By this soft hand to lead thee far 
 From frantic scenes of feud and Avar. 
 Near Bochastle my horses Avait ; 
 They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 
 I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 
 I'll guard thee like a tender floAver,'' — 
 "O! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female art, 
 To say I do not read thy heart ; 
 Too much, before, my selfisii ear 
 Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 
 That fatal bait hath lured thee back, 
 In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; 
 And hoAv, O Iioav, can I atone 
 The Avreck my vanity brought on! — 
 One Avay remains — I'll tell him all — 
 Yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! 
 Thou, Avhose light folly bears the blame, 
 Buy thine oavu pardon Avith thy shame ! 
 But first — my father is a man 
 OutlaAved and exiled, under ban ; 
 The price of blood is on his head, 
 With me 'tAvere infamy to Aved. — 
 Still Avouldst thou speak? — then hear the truth! 
 Fitz-James, there is a noble youth, — 
 If yet he is! — exposed for me 
 And mine to dread extremity — 
 Thou hast the secret of my heart ; 
 Forgive, be generous, and depart." — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Fitz-James kneAv every Avily train 
 
 A lady's fickle heart to gain, 
 
 But here he kneAv and felt them A r ain. 
 
 There shot no glance from Ellen's eye, 
 
 To give her stedfast speech the lie ; 
 
 In maiden confidence she stood, 
 
 Though mantled in her cheek the blood, 
 
 And told her love with such a sigh 
 
 Of deep and hopeless agony, 
 
 As death had sealed her Malcolm's doom, 
 
 And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 
 
 Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye, 
 
 But not with Hope fled sympathy. 
 
 He proffered to attend her side, 
 
 As brother Avould a sister guide. — 
 
 " O! little knoAv'st thou Roderick's heart! 
 
 Safer for both Ave go apart. 
 
 O haste thee, and from Allan learn, 
 
 If thou mayst trust yon Avily kern." — 
 
 =© 
 
& 
 
 22 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 With hand upon his forehead laid, 
 
 The conflict of his mind to shade, 
 
 A parting step or two he made ; 
 
 Then, as some thought had crossed his brain, 
 
 He paused, and turned, and came again. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Hear, lady, yet, a parting word!' — 
 
 It chanced in fight that my poor sword 
 
 Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. 
 
 This ring the grateful Monarch gave, 
 
 And bade, when I had boon to crave, 
 
 To bring it back, and boldly claim 
 
 The fecompence that I would name. 
 
 Ellen, I am no courtly lord, 
 
 But one who lives by lance and sword ; 
 
 Whose castle is his helm and shield, 
 
 His lordship, the embattled field. 
 
 What from a prince can I demand, 
 
 Who neither reck of state nor land? 
 
 Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ; 
 
 Each guard and usher knows the sign. 
 
 Seek thou the king without delay; 
 
 This signet shall secure thy way ; 
 
 And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, 
 
 As ransom of* his pledge to me." — 
 
 He placed the golden circlet on, 
 
 Paused — kissed her hand — and then was gone. 
 
 The aged Minstrel stood aghast, 
 
 So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
 
 He joined his guide, and wending down 
 
 The ridges of the mountain brown, 
 
 Across the stream they took their way, 
 
 That joins Loch-Katrine to Achray. 
 
 XX. 
 
 All in the Trosach's glen was still, 
 Noontide was sleeping on the hill: 
 Sudden his guide whooped loud and high — 
 " Murdoch! was that a signal cry?" — 
 He stammered forth, — " I shout to scare 
 Yon raven from his dainty fare." — 
 He looked— he knew the raven's prey, 
 His own brave steed: — "Ah! gallant grey! 
 For thee — for me perchance — 'twere well 
 We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell. — 
 Murdoch, move first — but silently ; 
 Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die." — 
 Jealous and sullen on they fared, 
 Each silent, each upon his guard. 
 
 XXL 
 Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
 Around a precipice's edge, 
 When lo! a wasted Female form, 
 Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 
 In tattered weeds and wild array, 
 Stood on a cliff beside the way, 
 And glancing round her restless eye, 
 Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
 Seemed nought to mark, yet all to spy. 
 Her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom ; 
 With gesture wild she waved a plume 
 Of feathers, which the eagles fling 
 To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; 
 Such spoils her desperate step had sought, 
 Where scarce was footing for the goat. 
 The tartan plaid she first descried, 
 And shrieked, till all the rocks replied ; 
 As loud she laughed when near they drew, 
 For then the lowland garb she knew ; 
 And then her hands she wildly wrung, 
 And then she wept, and then she sung. — 
 She sung! — the voice, in better time, 
 Perchance to harp or lute might chime ; 
 And now, though strained and roughened, still 
 Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Song, 
 " They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 
 
 They say my brain is warped and wrung— 
 I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 
 
 I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
 But were I now where Allan glides, 
 Or heard my native Devan's tides, 
 So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
 That Heaven would close my wintry day! 
 
 " 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, 
 They bade me to the church repair ; 
 
 It was my bridal morn they said, 
 
 And my true love would meet me there. 
 
 But woe betide the cruel guile, 
 
 That drowned in blood the morning smile! 
 
 And woe betide the fairy dream! 
 
 I only waked to sob and scream." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " Who is this maid ? what means her lay? 
 
 She hovers o'er the hollow way, 
 
 And flutters wide her mantle grey, 
 
 As the lone heron spreads his wing, 
 
 By twilight, o'er a haunted spring." — 
 
 " 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 
 
 " A crazed and captive lowland maid, 
 
 Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, 
 
 When Roderick forayed Devan-side. 
 
 The gay bride-groom resistance made, 
 
 And felt our Chief's unconquered blade. 
 
 I marvel she is now at large, 
 
 But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge,' — . 
 
 Hence, brain-sick fool!" — He raised his boAV: — 
 
 " Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, 
 
 I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
 
 As ever peasant pitched a bar." — 
 
 " Thanks, champion, thanks!" the Maniac cried, 
 
 And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. 
 
 " See the grey pennons I prepare, 
 
 To seek my true love through the air! 
 
 I will not lend that savage groom, 
 
 To break his fall, one downy plume! 
 
 No!- — deep amid disjointed stones, 
 
 The wolves shall batten on his bones, 
 
 And then shall his detested plaid, 
 
 By bush and briar in mid air staid, 
 
 Wave forth a banner fair and free, 
 
 Meet signal for their revelry." — 
 
 XXIV. 
 " Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!"— 
 " O! thou look'st kindly, and I will. — 
 Mine eye has dried and wasted been, 
 But still it loves the Lincoln green ; 
 And, though mine ear is all unstrung, 
 Still, still it loves the lowland tongue. 
 
 " For O my sweet William was forester true, 
 He stole poor Blanche's heart away! 
 
 His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, 
 And so blithely he trilled the lowland lay! 
 
 " It was not that I meant to tell . . . 
 But thou art wise, and guessest well." — 
 Then, in a low and broken tone, 
 And hurried note, the song went on. 
 Still on the Clans-man, fearfully, 
 She fixed her apprehensive eye ; 
 Then turned it on the Knight, and then 
 Her look glanced wildly o'er th'e glen. 
 
 XXV. 
 '•' The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, 
 
 Ever sing merrily, merrily ; 
 The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, 
 
 Hunters live so cheerily. 
 
CANTO IV.— THE PROPHECY. 
 
 23 
 
 " It was a stag, a stag often, 
 
 Bearing his branches sturdily ; 
 He came stately down the glen, 
 
 Ever sing hardily, hardily. 
 
 " It Avas there he met with a wounded doe, 
 
 She was bleeding deathfully ; 
 She warned him of. the toils below, 
 
 O so faithfully, faithfully! 
 
 "He had an eye, and he could heed, 
 
 Ever sing warily, warily ; 
 He had a foot, and he could speed — 
 
 Hunters watch so narrowly." — 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd, 
 
 When Ellen's hints and fears were lost; 
 
 But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, 
 
 And Blanche's song conviction brought.— 
 
 Not like the stag that spies the snare, 
 
 But lion of the hunt aware, 
 
 He waved at once his blade on high, 
 
 " Disclose thy treachery, or die!" — 
 
 Forth at full speed the Clans-man flew, 
 
 But in his race his bow he drew. 
 
 The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest, 
 
 And thrilled in Blanche's faded breast. — 
 
 Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed, 
 
 For ne'er had Alpine's son such need! 
 
 With heart of fire, and foot of wind 
 
 The fierce avenger is behind! 
 
 Fate judges of the rapid strife — 
 
 The forfeit death — the prize is life! 
 
 Thy kindred ambush lies before, 
 
 (lose couched upon the heathery moor; 
 
 Them couldst thou reach! — it may not be — 
 
 Thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, 
 
 The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 
 
 ■ — Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, 
 
 As lightning strikes the pine to dust ; 
 
 With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain, 
 
 Ere he can win his blade again. 
 
 Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye, 
 
 He grimly smiled to see him die ; 
 
 Then slower wended back his way, 
 
 Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 She sate beneath the birchen tree, 
 
 Her elbow resting on her knee ; 
 
 She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 
 
 And gazed on it, and feebly laughed ; 
 
 Her wreath of broom and feathers grey, 
 
 Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 
 
 The knight to staunch the life-stream tried,- 
 
 " Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried. 
 
 " This hour of death has given me more 
 
 Of reason's power than years before: 
 
 For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
 
 My frenzied visions fade away. 
 
 A helpless injured wretch I die, 
 
 And something tells me in thine eye, 
 
 That thou wert mine avenger born.' — 
 
 Seest thou this tress? — O! still I've worn 
 
 This little tress of yellow hair, 
 
 Through danger, frenzy, and despair! 
 
 It once was bright and clear as thine, 
 
 But blood and tears have dimmed its shine. 
 
 I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, 
 
 Nor from what guiltless victim's head — 
 
 My brain would turn! — but it shall wave 
 
 Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 
 
 Till sun and Avind shall bleach the stain, 
 
 And thou wilt bring it me again. — 
 
 I waver still !—0 God! more bright 
 
 Let reason beam her parting light! — 
 
 O! by thy knighthood's honoured sign, 
 
 And for thy life preserved by mine, 
 
 "When thou shalt see a darksome man, 
 
 Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's clan 
 
 With tartans broad and shadowy plume, 
 
 And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 
 
 Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
 
 And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong ! — 
 
 They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . 
 
 Avoid the path . . . O God! . . .farewell."— 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James ; 
 
 Fast poured his eye at pity's claims, 
 
 And now, with mingled grief and ire, 
 
 He saw the murdered maid expire. 
 
 " God, in my need, be my relief. 
 
 As I wreak this on yonder Chief!" — 
 
 A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 
 
 He blended with her bridegroom's hair; 
 
 The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 
 
 And placed it on his bonnet side: 
 
 " By Him whose word is truth! I swear, 
 
 No other favour will I Avear, 
 
 Till this sad token 1 imbrue 
 
 In the best blood of Roderick Dhu! 
 
 — But hark! what means yon faint halloo? 
 
 The chase is up, — but they shall know, 
 
 The stag at bay's a dangerous foe." — 
 
 Barred from the known but guarded way, 
 
 Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must stray, 
 
 And oft must change his desperate track, 
 
 By stream and precipice turned back. 
 
 Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, 
 
 From lack of food and loss of strength, 
 
 He couched him in a thicket hoar, 
 
 And thought his toils and perils o'er: — 
 
 " Of all my rash adventures past 
 
 This frantic feat must prove the last! 
 
 Who e'er so mad but might have guessed, 
 
 That all this highland hornet's nest 
 
 "Would muster up in swarms so soon 
 
 As e'er they heard of bands at Doune? — 
 
 Like blood-hounds now they search me out, — 
 
 Hark, to the whistle and the shout! — 
 
 If farther through the wilds I go, 
 
 I only fall upon the foe ; 
 
 I'll couch me here till evening grey, 
 
 Then darkling try my dangerous way." — 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The shades of eve come slowly down, 
 
 The woods are wrapped in deeper brown, 
 
 The owl awakens from her dell, 
 
 The fox is heard upon the fell ; 
 
 Enough remains ot glimmering light 
 
 To guide the wanderer's steps aright, 
 
 Yet not enough from far to show 
 
 His figure to the watchful foe. 
 
 With cautious step, and ear awake, 
 
 He climbs the crag and threads the brake; 
 
 And not the summer solstice, there, 
 
 Tempered the midnight mountain air, 
 
 But every breeze that swept the Avoid, 
 
 Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. 
 
 In dread, in danger, and alone, 
 
 Famished and chilled, through Avays unknoAvn, 
 
 Tangled and steep, he journeyed on ; 
 
 Till as a rock's huge point he turned, 
 
 A Avatch-fire close before him burned. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Beside its embers red and clear, 
 Basked, in his plaid/a mountaineer; 
 And up he sprung with sAvord in hand, — 
 " Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!" 
 
 m 
 
24 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 fi 
 
 " A stranger." — " What dost thou require?" — 
 
 " Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
 
 My life's beset, my path is lost, 
 
 The gale has chilled my limbs with frost." — 
 
 " Art thou a friend to Roderick?"—" No."— 
 
 " Thou darcst not call thyself a foe ?" — 
 
 " I dare! to him and all the band 
 
 He brings to aid his murderous hand." — 
 
 " Bold words! — but, though the beast of game 
 
 The privilege of chase may claim, 
 
 Though space and law the stag we lend, 
 
 Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
 
 Who ever rcck'd, where, how, or when, 
 
 The prowling fox was trapped or slain? 
 
 Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, 
 
 Who say thou cam'st a secret spy!" — 
 
 " They do, by heaven! — Come Roderick Dhu, 
 
 And of his clan the boldest two, 
 
 And let me but till morning rest, 
 
 I write the falsehood on their crest." — 
 
 " If by the blaze I mark aright, 
 
 Thou bear's t the belt and spur of Knight." — 
 
 " Then by these tokens mayst thou know, 
 
 Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
 
 " Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
 
 A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." — 
 
 XXXI. 
 He gave him of his highland cheer, 
 The hardened flesh of mountain deer; 
 Dry fuel on the fire he laid, 
 And bade the Saxon share his plaid. 
 lie tended him like welcome guest, 
 Then thus his further speech addressed. 
 
 " Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 
 
 A clans-man born, a kinsman true ; 
 
 Each word against his honour spoke, 
 
 Demands of me avenging stroke ; 
 
 Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, 
 
 A mighty augury is'laid. 
 
 It rests with me to wind my horn, — 
 
 Thou art with numbers overborne ; 
 
 Itj-ests with me, here brand to brand, 
 
 Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand : 
 
 But, nor for clan, nor kindred's cause, 
 
 Will I depart from honour's laws; 
 
 To assail a wearied man were shame, 
 
 And stranger is a holy name ; 
 
 Guidance and rest, and food and fire, 
 
 In vain he never must require. 
 
 Then rest thee here till dawn of day ; 
 
 Myself will guide thee on the way, 
 
 ; er stock and stone, through watch and w 
 
 Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard 
 
 As far as Coilantogle's ford; 
 
 From thence thy warrant is thy sword." — 
 
 " I take thy courtesy, by Heaven 
 
 As freely as 'tis nobly given!'' — 
 
 " Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's cry 
 
 Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." 
 
 With that he shook the gathered heath, 
 
 And spread his plaid upon the wreath; 
 
 And the brave foemen, side by side, 
 
 Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, 
 
 And slept until the dawning beam 
 
 Purpled the mountain and the stream. 
 
 ard , 
 
 CANTO V.— THE COMBAT. 
 
 F.mr as the earliest beam of eastern light, 
 
 When first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied, 
 It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, 
 
 And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide, 
 And lights tiie fearful path on mountain side: — 
 
 Fair as that beam, although the fairest far, 
 Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, 
 
 Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's bright 
 star, 
 Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the 
 brow of War. 
 
 II. 
 
 That early beam, so fair and sheen, 
 Was twinkling through the hazel screen, 
 When rousing at its glimmer red, 
 The warriors left then- lowly bed, 
 Looked out upon the dappled sky, 
 Muttered their soldier matins by, 
 And then awaked their fire, to steal, 
 As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
 That o'er, the Gael around him threw 
 His graceful plaid of varied hue, 
 And, true to promise, led the w-ay, 
 By thicket green and mountain grey. 
 A wildering path! — they winded now 
 Along the precipice's brow, 
 Commanding the rich scenes beneath, 
 The windings of the Forth and Teith; 
 And all the vales between that lie, 
 Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky ; 
 Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
 Gained not the length of horseman's lance. 
 ' I'was oft so steep, the foot was fain 
 Assistance from the hand to gain ; 
 So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
 Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew, — 
 
 That diamond dew, so pure and clear, 
 It rivals all but Beauty's tear! 
 
 III. 
 
 At length they came where, stern and steep, 
 
 The hill sinks down upon the deep. 
 
 Here Vennachar in silver flows, 
 
 There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose, 
 
 Ever the hollow path twined on, 
 
 Beneath steep bank and threatening stone ; 
 
 An hundred men might hold the post 
 
 With hardihood against a host. 
 
 The rugged mountain's scanty cloak 
 
 Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak, 
 
 With shingles bare, and cliffs between, 
 
 And patches bright of bracken green, 
 
 And heather black, that waved so high, 
 
 It held the copse in rivalry. 
 
 But where the lake slept deep and still, 
 
 Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill ; 
 
 And oft both path and hill were torn, 
 
 Where wintry torrent down had borne, 
 
 And heaped upon the cumbered land 
 
 Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
 
 So toilsome was the road to trace, 
 
 The guide, abating of his pace, 
 
 Led slowly through the pass's jaws, 
 
 And ask'd Fitz-James, by what strange cause 
 
 He sought these wilds? traversed by few, 
 
 Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried, 
 Hangs in my belt, and by my side ; 
 Yet, sooth to tell," the Saxon said, 
 " 1 dreamed not now to claim its aid. 
 When here, but three days since, I came, 
 Bewildered in pursuit of game, 
 
O 
 
 CANTO 
 
 ■THE COMBAT. 
 
 ' < 
 
 All seemed as peaceful and as still, 
 As the mist slumbering on yon hill ; > 
 
 Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, 
 Nor soon expected back from war. 
 Thus said, at least, my mountain guide, 
 Though deep, perchance, the villain lied." 
 " Yet why a second venture try?'' — . 
 11 A warrior thou and ask me why! 
 Moves our free course by such fixed cause, 
 As gives the poor mechanic laws? 
 Enough, I sought to drive away 
 The lazy hours of peaceful day ; 
 Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
 A Knight's free footsteps far and wide,— 
 A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, 
 The merry glance of mountain maid ; 
 Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
 The danger's self is lure alone." — 
 
 " Thy secret keep, I urge thee not ; — 
 Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, 
 Say, heard ye nought of lowland war, 
 Against Clan- Alpine, raised by Mar?"— 
 " No, by my word ; — of bands prepared 
 To guard King James's sports I heard ; 
 Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear 
 This muster of the mountaineer, 
 Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
 Which else in Doune had peaceful hung." 
 " Free be they flung! for we were loath 
 Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
 Free be they flung! — as free shall wave 
 Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
 But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, 
 Bewildered in the mountain game, 
 Whence the bold boast by which you show" 
 Vich- Alpine's vowed and mortal foe?" — 
 " Warrior, but y ester-morn, I knew 
 Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dim, 
 Save as an outlawed desperate man, 
 The chief of a rebellious clan, 
 Who, in the Regent's court and sight, 
 With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight ; 
 Yet this alone might from his part 
 Sever each true and loyal heart." — 
 
 VI. 
 
 Wrothful at such arraignment foul, 
 Dark lowered the clans-man's sable scowl. 
 A space he paused, then sternly said, — 
 " And heardst thou why he drew his blade! 
 Heardst thou that shameful word and blow 
 Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? 
 What reck'd the Chieftain, if he stood 
 On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood? 
 He rights such wrong where it is given, 
 If it were in the court of heaven." — 
 " Still was it outrage ; — yet, 'tis true, 
 Not then claimed sovereignty his due ; 
 While Albany, with feeble hand, 
 Held borrowed truncheon of command, 
 The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower, 
 Was stranger to respect and power. 
 But then, thy Chieftain's robber life! — 
 Winning mean prey by causeless strife, 
 Wrenching from ruined lowland swain 
 His herds and harvest reared in vain, — 
 Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn 
 The spoils from such foul foray borne." 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Gael beheld him grim the while, 
 And answered with disdainful smile, — 
 " Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
 I marked, thee send delightful eye, 
 
 Far to the south and east, where lay, 
 Extended in succession gay, 
 Deep waving fields and pastures green, 
 With gentle slopes and groves between: — 
 These fertile plains, that softened vale, 
 Were once the birth-right of the Gael ; 
 The stranger came with iron hand, 
 And from our fathers reft the land. 
 Where dwell we now ! See, rudely swell 
 Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 
 Ask we this savage hill we tread, 
 For fattened steer or household bread ; 
 Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 
 And well the mountain might reply, — 
 ' To you, as to your sires of yore, 
 ( Belong the target and claymore! 
 I give you shelter in my breast, 
 Your own good blades must win the rest.' — 
 Pent in this fortress of the North, 
 Think'st thou we will not sally forth, 
 To spoil the spoiler as we may, 
 And from the robber rend the prey? 
 Aye, by my soul! — While on yon plain 
 Tfie Saxon rears one shock of grain ; 
 While, of ten thousand herds, there strays 
 But one along yon river's maze,' — 
 The Gael, of plain and river heir, 
 Shall with strong hand redeem his share. 
 Where live the mountain chiefs who hold, 
 That plundering Lowland field and fold 
 Is aught but retribution true? 
 Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dim." — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Answered Fitz-James, — " And, if I sought, 
 
 Think'st thou no other could be brought ? 
 
 What deem ye of my path Avay-laid, 
 
 My life given o'er to ambuscade?" — 
 
 " As of a meed to rashness due : 
 
 Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — 
 
 1 seek my hound, or falcon stray'd, 
 
 I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — . 
 
 Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 
 
 But secret path marks secret foe. 
 
 Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 
 
 Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die, 
 
 Save to fulfil an augury." — 
 
 " Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 
 
 Fresh cause of enmity avow, 
 
 To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 
 
 Enough, I am by promise tied 
 
 To match me with this man of pride: 
 
 Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen 
 
 In peace ; but when I come agen, 
 
 I come with banner, brand, and bow, 
 
 As leader seeks his mortal foe. 
 
 For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, 
 
 Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, 
 
 As I, until before me stand 
 
 This rebel Chieftain and his band." — 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Have, then, thy wish!" — he whistled shr'3 
 And he was answered from the hill ; 
 Wild as the scream of the curlew, 
 From crag to crag the signal flew; 
 Instant, through copse and heath, arose 
 Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; 
 On right, on left, above, below, 
 Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; 
 From shingles grey their lances stars 
 The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 
 The rushes and the willow-wand 
 Are bristling into axe and brand, 
 And every tuft of broom gives life 
 To plaided warrior armed for strife. 
 
 :@ 
 
©= 
 
 26 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 That whistle garrison 'd the glen 
 
 At once with full five hundred men, 
 
 As if the yawning hill to heaven 
 
 A subterranean host had given. 
 
 Watching their leader's beck and will, 
 
 All silent there they stood and still. 
 
 Like the loose crags whose threatening mass 
 
 Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, 
 
 As if an infant's touch could urge 
 
 Their headlong passage down the verge, 
 
 With step and weapon forward flung, 
 
 Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
 
 The mountaineer cast glance of pride 
 
 Along Benledi's living side. 
 
 Then fixed his eye and sable brow 
 
 Full on Fitz- James — " How sayst thou now? 
 
 These are Clan-Alpiiie's warriors true; 
 
 And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu!" — - 
 
 X. 
 
 Fitz- James was brave: — Though to his heart 
 The life-blood thrilled With sudden start, 
 | He mann'd himself with dauntless air, 
 Returned the Chief his haughty stare, 
 J lis back against a rock he bore, 
 And firmly placed his foot before: — 
 " Come one, come all! this rock shall fly 
 From Its firm base as soon as 1." — 
 Sir Roderick marked — and in his eyes 
 Respect was mingled with surprise, 
 And the stern joy which warriors feel 
 In foemen worthy of their steel. 
 Short space he stood — then waved his hand: 
 Down sunk the disappearing band; 
 Each warrior vanished Where he stood, 
 In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; 
 Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
 In osiers pale and copses low ; 
 It seemed as if their mother Earth 
 Had swallowed up her warlike birth. 
 The wind's last breath had tossed in air, 
 Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 
 The next but swept a lone hill side, 
 Where heath and fern were waving wide ; 
 The sun's last glance was glinted back, 
 From spear and glaive, from targe and jack, 
 The next, all unreflected shone 
 On bracken green, and cold grey stone. 
 
 XL 
 Fitz-James looked round — yet scarce believed 
 The witness that his sight received, 
 Such apparition well might seem 
 Delusion of a dreadful dream. 
 Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 
 And to his look the Chief replied, 
 " Fear nought — nay, that I need not say — . 
 But — doubt not aught from mine array. 
 Thou art my guest ; — I pledged my word 
 As far as Coilantogle ford: 
 Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
 For aid against one valiant hand, 
 Though on our strife lay every vale 
 Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
 So move we on ; I only meant 
 To show the reed on which you leant, 
 Deeming this pass you might pursue 
 Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." — 
 They moved: — I said Fitz-James was brave, 
 As ever knight that belted glaive ; 
 Yet dare not say, that now his blood 
 Kept on its wont and tempered flood, 
 As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
 That seeming lonesome pathway through, 
 Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife 
 With lances, that to take his life 
 Waited but signal from a guide, 
 So late dishonoured and defied. 
 
 ©= 
 
 Kver, by stealth, his eye sought round 
 The vanished guardians of the ground, 
 And still from copse and heather deep, 
 Fancy saw spear and broad-sword peep, 
 And in the plover's shrilly strain, 
 The signal Avhistle heard again. 
 Nor breathed he free till far behind 
 The pass was left ; for then they wind 
 Along a wide and level green, 
 "Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, 
 Nor rush, nor bush of broom was near, 
 To hide a bonnet or a spear. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Chief in silence strode before, 
 
 And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 
 
 Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, 
 
 From Vennachar in silver breaks, 
 
 Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines 
 
 On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
 
 Where Rome, the Empress of the world, 
 
 Of yore her eagle wings unfurl 'd. 
 
 And here his course the Chieftain staid, 
 
 Threw down his target and his plaid, 
 
 And to the Lowland warrior said: — 
 
 " Bold Saxon! to his promise just, 
 
 Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. 
 
 Tiiis murderous Chief, this ruthless man, 
 
 This head of a rebellious clan, 
 
 Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, 
 
 Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
 
 Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
 
 A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 
 
 See, here, all vantageless I stand, 
 
 Armed like thyself, with single brand; 
 
 For this is Coilantogle ford, 
 
 And thou must keep thee with thy sword." — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The Saxon paused: — " I ne'er delayed, 
 
 When foeman bade me draw my blade ; 
 
 Nay more, brave Chief, I vow'd. thy death: 
 
 Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
 
 And my deep debt for life preserved, 
 
 A better meed have well deserved: — 
 
 Can nought but blocd our feud atone ? 
 
 Are there no means?"—" No, Stranger, none! 
 
 And hear,— to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
 
 The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 
 
 For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred 
 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 
 ' Who spills the foremost foeman's life, 
 
 His party conquers in the strife.' "• — 
 
 " Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
 
 " The riddle is already read. 
 
 Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 
 
 There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. 
 
 Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, 
 
 Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 
 
 To James, at Stirling, let us go, 
 
 When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
 
 Or if the King shall not agree 
 
 To grant thee grace and favour free, 
 
 I plight mine honour, oath, and word, 
 
 That, to thy native strengths restored, 
 
 With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
 
 That aids thee now to guard thy land."— 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye — 
 " Soars thy presumption then so high, 
 Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
 Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? 
 He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! 
 Thou add'st but fuel to my hate :■ — 
 My clans-man's blood demands revenge.' — 
 Not yet prepared? — By heaven, I change 
 
 :@ 
 
CANTO V.— THE COMBAT. 
 
 27 
 
 My thought, and hold thy valour light 
 As that of some vain carpet-knight, 
 Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
 And whose best boast is but to wear 
 A braid of his fair lady's hair." — 
 ■ — " 1 thank thee, Roderick, for the word! 
 It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; 
 For I have sworn this braid to stain 
 In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
 Now, truce, farewell! and ruth, be gone! — 
 Yet think not that by thee alone, 
 Proud chief ! can courtesy be shown; 
 Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, 
 Start at my whistle clans-men stern, 
 Of this small horn one feeble blast 
 Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
 But fear not — doubt not — which thou wilt — 
 We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." — 
 Then each at once his falchion drew, 
 Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
 Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, 
 As what they ne'er might see again ; 
 Then, foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
 In dubious strife they darkly closed. 
 
 XV. 
 Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
 That on the field his targe he threw, 
 Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
 Had death so often dashed aside ; 
 For, trained abroad his arms to wield, 
 Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
 He practised every pass and ward, 
 To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; 
 While less expert, though stronger far, 
 The Gael maintained unequal war. 
 Three times in closing strife they stood, 
 And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ; 
 | No stinted draught, no scanty tide, 
 The gushing floods, the tartans dyed. 
 Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
 And showered his blows like wintry rain ; 
 And, as firm rock, or castle-roof, 
 Against the winter shower is proof, 
 The foe invulnerable still 
 Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ; 
 Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
 Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
 And backwards borne upon the lea, 
 Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. 
 
 XVI. 
 " Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made 
 The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !"- 
 " Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! 
 Let recreant yield, who fears to die." — 
 Like adder darting from his coil, 
 Like wolf that dashes through the toil, 
 Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 
 Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung, 
 Received, but reck'd not of a wound, 
 And locked his arms his foeman round. — 
 Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own! 
 No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! 
 That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 
 Through bars of brass and triple steel! — 
 They tug, they strain! — down, down, they go, 
 The Gael above, Fitz- James below. 
 The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd, 
 His knee was planted in his breast ; 
 His clotted locks he backward threw, 
 Across his brow his hand he drew, 
 From blood and mist to clear his sight, 
 Then gleam'd alolt his dagger bright!— 
 — But hate and fury ill supplied 
 The stream of life's exhausted tide, 
 And all too late the advantage came, 
 To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
 
 For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, 
 Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 
 Down came the blow! but in the heath 
 The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
 The struggling foe may now unclasp 
 The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp ; 
 Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
 But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He faltered thanks to Heaven for life, 
 
 Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife; 
 
 Next on his foe his look he cast, 
 
 Whose every gasp appeared his last; 
 
 In Roderick's gore he dipp'd the braid, — 
 
 " Poor Blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid: 
 
 Yet with thy foe must die, or live, 
 
 The praise that Faith and Valour give.''— 
 
 With that he blew a bugle-note, 
 
 Undid the collar from his throat, 
 
 Unbonnetted, and by the wave 
 
 Safe down his brow and hands to lave. 
 
 Then faint afar are heard the feet 
 
 Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 
 
 The sounds increase, and now are seen 
 
 Four mounted squires in Lincoln green ; 
 
 Two who bear lance, and two who lead, 
 
 By loosened rein, a saddled steed ; 
 
 Each onward held his headlong course, 
 
 And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse, — 
 
 With wonder view'd the bloody spot. — 
 
 — " Exclaim not, gallants! question not. — 
 
 You, Herbert and Luflhess, alight, 
 
 And bind the wounds of yonder knight ; 
 
 Let the grey palfrey bear his weight, 
 
 We destined for a fairer freight, 
 
 And bring him on to Stirling straight; 
 
 I will before at better speed, 
 
 To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 
 
 The sun rides high ; — I must be boune 
 
 To see the archer-game at noon ; 
 
 But lightly Bayard clears the iea.^ — 
 
 De Vaux and Herri es, follow me. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Stand, Bayard, stand!" — the steed obeyed, 
 With arching neck and bended head, 
 And glancing eye, and quivering ear, 
 As if he loved his lord to hear. 
 No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid, 
 No grasp upon the saddle laid, 
 But wreathed his left hand in the mane, 
 And lightly bounded from the plain, 
 Turned on the horse his armed heel, 
 And stirred his courage with the steel. 
 Bounded the fiery steed in air, 
 The rider sate erect and fair, 
 Then, like a bolt from steel cross-bow 
 Forth launched, along the plain they go. 
 They dashed that rapid torrent through, 
 And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
 Still at the gallop pricked the Knight, 
 His merry-men followed as they might. 
 Along thy banks, swift Teith! they ride, 
 And in the race they mock thy tide ; 
 Torry and Lendrick now are past, 
 And Deanstown lies behind them cast; 
 They rise, the bannered towers of Doune, 
 They sink in distant woodland soon ; 
 Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, 
 They sweep like breeze through Ochtertyre ; 
 They mark just glance and disappear 
 The lofty brow of ancient Kier ; 
 They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides, 
 Dark Forth! amid thy sluggish tides, 
 And on the opposing shore take ground, 
 With plash, with scramble, and with bound. 
 
@= 
 
 28 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 Right hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig- Forth! 
 And soon the bulwark of the North, 
 Grey Stirling, with her towers and town, 
 Upon their fleet career looked down. 
 
 ■ XIX. 
 
 As up the flinty path they strained, 
 
 Sudden his steed the leader reined; 
 
 A signal to his squire he flung, 
 
 Who instant to his stirrup sprung: 
 
 " Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman grey, 
 
 Who town-ward holds the rocky way, 
 
 Of stature tall and poor array? 
 
 Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride, 
 
 With which he scales the mountain side? 
 
 Know'st thou from whence he comes, or whom?" 
 
 " No, by my word ; a burley groom 
 
 He seems, who in the field or chase 
 
 A Baron's train Avould nobly grace." — 
 
 " Out, out, De Vaux! can fear supply, 
 
 And jealousy, no sharper eye? 
 
 Afar, ere to the hill he drew, 
 
 That stately form and step I knew ; 
 
 Like form in Scotland is not seen, 
 
 Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
 
 'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle! 
 
 The uncle of the banished Earl. 
 
 Away, away, to court, to show 
 
 The near approach of dreaded foe: 
 
 The King must stand upon his guard ; 
 
 Douglas and he must meet prepared." — 
 
 Then right hand Avheeled their steeds, and strait 
 
 They won the castle's postern gate. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The Douglas, who had bent his way 
 
 From C ambus-Kenneth's abbey grey, 
 
 Now, as he climbed the rocky shelf, 
 
 Held sad communion with himself: — 
 
 " Yes! all is true my fears could frame: 
 
 A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 
 
 And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
 
 The vengeance of the royal steel. 
 
 1, only 1, can ward their fate, — 
 
 God grant the ransom come not late! 
 
 The Abbess hath her promise given, 
 
 My child shall be the bride of Heaven; — 
 
 — Be pardoned one repining tear! 
 
 For He, who gave her, knows how dear, 
 
 How excellent — but that is by, 
 
 And now my business is to die. 
 
 — Ye towers! within whose circuit dread 
 
 A Douglas by his sovereign bled, 
 
 And thou, O sad and fatal mound! 
 
 That oft has heard the death-axe sound, 
 
 As on the noblest of the land 
 
 Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand,' — 
 
 The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb 
 
 Prepare,' — for Douglas seeks his doom! 
 
 — But hark! what blithe and jolly peal 
 
 Makes the Franciscan steeple reel? 
 
 And see! upon the crowded street, 
 
 In motley groups what masquers meet! 
 
 Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, 
 
 And merry morrice-dancers come. 
 
 I guess, by all this quaint array, 
 
 The burghers hold their sports to-day. 
 
 James will be there ; — he loves such show, 
 
 Where the good yeoman bends his bow, 
 
 And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 
 
 As well as where, in proud career, 
 
 The high-born filter shivers spear. 
 
 I'll follow to the Castle-pai-k, 
 
 And play my prize ; — King James shall mark, 
 
 If age has tamed these sinews stark, 
 
 Whose force so oft, in happier days, 
 
 His boyish wonder loved to praise." — 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Castle gates were open flung, 
 The quivering draw-bridge rocked and rung, 
 And echoed loud the flinty street 
 Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, 
 As slowly down the steep descent 
 Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, 
 While all along the crowded way 
 Was jubilee and loud huzza. 
 And ever James was bending low, 
 To his white jennet's saddle bow, 
 Doffing his cap to city dame, 
 Who smiled and blushed for pride and shame. 
 And well the simperer might be vain, — 
 He chose the fairest of the train. 
 Gravely he greets each city sire, 
 Commends each pageant's quaint attire, 
 Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, 
 And smiles and nods upon the crowd, 
 Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 
 "Long live the Commons' King, King James!' 
 Behind the King thronged peer and knight, 
 And noble dame and damsel bright, 
 Whose fiery steeds ill-brooked the stay 
 Of the steep street and crowded way. 
 ■ — But in the train you might discern 
 Dark lowering brow and visage stern ; 
 There nobles mourned their pride restrained, 
 And the mean burgher's joys disdained ; 
 And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, 
 Were each from home a banished man, 
 Their thought upon their own grey tower, 
 The waving woods, their feudal power, 
 And deemed themselves a shameful part 
 Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
 Their chequered bands the joyous route. 
 There morricers, with bell at heel, 
 And blade in hand, their mazes wheel ; 
 But chief, beside the butts, there stand 
 Bold Robin Flood and all his band, — 
 Friar Tuck with quarter-staff and cow], 
 Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl, 
 Maid Marian, fair as ivory bone, 
 Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; 
 Their bugles challenge all that will, 
 In archery to prove their skill. 
 The Douglas bent a bow of might,— 
 Mis first shaft centered in the white, 
 And when in turn he shot again, 
 His second split the first in twain. 
 From the King's hand must Douglas take 
 A silver dart, the archers' stake ; 
 Fondly he watched, with watery eye, 
 Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
 No kind emotion made reply ! 
 Indifferent as to archer wight, 
 The Monarch gave the arrow bright. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Now clear the Ring! for, hand to hand, 
 The manly wrestlers take their stand. 
 Two o'er the rest superior rose, 
 And proud demanded mightier fees, 
 Nor call'd in vain; for Douglas came. 
 — For life is Hugh of Larbert lame, 
 Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, 
 Whom senseless home his comrades bear. 
 Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
 To Douglas gave a golden ring, 
 W T hile coldly glanced his eye oi blue, 
 As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
 Douglas would speak, but in his breast 
 His struggling soul his words suppress'd : 
 
CANTO V.— THE COMBAT. 
 
 ■■© 
 
 29 
 
 Indignant then he turned him where, 
 
 Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, 
 
 To hurl the massive bar in air. 
 
 When each his utmost strength had shown, 
 
 The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 
 
 From its deep bed, then heaved it high, 
 
 And sent the fragment through the sky, 
 
 A rood beyond the farthest mark ;— 
 
 And still in Stirling's royal park, 
 
 The grey-haired sires, who know the past, 
 
 To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
 
 And moralize on the decay 
 
 Of Scottish strength in modern day. 
 
 XXIV. 
 The vale with loud applauses rang, 
 The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang; 
 The King, with look unmoved, bestowed 
 A purse well filled with pieces broad. 
 Indignant smiled the Douglas proud, 
 And threw the gold among the crowd, 
 Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, 
 And sharper glance, the dark grey man ; 
 Till whispers rose among the throng, 
 That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
 Must to the Douglas blood belong: 
 The old men mark'd, and shook the head, 
 To see his hair with silver spread, 
 And winked aside, and told each son 
 Of feats upon the English done, 
 Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
 Was exiled from his native land. 
 The women praised his stately form, 
 Though wreck'd by many a winter's storm ; 
 The youth with awe and wonder saw 
 His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
 Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 
 Till murmur rose to clamours loud. 
 But not a glance from that proud ring 
 Of peers who circled round the King, 
 With Douglas held communion kind, 
 Or called the banished man to mind; 
 No, not from those who, at the chase, 
 Once held his side the honoured place, 
 Regirt his board, and, in the field, 
 Found safety underneath his shield; 
 For he whom royal eyes disown, 
 When was his form to courtiers known? 
 XXV. 
 
 j The monarch saw the gambols flag, 
 And bade let loose a gallant stag, 
 Whose pride, the holiday to crown, 
 Two favourite grey-hounds should pull down, 
 That venison free, and Bourdeaux wine, 
 Might serve the archery to dine. 
 But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
 Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, 
 The fleetest hound in all the North, — 
 Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
 She left the royal hounds mid-way, 
 And, dashing on the antler'd prey, 
 Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, 
 And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
 The King's stout huntsman saw the sport 
 By strange intruder broken short, 
 Came up, and, with his leash unbound, 
 In anger struck the noble hound. 
 — The Douglas had endured, that morn, 
 The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, 
 And last, and worst to spirit proud, 
 
 I Had borne the pity of the crowd; 
 
 I But Lufra had been fondly bred, 
 To share his board, to watch his bed, 
 And oft would Ellen, Lufra's neck, 
 In maiden glee, with garlands deck; 
 They were such play-mates, that with name 
 Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. 
 
 fr ■ ■ ■ ■' ■■ ■ r, L" • i. = 
 
 j His stifled wrath is brimming high, 
 In darkened brow and flashing eye ; — 
 As waves before the bark divide, 
 The crowd gave way before his stride ; 
 Needs but a buffet and no more, 
 The groom lies senseless in his gore. 
 Such blow no other hand could deal, 
 Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Then clamoured loud the royal train, 
 And brandished swords and staves amain. 
 But stern the Baron's warning — "Back! 
 Back, on your lives, ye menial pack! 
 Beware the Douglas. — Yes! behold, 
 King James, the Douglas, doomed of old, 
 And vainly sought for near and far, 
 A victim to atone the war, 
 A willing victim now attends, 
 Nor craves thy grace but for his friends." — 
 — " Thus is my clemency repaid ? 
 Presumptuous Lord!" the Monarch said; 
 " Of thy mis-proud ambitious clan, 
 Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, 
 The only man, in whom a foe 
 My woman-mercy would not know: 
 But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
 Injurious blow, and haughty look? — 
 What ho! the Captain of our Guard! 
 Give the offender fitting ward. — 
 Break off the sports!" — for tumult rose, 
 And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
 11 Break off the sports!" — he said, and frowned, 
 " And bid our horsemen clear the ground. "— 
 
 XXVII. 
 Then uproar wild and mis-array 
 Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
 The horsemen pricked among the crowd, 
 Repelled by threats and insult loud ; 
 To earth are borne the old and weak, 
 The timorous fly, the women shriek; 
 With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar, 
 The hardier urge tumultuous Avar. 
 At once round Douglas darkly sweep 
 The royal spears in circle deep, 
 And slowly scale the path-way steep ; 
 While on the rear in thunder pour 
 The rabble with disordered roar. 
 With grief the noble Douglas saw 
 The commons rise against the law, 
 And to the leading soldier said, — 
 " Sir John of Hyndford! 'twas my blade, 
 That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ; 
 For that good deed, permit me then 
 A word with these misguided men. — 
 
 XXVIII. 
 " Hear, gentle friends! ere yet, for me, 
 Ye break the bands of fealty. 
 My life, my honour, and my cause, 
 I tender free to Scotland's laws. 
 Are these so weak as must require 
 The aid of your misguided ire? 
 Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, 
 Is then my selfish rage so strong, 
 My sense of public weal so low, 
 That for mean vengeance on a foe, 
 Those chords of love I should unbind, 
 Which knit my country and my kind? 
 Oh no! Believe, in yonder tower 
 It will not soothe my captive hour, 
 To know those spears our foes should dread, 
 For me in kindred gore are red ; 
 To know, in fruitless brawl begun, 
 For me, that mother wails her son ; 
 For me, that widow's mate expires, 
 For me, that orphans weep their sires, 
 
 S9 
 
30 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 That patriots mourn insulted laws, 
 And curse the Douglas lor the cause. 
 O let your patience ward such ill, 
 And keep your right to love me still!"— 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The crowd's wild fury sunk again 
 In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 
 With lifted hands and eyes, they prayed 
 For blessings on his generous head, 
 Who for his country felt alone, 
 And prized her blood beyond his oAvn. 
 Old men, upon the verge of life, 
 Blessed him who stayed the civil strife ; 
 And mothers held their babes on high, 
 The self-devoted Chief to spy, 
 Triumphant over wrong and ire, 
 To whom the prattlers owed a sire: 
 Even the rough soldier's heart was moved ; 
 As if behind some bier beloved, 
 With trailing arms and drooping head, 
 The Douglas up the hill he led, 
 And at the Castle's battled verge, 
 I With sighs, resigned his honoured charge. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The offended Monarch rode apart, 
 With bitter thought and swelling heart, 
 And would not now vouchsafe again 
 Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 
 " O Lennox, who would wish to rule 
 This changeling crowd, this common fool? 
 Hear'st thou," he said, " the loud acclaim, 
 With which they shout the Douglas name? 
 With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
 Strained for King James their morning note ; 
 With like acclaim they hailed the day 
 When first I broke the Douglas sway ; 
 And like acclaim would Douglas greet, 
 If he could hurl me from my seat. 
 Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
 Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain! 
 Vain as the leaf upon the stream, 
 And fickle as a changeful dream ; 
 Fantastic as a woman's mood, 
 And fierce as Frenzy's fevered blood. 
 Thou many -headed monster-thing, 
 
 who would wish to be thy king ! — 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " But soft! what messenger of speed 
 Spurs hitherward his panting steed? 
 
 1 guess his cognizance afar — 
 
 What from our cousin, John of Mar?" — 
 " He prays, my liege, your sports keep bound 
 Within the safe and guarded ground : 
 For some foul purpose yet unknown, 
 Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
 
 The outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
 
 Has summoned his rebellious crew ; 
 
 J Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
 
 These loose banditti stand arrayed. 
 
 The Earl of Mar, this morn from Doune, 
 
 To break their muster marched, and soon 
 
 Your grace will hear of battle fought; 
 
 But earnestly the Earl besought, 
 
 Till for such danger he provide, 
 
 With scanty train you will not ride." — 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Thou warn'st me I have done amiss, — 
 I should have earlier looked to this : 
 I lost it in this bustling day. 
 ■ — Retrace with speed thy former way; 
 Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, 
 The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
 Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 
 We do forbid the intended war ; 
 Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
 Was made our prisoner by a knight, 
 And Douglas hath himself and cause 
 Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
 The tidings of their leaders lost 
 Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 
 Nor would we that the vulgar feel, 
 For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel, 
 Bear Mar our message, Braco fly." — 
 He turned his steed, — " My liege, I hie, 
 Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
 I fear the broad-swords will be drawn."— 
 The turf the flying courser spurned, 
 And to his towers the King returned. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 Ill with King James's mood that day, 
 Suited gay feast and minstrel lay ; 
 Soon were dismissed the courtly throng, 
 And soon cut short the festal song. 
 Nor less upon the saddened town 
 The evening sunk in sorrow down ; 
 The burghers spoke of civil jar, 
 Of rumoured feuds and mountain war, 
 Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
 All up in arms : — the Douglas too, 
 They mourned him pent within the hold, 
 " Where stout Earl William was of old." — 
 And there his word the speaker staid, 
 And finger on his lip he laid, 
 Or pointed to his dagger blade. 
 But jaded horsemen, from the west, 
 At evening to the Castle pressed ; 
 And busy talkers said they bore 
 Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore; 
 At noon the deadly fray begun, 
 And lasted till the set of sun. 
 Thus giddy rumour shook the town, 
 Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 The sun, awakening, through the smoky air 
 
 Of the dark city cast a sullen glance, 
 Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, 
 
 Of sinful man the sad inheritance ; 
 Summoning revellers from the lagging dance, 
 
 Scaring the prowling robber to his den: 
 Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance, 
 
 And warning student pale to leave his pen, 
 And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of 
 men. 
 
 b 
 
 What various scenes, and O ! what scenes of woe, 
 
 Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam ! 
 The fevered patient from his pallet low, 
 
 Through crowded hospital beholds it stream; 
 The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam, 
 
 The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, 
 The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting 
 dream, 
 
 The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, 
 Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his 
 feeble wail. 
 
 }9 
 
<ep 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 31 
 
 II. 
 
 At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
 With soldier-step and weapon clang, 
 While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
 Relief to weary sentinel. 
 Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, 
 The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
 And, struggling with the smoky air, 
 Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare. 
 In comfortless alliance shone 
 The lights through arch of blackened stone, 
 And showed wild shapes in garb of Avar, 
 Faces deformed with beard and scar, 
 All haggard from the midnight watch, 
 And fevered with the stern debauch: 
 For the oak table's massive board, 
 Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 
 1 1 And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown, 
 Showed in what sport the night had flown. 
 Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; 
 fr'ome laboured still their thirst to quench ; 
 vSome, chilled with watching, spread their hands 
 O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, 
 While round them, or beside them flung, 
 At every step their harness rung. 
 
 III. 
 
 These drew not for their fields the sword, 
 
 Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
 
 Nor owned the patriarchal claim 
 
 Of Chieftain in their leader's name ; 
 
 Adventurers they, from far who roved, 
 
 To live by battle which they loved. 
 
 There the Italian's clouded face, 
 
 The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace ; 
 
 Tiie mountain-loving Switzer there 
 
 More freely breathed in mountain-air ; 
 
 The Fleming there despised the soil, 
 
 That paid so ill the labourer's toil ; 
 
 Their rolls showed French and German name; 
 
 And merry England's exiles came, 
 
 To share, with ill concealed disdain, 
 
 Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
 
 All brave in arms, well trained to wield . 
 
 The heavy halbert, brand, and shield ; 
 
 In camps licentious, wild, and bold; 
 
 In pillage, fierce and uncontrolled ; 
 
 And now, by holytide and feast, 
 
 From rules of discipline released. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They held debate of bloody fray, 
 
 Fought 'twixt Loch-Katrine and Achray. 
 
 Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their words, 
 
 Their hands oft grappled to their swords ; 
 
 Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear 
 
 Of wounded comrades groaning near, 
 
 Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, 
 
 Bore token of the mountain sword, 
 
 Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard, 
 
 Their prayers and feverish wails were heard;— 
 
 Sad burden to the ruffian joke, 
 
 And savage oath by fury spoke! — 
 
 At length up-started John of Brent, 
 
 A yeoman from the banks of Trent ; 
 
 A stranger to respect or fear, 
 
 In peace a chaser of the deer, 
 
 In host a hardy mutineer, 
 
 But still the boldest of the crew, 
 
 When deed of danger was to do. 
 
 He grieved, that clay their games cut short, 
 
 And marr'd the dicer's brawling sport, 
 
 And shouted loud, " Renew the bowl' 
 
 And, while a merry catch I troll, 
 
 Let each the buxom chorus bear, 
 
 Like brethren of the brand and spear.'' 
 
 i_ 
 
 ^olijier's Song. 
 
 Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule 
 Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown 
 bowl, [jack, 
 
 That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black 
 And the seven deadly sins in a flaggon of sack ; 
 Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, 
 Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar ! 
 
 Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 
 The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, j 
 
 Says, that Belzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, I 
 And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black I 
 Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker, [eye ; 
 Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar ! 
 
 Our vicar thus preaches — and why should he not? 
 For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot ; 
 And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch, 
 Who infringe the domains of our good mother 
 
 Church. 
 Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, 
 Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The warder's challenge, heard without, 
 
 Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. 
 
 A soldier to the portal went, — 
 
 " Here is old Bertram, Sirs, of Ghent; 
 
 And, beat for jubilee the drum! 
 
 A maid and minstrel with him come." — 
 
 Bertram, a Fleming, grey and scarr'd, 
 
 Was entering now the Court of Guard, 
 
 A harper with him, and in plaid 
 
 All muffled close, a mountain maid, 
 
 Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view 
 
 Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 
 
 " What news?" they roared: — " I only know, 
 
 From noon till eve we fought the foe, 
 
 As wild and as untamable, 
 
 As the rude mountains where they dwell. 
 
 On both sides store of blood is lost, 
 
 Nor much success can either boast." — 
 
 " But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil 
 
 As theirs must needs reward thy toil, 
 
 Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp ; 
 
 Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp, 
 
 Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 
 
 The leader of a juggler band." 
 
 VII. 
 
 " No, comrade ;— no such fortune mine. 
 After the fight, these sought our line, 
 That aged harper and the girl, 
 And, having audience of the Earl, 
 Mar bade I should purvey them steed, 
 And bring them hitherward with speed.. 
 Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, 
 For none shall do them shame or harm." — 
 " Hear ye his boast!" cried John of Brent, 
 Ever to strife and jangling bent, — 
 " Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 
 And yet the jealous niggard grudge 
 To pay the forester his fee! 
 I'll have my share howe'er it be, 
 Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee."' — 
 Bertram his forward step withstood ; 
 And, burning in his vengeful mood, 
 Old Allan, though unfit for strife, 
 Laid hand upon his dagger-knife; 
 But Ellen boldly stepp'd between, 
 And dropp'd at once the tartan screen ; — 
 So, from his morning cloud, appears 
 The sun of May, through summer tears. 
 The savage soldiery, amazed, 
 As on descended angel gazed ; 
 
e 
 
 32 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 =€> 
 
 Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed, 
 Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Boldly she spoke, — " Soldiers, attend! 
 
 My father was the soldier's friend; 
 
 Cheered him in camps, in marches led, 
 
 And with him in the battle bled. 
 
 Not from the valiant, or the strong, 
 
 Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." — 
 
 Answered De Brent, most forward still 
 
 In every feat or good or ill.' — 
 
 " I shame me of the part I played: 
 
 And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid! 
 
 An outlaw I by Forest laws, 
 
 And merry Needwood knows the cause. 
 
 Poor Rose, — if Rose be living now," — 
 
 He wiped his iron eye and brow, 
 
 " Must bear such age, I think, as thou.- — 
 
 Hear ye, my mates ; — I go to call 
 
 The Captain of our watch to hall : 
 
 There lies my halbert on the floor; 
 
 And he that steps my halbert o'er, 
 
 To do the maid injurious part, 
 
 My shaft shall quiver in his heart! — 
 
 Beware loose speech, or jesting rough: 
 
 Ye all know John de Brent. "Enough." — 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their Captain came, a gallant young, — 
 
 (Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,) 
 
 Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; 
 
 Gay was his mien, his humour light. 
 
 And though by courtesy controlled, 
 
 Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 
 
 The high-born maiden ill could brook 
 
 The scanning of his curious look 
 
 And dauntless eye ; — and, yet, in sooth, 
 
 Young Lewis was a generous youth ; 
 
 But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 
 
 Ill-suited to the garb and scene, 
 
 Might lightly bear construction strange, 
 
 And give loose fancy scope to range. 
 
 " Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! 
 
 Come ye to seek a champion's aid, 
 
 On palfrey white, with harper hoar, 
 
 Like errant damosel of yore? 
 
 Does thy high quest a knight require, 
 
 Or may the venture suit a squire?" 
 
 Her dark eye flashed ; — she paused and sighed,- 
 
 " O what have I to do with pride! — 
 
 Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, 
 
 A suppliant for a father's life, 
 
 I crave an audience of the King, 
 
 Behold, to back my suit, a ring, 
 
 The royal pledge of grateful claims, 
 
 Given by the monarch to Fitz- James. "— 
 
 X. 
 
 The signet ring young Lewis took, 
 With deep respect and altered look; 
 And said, — " This ring our duties own; 
 And, pardon, if to worth unknown, 
 In semblance mean obscurely veiled, 
 Lady, in aught my folly failed. 
 Soon as the day flings wide his gates, 
 The King shall know what suitor waits. 
 Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower 
 Repose you till his waking hour; 
 Female attendants shall obey 
 Your hest, for service or array. 
 Permit I marshal you the way.''— 
 But, ere she followed, with the grace 
 And open bounty of her race, 
 She bade her slender purse be shared 
 Among the soldiers of the guard. 
 
 The rest with thanks their guerdon took ; 
 
 But Brent, with shy and awkward look, 
 
 On the reluctant maiden's hold 
 
 Forced bluntly back the proffered gold ; — 
 
 " Forgive a haughty English heart, 
 
 And O forget its ruder part! 
 
 The vacant purse shall be my share, 
 
 Which in my barret-cap I'll bear, 
 
 Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 
 
 Where gayer crests may keep afar.'' — 
 
 With thanks,— 'twas all she could,— the maid 
 
 His rugged courtesy repaid. 
 
 XL 
 
 When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
 Allan made suit to John of Brent: — 
 " My lady safe, O let your grace 
 Give me to see my master's face! 
 His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
 Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
 Tenth in descent, since first my sires 
 Waked for his noble house their lyres, 
 Nor one of all the race was known 
 But prized its weal above their own. 
 With the Chief's birth begins our care ; 
 Our harp must sooth the infant heir, 
 Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
 His earliest feat of field or chase ; 
 In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
 We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, 
 Nor leave him till we pour our verse, 
 A doleful tribute! o'er his hearse. 
 Then let me share his captive lot ; 
 It is my right — deny it not!" — 
 " Little we reck," said John of Brent, 
 " We Southern men, of long descent; 
 Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
 Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: 
 Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
 God bless the house of Beaudesert ; 
 And, but I loved to drive the deer, 
 More than to guide the labouring steer, 
 I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
 Come, good old Minstrel, follow me ; 
 Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then, from a rusted iron hook, 
 
 A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 
 
 Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
 
 Through grated arch and passage dread. 
 
 Portals they passed, where deep within, 
 
 Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din ; 
 
 Through rugged vaults, where loosely stored, 
 
 Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's sword, 
 
 And many a hideous engine grim, 
 
 For wrenching joint, and crushing limb, 
 
 By artists formed, who deemed it shame 
 
 And sin to give their work a name. 
 
 They halted at a low-browed porch,- 
 
 And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
 
 While bolt and chain he backward rolled, 
 
 And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
 
 They entered : — 'twas a prison room 
 
 Of stern security and gloom, 
 
 Yet not a dungeon ; for the day 
 
 Through lofty gratings found its way, 
 
 And rude and antique garniture 
 
 Decked the sad walls and oaken floor ; 
 
 Such as the rugged days of old, 
 
 Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 
 
 " Here," said De Brent, " thou mayst remain 
 
 Till the Leech visit him again. 
 
 Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
 
 To tend the noble prisoner well. — " 
 
 Retiring then the bolt he drew, 
 
 And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew. 
 

 
 CANTO VI.— THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 33 
 
 79 
 
 Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 
 
 A Captive feebly raised his head: 
 
 The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew 
 
 Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dim! 
 
 For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, 
 
 They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought. 
 
 XIII. 
 As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 
 Shall never stem the billows more, 
 Deserted by her gallant band, 
 Amid the breakers lies astrand, 
 So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu! 
 And oft his fevered limbs he threw 
 In toss abrupt, as when her sides 
 Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 
 That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, 
 Yet cannot heave her from her seat ; — 
 O! how unlike her course on sea! 
 Or his free step on hill and lea! — 
 Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 
 ■ — " What of thy lady? — of my clan? — 
 My mother? — Douglas? — tell me all! 
 Have they been ruined in my fall ? 
 Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ! 
 Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not fear." 
 (For Allan, who his mood well knew, 
 Was chok'd with grief and terror too.) — 
 " Who fought — who fled! — Oldman, be brief ;- 
 Some might — for they had lost their Chief. 
 Who basely live? — Who bravely died?'' — 
 " O calm thee, Chief!" the Minstrel cried, 
 " Ellen is safe ;" — " For that, thank heaven!" 
 " And hopes are for the Douglas given ; — 
 The Lady Margaret too is well, 
 And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, 
 Has never harp of minstrel told, 
 Of combat fought so true and bold. 
 Thy stately pine is yet unbent, 
 Though many a goodly bough is rent."' — 
 
 XIV. 
 The Chieftain reared his form on high, 
 And fever's fire was in his eye ; 
 But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
 Chequered his swarthy brow and cheeks. 
 — " Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play, 
 With measure bold on festal day, 
 In yon lone isle . . . again where ne'er 
 Shall harper play, or warrior hear! 
 That stirring air that peals on high, 
 O'er Dermid's race our victory, — 
 Strike it! — and then, (for well thou canst,) 
 Free from thy minstrel -spirit glanced, 
 Fling me the picture of the fight, 
 When met my clan the Saxon might. 
 I'll listen, till my fancy hears 
 The clang of swords, the crash of spears! 
 These grates, these walls, shall vanish then, 
 For the fair field of fighting men, 
 And my free spirit burst away, 
 As if it soared from battle-fray." — 
 The trembling bard with awe obeyed, — 
 Show on the harp his hand he laid ; 
 But soon remembrance of the sight 
 He witnessed from the mountain's height, 
 With what old Bertram told at night, 
 Awakened the full power of song, 
 And bore him in career along ; — 
 As shallop launched on river's tide, 
 That slow and fearful leaves the side, 
 But when it feels the middle stream, 
 Drives downward swift as lightning's Uotivr,. 
 
 XV. 
 25attU of IkaV ait Btunr. 
 <* The Minstrel came once more to viuw 
 ! The eastern ridge of Ben-venue, 
 
 For, ere he parted, he Avould say 
 Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray — 
 Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
 So lone a lake, so sweet a strand! — 
 There is no breeze upon the fern, 
 
 No ripple on the lake, 
 Upon her eyrie nods the erne, 
 
 The deer has sought the brake ; 
 The small birds will not sing aloud, 
 
 The springing trout lies still, 
 So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, 
 That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 
 
 Benledi's distant hill. 
 Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
 
 That mutters deep and dread, 
 Or echoes from the groaning ground 
 
 The warrior's measured tread ? 
 Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
 
 That on the thicket streams, 
 Or do they flash on spear and lance, 
 
 The sun's retiring beams? 
 — I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
 I see the Moray's silver star, 
 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. 
 That up the lake comes winding far! 
 To hero boune for battle-strife, 
 
 Or bard of martial lay, 
 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 
 
 One glance at their array ! 
 XVI. 
 " Their light-armed archers far and near 
 
 Surveyed the tangled ground, 
 Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 
 
 A twilight forest frowned, 
 Their barded horsemen, in the rear, 
 
 The stern battalia crowned. 
 No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, 
 
 Still were the pipe and drum ; 
 Save heavy tread, and armour's clang, 
 
 The sullen march was dumb. 
 There breathed no wind their crests to shake 
 
 Or wave their flags abroad ; 
 Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, 
 
 That shadowed o'er their road. 
 Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, 
 
 Can rouse no lurking foe, 
 Nor spy a trace of living thing, 
 
 Save when they stirred the roe ; 
 The host moves, like a deep-sea wave, 
 Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
 
 High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
 The lake is passed, and now they gain 
 A narrow and a broken plain, 
 Before the Trosach's rugged jaws; 
 And here the horse and spear-men pause, 
 While, to explore the dangerous glen, 
 Dive through the pass the archer-men. 
 
 XVII. 
 " At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Within that dark and narrow dell, 
 As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, 
 Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 
 Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
 Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 
 
 The archery appear: 
 For life ! for life ! their flight they ply— 
 And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
 And plaids, and bonnets waving hign, 
 And broadswords flashing to the sky, 
 
 Are maddening in their rear. 
 Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 
 
 Pursuers and pursued ; 
 Before that tide of flight and chase, 
 How shall it keep its rooted place, 
 
 'I he spearmen's twilight wood? 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 r© 
 
 * Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down! 
 
 Bear back both friend and foe!' 
 Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
 That serried grove of lances brown 
 
 At once lay levell'd low ; 
 And closely shouldering side to side, 
 The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 
 ' We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 
 
 As their Tinchel cows the game! 
 They come as fleet as forest deer, 
 
 We'll drive them back as tame.' — 
 
 xvin. 
 
 " Bearing before them, in their course, 
 The relics of the archer force, 
 Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
 Right onward did Clan- Alpine come. 
 Above the tide, each broad-sword bright 
 Was brandishing like beam of light, 
 
 Each targe was dark below ; 
 And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
 When heaving to the tempest's wing, 
 
 They hurled them on the foe. 
 I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
 As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; 
 I heard the broad-swords deadly clang, 
 As if a hundred anvils rang! 
 But Moray wheeled his rear-ward rank 
 Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, — 
 
 ' My banner-man, advance ! 
 I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. — 
 Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, 
 
 Upon them with the lance!' — 
 The horsemen dashed among the route, 
 
 As deer break through the broom ; 
 Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, 
 
 They soon make lightsome room. 
 Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne — 
 
 Where, where, was Roderick then! 
 One blast upon his bugle-horn 
 
 Were worth a thousand men. 
 And refluent through the pass of fear 
 
 Tlie battle's tide was pour'd ; 
 Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, 
 
 Vanished the .mountain sword. 
 As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, 
 
 Receives her roaring linn, 
 As the dark caverns of the deep 
 
 Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
 So did the deep and darksome pass 
 Devour the battle's mingled mass ; 
 None linger now upon the plain, 
 Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Now westward rolls the battle's din, 
 That deep and doubling pass within. 
 — Minstrel, away! the work of fate 
 Is bearing on: its issue wait, 
 Where the rude Trosach's dread defile 
 Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.' — 
 Grey Benvenue I soon repassed, 
 Loch-Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
 The sun is set; — the clouds are met, 
 
 The lowering scowl of heaven 
 An inky hue of livid blue 
 
 To the deep lake has given ; 
 Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen 
 Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen. 
 I heeded not the eddying surge, 
 Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, 
 Mine ear but heard that sullen sound, 
 Which like an earthquake shook the ground, 
 And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
 That parts not but with parting life, 
 Seeming, to minstrel-ear, to toll 
 The dirge of many a passing soul. 
 
 Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
 The martial flood disgorged agen, 
 
 But not in mingled tide ; 
 The plaided warriors of the North 
 High on the mountain thunder forth, 
 
 And overhang its side ; 
 While by the lake below appears 
 The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
 At weary bay each shattered band, 
 Eying their foemen, sternly stand ; 
 Their banners stream like tatter 'd sail, 
 That flings its fragments to the gale, 
 And broken arms and disarray 
 Marked the fell havoc of the day. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
 The Saxons stood in sullen trance, 
 Till Moray pointed with his lance, 
 
 And cried — « Behold yon isle! — 
 See! none are left to guard its strand, 
 But women weak, that wring the hand: 
 'Tis there of yore the robber band 
 
 Their booty wont to pile ; — 
 My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, 
 To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
 And loose a shallop from the shore. 
 Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, 
 Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.' — 
 Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, 
 On earth his casque and corslet rung, 
 
 He plung'd him in the Avave : — 
 All saw the deed — the purpose knew, 
 And to their clamours Benvenue 
 
 A mingled echo gave ; 
 The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 
 The helpless females scream. for fear, 
 And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
 'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
 Poured down at once the lowering heaven ; 
 A whirlwind swept Loch-Katrine's breast, 
 Her billows reared their snowy crest. 
 Well for the swimmer swelled they high, 
 To mar the Highland marksman's eye ; 
 For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail, 
 The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
 In vain. — He nears the isle— and lo' 
 His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
 — Just then a flash of lightning came, 
 It tinged the waves and strand with flame ; — 
 1 marked Duncraggan's widowed dame, 
 Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
 A naked dirk gleamed in her hand :— 
 It darkened, — but amid the moan 
 Of waves I heard a dying groan ; — 
 Another flash!— the spearman floats 
 A weltering corse beside the boats, 
 And the stern matron o'er him stood, 
 Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Revenge! revenge!" the Saxons cried, 
 The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 
 Despite the elemental rage, 
 Again they hurried to engage ; 
 But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 
 Bloody with spurring came a knight, 
 Sprung from his horse, and,. from a crag, 
 Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 
 Clarion and trumpet by his side 
 Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, 
 While, in the monarch's name, afar 
 A herald's voice forbade the war,- 
 For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, 
 Were both, he said, in captive hold." 
 —But here the lay made sudden stand, 
 The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand]— 
 
■© 
 
 CANTO VI.— THE GUARD-ROOM. 
 
 Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy- 
 How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy: 
 At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, 
 With lifted hand, kept feeble time ; 
 That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong 
 Varied his look as changed the song ; 
 At length, no more his deafened ear 
 The minstrel melody can hear ; 
 His face grows sharp, his hands are clenched, 
 As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched ; 
 Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
 Is sternly fixed on vacancy ; — 
 Thus, motionless, and moanless, drew 
 His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu! — 
 Old Allan-bane looked on aghast, 
 While grim and still his spirit passed ; 
 But when he saw that life was fled, 
 He poured his wailing o'er the dead. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ^Lament. 
 "And art thou cold, and lowly laid, 
 Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
 Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade! 
 For thee shall none a requiem say? 
 — For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay, 
 For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
 The shelter of her exiled line, 
 E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
 I'll wail for Alpine's honoured pine! 
 
 "What groans shall yonder valleys fill! 
 What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill ! 
 What tears of burning rage shall thrill, 
 When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 
 Thy fall before the race was won, 
 Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! 
 There breathes not clansman of thy line, 
 But would have given his life for thine. — 
 O woe for Alpine's honoured pine ! 
 
 " Sad was thy lot on mortal stage! — 
 The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
 The prisoned eagle dies for rage. 
 Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain! 
 And, when its notes awake again, 
 Even she, so long beloved in vain, 
 Shall with my harp her voice combine, 
 And mix her woe and tears with mine, 
 To wail Clan- Alpine's honoured pine.'' — 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, 
 
 Remained in lordly bower apart. 
 
 Where played, with many-coloured gleams, 
 
 Through storied pane the rising beams, 
 
 In vain on gilded roof they fall, 
 
 And lighten'd up a tapestried wall, 
 
 And for her use a menial train 
 
 A rich collation spread in vain. 
 
 The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 
 
 Scarce drew one curious glance astray, 
 
 Or, if she looked, 'twas but to say, 
 
 With better omen dawned the day 
 
 In that lone isle, where waved on high 
 
 The dun deer's hide for canopy; 
 
 Where oft her noble father shared 
 
 The simple meal her care prepared, 
 
 While Lufra, crouching by her side, 
 
 Her station claimed with jealous pride, 
 
 And Douglas, bent on woodland game, 
 
 Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Gramme, 
 
 Whose answer, oft at random made, 
 
 The wandering of his thoughts betrayed: 
 
 Those who such simple joys have known 
 Are taught to prize them when they're gone. 
 But sudden, see, she lifts her head! 
 The window seeks with cautious tread. 
 
 What distant music has the power 
 To win her in this woeful hour ! 
 'Twas from a turret that o'er- hung 
 Her latticed bower, the strain was sung. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 iLag of the Emflrt'sotte& huntsman. 
 
 " My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
 My idle grey-hound loathes his food, 
 My horse is weary of his stall, 
 And I am sick of captive thrall. 
 I wish I were as I have been, 
 Hunting the hart in forests green, 
 With bended bow and blood-hound free, 
 For that's the life is meet for me. 
 
 I hate to learn the ebb of time, 
 From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
 Or mark it as the sun-beams crawl, 
 Inch after inch, along the wall. 
 The lark was wont my matins ring, 
 The sable rook my vespers sing ; 
 These towers although a king's they be, 
 Have not a hall of joy for me. 
 
 " No more at dawning morn I rise, 
 And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
 Drive the fleet deer the forest through, 
 And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
 A blithesome welcome blithely meet, 
 And lay my trophies at her feet, 
 While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
 That life is lost to love and me!" 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The heart-sick lay was hardly said, 
 The list'ner had not turned her head, 
 It trickled still, the starting tear, 
 When light a footstep struck her ear, 
 And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. 
 She turned the hastier, lest again 
 The prisoner should renew his strain. 
 " O welcome, brave Fitz- James!" she saidj 
 " How may an almost orphan maid 
 
 Pay the deep debt" "O say not so! 
 
 To me no gratitude you owe. 
 
 Not mine, alas! the boon to give, 
 
 And bid thy noble father live ; 
 
 I can but be thy guide, sweet maid, 
 
 With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. 
 
 No tyrant he, though ire and pride 
 
 May lead his better mood aside. 
 
 Come, Ellen, come ! — 'tis more than time, 
 
 He holds his court at morning prime." — 
 
 With beating heart, and bosom wrung, 
 
 As to a brother's arm she clung. 
 
 Gently he dried the falling tear, 
 
 And gently whispered hope and cheer ; 
 
 Her faltering steps half led, half staid, 
 
 Through gallery fair and high arcade, 
 
 Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 
 
 A portal arch unfolded wide. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Within 'twas brilliant all and light, 
 A thronging scene of figures bright; 
 It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, 
 As when the setting sun has given 
 Ten thousand hues to summer even, 
 And, from their tissue, fancy frames 
 Aerial knights and fairy dames. 
 Still by Fitz-James her footing staid ; 
 A few faint steps she forward made, 
 Then slow her drooping head she raised, 
 And fearful round the presence gazed ; 
 For him she sought, who owned this state. 
 The dreaded prince whose will was fate! 
 
 =M 
 
e: 
 
 36 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 ©= 
 
 She gazed on many a princely port, 
 Might well have ruled a royal court ; 
 On many a splendid garb she gazed, — 
 Then turned bewildered and amazed, 
 For all stood bare ; and, in the room, 
 Fitz- James alone wore cap and plume. 
 To him each lady's look was lent, 
 On him each courtier's eye was bent ; 
 Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen, 
 He stood, in simple Lincoln green, 
 The centre of the glittering ring, — 
 And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King! 
 
 XXVII. 
 As wreath of snow on mountain breast, 
 Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 
 Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 
 And at the Monarch's feet she lay; 
 No word her choking voice commands, — 
 She showed the ring, — she clasped her hands. 
 O! not a moment could he brook, 
 The generous prince, that suppliant lock! 
 Gently he raised her, — and, the while, 
 Checked with a glance the circle's smile ; 
 Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, 
 And bade her terrors be dismissed: — 
 " Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz-Jamcs 
 The fealty of Scotland claims. 
 To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring ; 
 He will redeem his signet ring. 
 Ask nought for Douglas ; — yester even, 
 His prince and he have much forgiven: 
 Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, 
 I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 
 We would not to the vulgar crowd 
 Yield what they craved with clamour loud ; 
 Calmly Ave heard and judged his cause, 
 Our council aided, and our laws. 
 I stanched thy father's death-feud stern, 
 With stout De Vaux and grey Glencairn ; 
 And Bothwell's Lord henceforth Ave own 
 The friend and bulwark of our throne.. — 
 But, lovely infidel, how now? 
 What clouds thy misbelieving brow? 
 Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; 
 Thou must confirm this doubting maid." — 
 
 XXVIIJ. 
 
 Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
 
 And on his neck his daughter hung. 
 
 The Monarch drank, that happy hour, 
 
 The sweetest, holiest draught of Power, — 
 
 When it can say, with godlike voice, 
 
 Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice! 
 
 Yet would not J ames the general eye 
 
 On nature's raptures long should pry ; 
 
 He stepp'd between — " Nay, Douglas, nay, 
 
 Steal not my proselyte away ! 
 
 The riddle 'tis my right to read, 
 
 That brought this happy chance to speed. — 
 
 Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
 
 In life's more low but happier way, 
 
 'Tis under name which veils my power, 
 
 Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
 
 Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 
 
 And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
 
 Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, 
 
 Thus learn to right the injured cause." — 
 
 Then, in a tone apart and low, 
 
 ■ — " Ah, little trait'ress! none must know 
 
 What idle dream, what lighter thought, 
 
 What vanity full dearly bought, 
 
 Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
 
 My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, 
 
 In dangerous hour, and all but gave 
 
 Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!" — 
 
 Aloud he spoke — " Thou still dost hold 
 
 That little talisman of gold, 
 
 Pledge of my faith, Fitz- James's ring— 
 What seeks fair Ellen. of the King?"— 
 
 XXIX. 
 Full well the conscious maiden guessed, 
 He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
 But, with that consciousness, there came 
 A lightening of her fears for Grseme, 
 And more she deemed the monarch's ire 
 Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
 Rebellious broad-sword boldly drew ; 
 And, to her generous feeling true, 
 She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu — 
 " Forbear thy suit: — the King of Kings 
 Alone can stay life's parting wings. 
 I know his heart, I know his hand, 
 Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand :- 
 My fairest earldom would I give 
 To bid Clan- Alpine's Chieftain live!— 
 Hast thou no other boon to crave ? 
 No other captive friend to save?" — 
 Blushing, she turned her from the King, 
 And to the Douglas gave the ring, 
 As if she wished her sire to speak 
 The suit that stained her glowing cheek. — 
 " Nay, then, my pledge has lost it force, 
 And stubborn justice holds her course. 
 Malcolm, come forth!" — And, at the word, 
 Down kneel'd the Grseme to Scotland's Lord, 
 "For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
 From thee may Vengeance claim her dues, 
 Who, nurtured underneath our smile, 
 Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, 
 And sought, amid thy faithful clan, 
 A refuge for an outlawed man, 
 Dishonouring thus thy loyal name — 
 
 Fetters and warder for the Groeme!" ■ 
 
 His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
 The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 
 Then gently drew the glittering band, 
 And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 
 
 Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow 
 dark, 
 On purple peaks a deeper shade descending ; 
 In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, 
 The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. 
 Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, 
 And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy ; 
 Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers 
 blending, 
 With distant echo from the fold and lea, 
 And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of hous- 
 ing bee. 
 
 Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! 
 
 Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, 
 And little reck I of the censure sharp 
 
 May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
 Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, 
 
 Through secret woes the world has never 
 known, 
 When on the weary night dawned wearier day, 
 
 And bitterer was the grief devoured alone. 
 That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine 
 
 own. 
 Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, 
 
 Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 
 'Tis now a Seraph bold, with touch of fire, 
 
 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. 
 Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
 
 Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell, 
 And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring 
 
 A wandering witch-note of the distant spell — 
 And now, 'tis silent all!' — Enchantress, fare thee ( 
 well! 
 
NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 ■Q 
 
 37 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 <& 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 The heights of Uam-var,— Stanza iv. 
 
 Ua-var, as the name is pronounced, or more 
 properly Uaigh-mor, is a mountain to the north- 
 east of the village of Callender in Menteith, 
 deriving its name, which signifies the great den, 
 or cavern, from a sort of retreat among the 
 rocks on the south side, said, by tradition, to 
 have been the abode of a giant. In latter times, 
 it was the refuge of robbers, who have been only 
 extirpated within these forty or fifty years. 
 
 For the death-stroke, and death halloo, 
 Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew. — Stanza yiii. 
 When the stag turned to bay, the ancient 
 hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, 
 and killing or disabling the desperate animal. 
 At certain times of the year this was held par- 
 ticularly dangerous, a wound received from a 
 stag's horns being then deemed poisonous, and 
 more dangerous than one from the tusks of a 
 boar, as the old rhyme testifies : 
 If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy bier, 
 But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore thou 
 needst not fear. 
 
 At all times, however, the task was dangerous, 
 and to be adventured upon Avisely and warily, 
 either by getting behind the stag while he was 
 gazing on the hounds, or by watching an oppor- 
 tunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and kill 
 him with the sword. 
 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 
 A far projecting precipice.— Stanza xiv. 
 
 Until the present road was made through the 
 romantic pass which I have presumptuously 
 attempted to describe in the preceding stanzas, 
 there was no mode of issuing out of the defile, 
 called the Trosachs, excepting by a sort of 
 ladder, composed of the branches and roots of 
 the trees. 
 
 To meet with highland plunderer here, 
 
 Were worse than loss of steed or deer Stanza xvi. 
 
 The clans who inhabited the romantic regions 
 in the neighbourhood of Loch Katrine, Were, 
 even until a late period, much addicted to pre- 
 datory excursions upon their lowland neighbours. 
 
 '* In former times, those parts of this district, 
 which are situated beyond the Grampian range, 
 were rendered almost inaccessible, by strong 
 barriers of rocks, and mountains, and lakes. It 
 was a border country, and though on the very 
 verge of the low country, it was almost totally 
 sequestered from the world, and, as it were, 
 insulated with respect to society. 
 
 "'Tis well known, that in the highlands, it 
 was, in former times, accounted not onlv lawful, 
 but honourable, among hostile tribes, to commit 
 depredations on one another; and these habits 
 of the age were perhaps strengthened in this 
 district, by the circumstances which have been 
 mentioned. It bordered on a country, the in- 
 habitants of which, while they were richer, were 
 less warlike than they, and widely differenced 
 by language and manners." — Graham's Sketches 
 of Scenery in Perthshire. Edin. 1806, p. 97. 
 
 A grey-haired sire, whose eye, intent, 
 Was on the visioned future bent.— Stanza xxiii. 
 If force of evidence could authorise us to be- 
 
 lieve facts inconsistent with the general laws of 
 nature, enough might be produced in favour of 
 the existence of the Second-Sight. It is called 
 in Geelic Taishitaraugh, from Taish, an unreal 
 or shadowy appearance ; and those possessed of 
 the faculty are called Taishatrin, which may be 
 aptly translated visionaries. Martin, a steady 
 believer in the second-sight, gives the following 
 account of it: 
 
 " The second-sight is a singular faculty of 
 seeing an otherwise invisible object, without 
 any previous means used by the person that uses 
 it for that end : the vision makes such a lively 
 impression upon the seers, that they neither see 
 nor think of any thing else, except the vision, 
 as long as it continues ; and then they appear 
 pensive or jovial, according to the object which 
 was represented to them. 
 
 " At the sight of a vision, the eye-lids of the 
 person are erected, and the eyes continue staring 
 until the object vanish. This is obvious to others 
 who are by, when the persons happen to see a 
 vision, and occurred more than ence to my own 
 observation, and to others that were with me. 
 
 " When a shroud is perceived about one, it is 
 a sure prognostic of death : the time is judged 
 according to the height of it about the person ; 
 for if it seem above the middle, death is not to 
 be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps 
 some months longer ; and as it is frequently seen 
 to ascend higher towards the head, death is con- 
 cluded to be at hand within a few days, if not 
 hours, as daily experience confirms. Examples 
 of this kind were shown me, when the persons of 
 whom the observations were then made, enjoyed 
 perfect health. 
 
 " If a woman is seen standing at a man's left 
 hand, it is a presage that she will be his wife, 
 whether they be married to others, or unmarried, 
 at the time of the apparition. If two or three 
 women are seen at once near a man's left hand, 
 she that is next him will undoubtedly be his wife 
 first, and so on, whether all three, or the man, be 
 single or married at the time of the vision or not ; 
 of which there are several late instances among 
 those of my acquaintance. It is an ordinary 
 thing for them to see a man that is to come to 
 the house shortly after ; and if he is not of the 
 seer's acquaintance, yet he gives such a lively 
 description of his stature, complexion, habit, &c. 
 that upon his arrival he answers the character 
 given of him in all respects. 
 
 "If the person so appearing be one of the seer's 
 acquaintance, he will tell his name, as well as 
 other particulars ; and he can tell by his counten- 
 ance whether he comes in a good or bad humour. 
 
 " All those who have the second-sight do not 
 always see these visions at once, though they be 
 together at the time. But if one who has this 
 faculty, designedly touch his fellow seer at the 
 instant of a vision's appearing, then the second 
 sees it as well as the first: and this is sometimes 
 discerned by those that are near them on such 
 occasions." — Martin's Description of the Wes- 
 tern Islands, 1716, 8vo. p. 300, et seq. 
 
 Though all unasked his birth and name.— Stanza xxix 
 
 The Highlanders, who carried hospitality to a 
 
 punctilious excess, are said to have considered 
 
 it as churlish, to ask a stranger his name or line- 
 
38 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
 age, before he had partaken of refreshment. 
 Feuds were so frequent among them, that a con- 
 trary rule would, in many cases, have produced 
 the discovery of some circumstance, which might 
 have excluded the guest from the benefit of the 
 assistance he stood in need of. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven. 
 
 Were exiled from their native heaven. — Stanza viii. 
 
 The downfall of the Douglasses of the house 
 of Angus, during the reign of James V., is the 
 event alluded to in the text. The Earl of 
 Angus, it will be remembered, had married the 
 queen dowager, and availed himself of the right 
 which he thus acquired, as well as of his exten- 
 sive power, to retain the king in a sort of tute- 
 lage, which approached very near to captivity. 
 Several open attempts were made to rescue 
 James from this thraldom, with which he was 
 well known to be deeply disgusted; but the 
 valour of the Douglasses, and their allies, gave 
 them the victory in every conflict. At length, 
 the king, while residing at Falkland, contrived 
 to escape by night, out of nis own court and 
 palace, and rode full speed to Stirling Castle, 
 where the governor, who was of the opposite 
 faction, joyfully received him. 
 
 The Douglas like a stricken deer, 
 Disowned by every noble peer. — Stanza xii. 
 
 The exiled" state of this powerful race is not 
 exaggerated in this and subsequent passages. 
 The hatred of James against the race of Douglas 
 was so inveterate, that numerous as their allies 
 were, and disregarded as the regal authority 
 had usually been in similar cases, their nearest 
 friends, even in the most remote parts of Scot- 
 land, durst not entertain them, unless under 
 the strictest and closest disguise. James Douglas, 
 son of the banished Earl of Angus, afterwards 
 well known by the title of Earl of Morton, 
 lurked, during the exile of his family, in the 
 north of Scotland, under the assumed name of 
 James Innes, otherwise James the Grieve, (i. e. 
 Reve or Bailiff.) 
 
 Maronnan's cell.— Stanza xiii. 
 
 The parish of Kilmaronock, at the eastern ex- 
 tremity of Lochlomond, derives its. name from 
 a cell or chapel, dedicated to Saint Moronoch, 
 or Marnoch, or Maronan, about whose sanctity 
 very little is now remembered. There is a 
 fountain devoted to him in the same parish, but 
 its virtues, like the merits of its patron, have 
 fallen into oblivion. 
 
 Bracklinn's thundering wave. — Stanza xiv. 
 
 This is a beautiful cascade made at a place 
 called the Bridge of Bracklinn, by a mountain 
 stream called the Keltie, about a mile from the 
 village of Callander, in Menteith. Above a 
 chasm where the brook precipitates itself from a 
 height of at least fifty feet, there is thrown, for 
 the convenience of the neighbourhood, a rustic 
 foot-bridge, of about three feet in breadth, and 
 without ledges, which is scarcely to be crossed 
 by a stranger without awe and apprehension. 
 The Pibroch proud. — Stanza xvii. 
 
 The connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to dis- 
 cover, in a well-composed pibroch, the imitative 
 sounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and 
 all the "current of a heady fight." 
 
 Roderigh vich Alpine Dhu, ho! ieroe!— Stanza xix. 
 
 Besides his ordinary name and surname, which 
 were chiefly used in his intercourse with the 
 
 Lowlands, every Highland chief had an epithet 
 expressive of his patriarchal dignity as head of 
 the clan, and which was common to all his pre- 
 decessors and successors, as Pharaoh to the 
 kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to those of Parthia. 
 The line of the text therefore signifies, 
 
 Black Roderick, the descendant of Alpine. 
 The song itself is intended as an imitation of 
 the jorrams, or boat-songs of the Highlanders, 
 which were usually composed in honour of a 
 favourite chief. 
 
 His henchman came — Stanza xxxv. 
 
 This officer is a sort of secretary, and is to 
 be ready, upon all occasions, to venture his life 
 in defence of his master ; and at drinking-bouts 
 he stands behind his seat, at his haunch, from 
 whence his title is derived, and watches the con- 
 versation, to see if any one offends his patron. 
 
 An English officer being in company with a 
 certain chieftain, and several other Highland 
 gentlemen, near Killichumen, had an argument 
 with the great man ; and both being well warmed 
 with usky, at last the dispute grew very hot. 
 
 A. youth who was henchman, not under- 
 standing one word of English, imagined his chief 
 was insulted, and thereupon drew his pistol from 
 his side, and snapped it at the officer's head! 
 But the pistol missed fire, otherwise it is more 
 than probable he might have suffered death. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a meteor round. 
 
 — Stanza i. 
 
 When a chieftain designed to summon his 
 clan, upon any sudden or important emergency, 
 he slew a goat, and making a cross of any light 
 wood, seared its extremities in the fire, and ex- 
 tinguished them in the blood of the animal. 
 This was called the Fiery Cross, also Crean 
 Tarigh, or the Cross of Shame, because disobe- 
 dience to what the symbol implied, inferred in- 
 famy. It was delivered to a swift and trusty 
 messenger, who ran full speed with it to the 
 next hamlet, where he presented it to the prin- 
 cipal person, with a single word, implying the 
 place of rendezvous. He who received the 
 symbol was bound to send it forwards, with equal 
 dispatch, to the next village ; and thus it passed 
 with incredible celerity through all the district 
 which owed allegiance to the chief, and also 
 among his allies and neighbours, if the danger 
 was common to them. At sight of the Fiery 
 Cross, every man, from sixteen years old to 
 sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged in- 
 stantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutre- 
 ments, to the place of rendezvous. He who 
 failed to appear, suffered the extremities of fire 
 and sword, which were emblematically de- 
 nounced to the disobedient by the bloody and 
 burnt marks upon this warlike signal. 
 
 Of Brian's birth strange tales were told.— Stanza v. 
 
 " There is bot two myles from Inverloghie, 
 the church of Kilmalee, in Lochyeld. in an- 
 cient tymes there was ane church builded upon 
 ane hill, which was above this church, which 
 doeth now stand in this toune ; and ancient men 
 doeth say, that there was a battell foughten on 
 ane litle hill not the tenth part of a myle from 
 this church, be certaine men which they did not 
 know what they were. And long tyme there- 
 after, certaine herds of that toune, and of the 
 next toune, called Unnatt, both wenches and 
 youthes, did on a tyme convene with others on 
 that hill ; and the day being somewhat cold, did 
 
 M 
 
NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 39 
 
 gather the bones of the dead men that were 
 slayne long tyme before in that place, and did 
 make a fire to warm them. At length they did 
 all remove from the fire, except one maid or 
 wench, which was verie cold, and she did re- 
 maine there for a space. She being quyetlie 
 her alone, without anie other companie, took up 
 her cloaths above her knees, or thereby, to warm 
 her ; a wind did come and caste the ashes upon 
 her, and she was conceived of ane man-child. 
 Severall tymes thereafter she was verie sick, 
 and at last she was known to be with chyld. 
 And then her parents did ask at her the matter 
 heiroff, which the wench could not weel ansAver 
 which way to satisfie them. At last she re- 
 solved them with ane answer. As fortune fell 
 upon her concerning this marvellous miracle, 
 the chyld being borne, his name was called 
 Gili-doir Maghrevollich, that is to say, the Black 
 child, Son to the Bones. So called, his grand- 
 father sent him to school], and so he was a good 
 schollar, and godlie. He did build this church 
 which doeth now stand in Lochyeld, called Kil- 
 malie." — Macfarlane, II. 18S. 
 
 Whose parents in rnch-Cailliacli wave 
 
 Their shadows o'er Clan- Alpine's grave. — Stanza viii. 
 Inch-Cailliach, the Isle of Nuns, or of Old 
 Women, is a most beautiful island at the lower 
 extremity of Loch-Lomond. The church be- 
 longing to the former nunnery was long used as 
 the place of worship for the parish of Buchanan, 
 but scarce any vestiges of it now remain. The 
 burial ground continues to be used, and contains 
 the family places of sepulture of several neigh- 
 bouring clans. The monuments of the lairds of 
 Macgregor, and of other families, claiming a 
 descent from the old Scottish King Alpine, are 
 most remarkable. The Highlanders are as jea- 
 lous of their rights of sepulchre, as may be ex- 
 pected from a people whose whole laws and 
 government, if clan-ship can be called so, turned 
 upon the single principle of family descent. 
 "May his ashes be scattered on the water," 
 was one of the deepest and most solemn impre- 
 cations which they used against an enemy. 
 
 Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 
 
 It glanced like lightning up Strath- Ire. — Stanza xix. 
 
 A glance at the provincial map of Perthshire, 
 
 or at any large map of Scotland, will trace the 
 
 progress of the signal through the small district 
 
 of lakes and mountains, which, in exercise of 
 
 my poetical privilege, I have subjected to the 
 
 ; authority of my imaginary chieftain ; and which, 
 
 j at the period of my romance, was really occu- 
 
 j pied by a clan who claimed a descent from Al- 
 
 I pine, a clan the most unfortunate, and most 
 
 persecuted, but neither the least distinguished, 
 
 nor least powerful, of the tribes of the Gael. 
 
 Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
 Balquidder, speeds the midnight hlaze.— Stanza xxiv. 
 It may be necessary to inform the southern 
 reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor- 
 lands is often set fire to, that the sheep may 
 have the advantage of the young herbage pro- 
 duced in room of the tough old heather plants. 
 This custom (execrated by sportsmen,) produces 
 occasionally the most beautiful nocturnal ap- 
 pearance, similar almost to the discharge of a 
 volcano. The simile is not new to poetry. The 
 charge of a warrior, in the fine ballad ot Hardy- 
 knute, is said to be "like a fire to heather set." 
 
 ■ Coir-nan-Uriskin — Stanza xxv. 
 
 This is a very steep and romantic hollow in 
 i| the mountain of Benvenue, overhanging the 
 \\ south-eastern extremity of Loch-Katrine. It is 
 
 surrounded with stupendous rocks, and over- 
 shadowed with birch-trees, mingled with oaks, 
 the spontaneous production of the mountain, 
 even where its cliffs appear denuded of soil. A 
 dale in so wild a situation, and amid a people 
 whoso genius bordered on the romantic, did not 
 remain without appropriate deities. The name 
 literally implies the Corri, or Den, of the Wild 
 or Shaggy Men. Perhaps this, as conjectured 
 by Mr Alexander Campbell, may have origi- 
 nally only implied its being the haunt of a fero- 
 cious banditti. But tradition has ascribed to 
 the Urisk, who gives name to the cavern, a 
 figure between a goat and a man ; however much 
 the classical reader may be startled, precisely 
 that of the Grecian Satyr. The Urisk seems 
 not to have inherited, with the form, the petu- 
 lance of the sylvan deity of the classics: his 
 occupations, on the contrary, resembled those of 
 Milton's lubbar fiend, or of the Scottish Brownie, 
 though he differed from both in name and ap- 
 pearance. " The Urisks," says Dr Graham, 
 "were a sort of lubberly supernaturals, who, 
 like the Brownies, could be gained over by kind 
 attention, to perform the drudgery of the farm, 
 and it was believed that many of the families in 
 the Highlands had one of the order attached to 
 it. They were supposed to be dispersed over 
 the Highlands, each in his own wild recess, but 
 the solemn stated meetings of the order were 
 regularly held in this cave of Benvenew. This 
 current superstition, no doubt, alludes to some 
 circumstance in the ancient history of this 
 country." — Scenery on the Southern Confines of 
 Perthshire. 1806, p. 19. 
 
 The wild pass of Beal'-nam-Bo. — Stanza xxvii. 
 Bealach-nam-Bo, or the pass of cattle, is a 
 most magnificent glade, overhung with aged 
 birch-trees, a little higher up the mountain than 
 the Coir-nan-Uriskin, treated of above. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
 
 Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.— Stanza v. 
 
 There is a rock so named in the forest of 
 Glenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract 
 takes its course. This wild place is said in 
 former times to have afforded refuge to an out- 
 law, who was supplied with provisions by a 
 woman who lowered them down from the brink 
 of the precipice above. His water he procured 
 for himself, by letting down a flaggon tied to a 
 string, into the black pool beneath the fall. 
 
 Alice Brand — Stanza xii. 
 
 This little fairy tale is founded upon a very 
 
 curious Danish ballad, which occurs in the 
 
 Kiempe Viseb, a collection of heroic songs, 
 
 first published in 1591, and re-printed in 1695. 
 
 his Highland cheer, 
 
 The harden'd flesh of mountain deer. — Stanza xxxi. 
 
 The Scottish Highlanders, in former times, 
 had a concise mode of cooking their venison, or 
 rather of dispensing with cooking it, which ap- 
 pears greatly to have surprised the French, 
 whom chance made acquainted with it. The 
 Vidame of Chartres, when a hostage in England, 
 during the reign of Edward VI., was permitted 
 to travel into Scotland, and penetrated as far as 
 to the remote Highlands, (au fin fond des Sau- 
 vages.) After a great hunting party, at which 
 a most wonderful quantity of game was destroy- 
 ed, he saw these Scottish sarages devour a part 
 of their venison raw, without any further pre- 
 
 — j> 
 
40 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE 
 
 paration than compressing it between two bat- 
 tons of wood, so as to force out the blood, and 
 render it extremely hard. This they reckoned 
 a great delicacy ; and when the Vidame partook 
 of it, his compliance with their taste rendered 
 him extremely popular. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO V. 
 
 Nor then claim'd sovereignty his duo, 
 
 While Alhany, with feeble hand, 
 
 Held borrowed truncheon of command. — Stanza vi. 
 
 There is scarcely a more disorderly period in 
 Scottish history than that which succeeded the 
 battle of Flodden, and occupied the minority of 
 James V. Feuds of ancient standing broke out 
 like old wounds, and every quarrel among the 
 independent nobility, which occurred daily, and 
 almost hourly, gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 
 " There arose," says Pitscottie, " great trouble 
 and deadly feuds in many parts of Scotland, 
 both in the north and west parts. The Master 
 of Forbes, in the north, slew the laird of Mel- 
 drum under tryst, (i.e. at an agreed and secured 
 meeting .-) Likewise, the Laird of Drummelzier 
 slew the Lord Fleming at the hawking; and, 
 likewise, there was slaughter among many other 
 great lords," p. 121. 
 
 Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
 
 That on the field his targe he threw.— Stanza xv. 
 
 A round target of light wood, covered with 
 strong leather, and studded with brass or iron, 
 was a necessary part of a Highlander's equip- 
 ment. In charging regular troops they received 
 the thrust of the bayonet in this buckler, twisted 
 it aside, and used the broad-sword against the 
 encumbered soldier. In the civil war of 1745, 
 most of the front-rank of the clans were thus 
 armed : and Captain Grose informs us, that, in 
 1747, the privates of the 42d regiment, then in 
 Flanders, were for the most part permitted to 
 carry targets. — Military Antiquities, vol. 1.164. 
 
 — . 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO VI. 
 
 Battle of Beal' an Duine. — Stanza xv. 
 A skirmish actually took place at a pass thus 
 called in the Trosachs, and closed with the 
 remarkable incident mentioned the text. It 
 was greatly posterior in date to the reign of 
 James V. 
 
 And Snowdcun's knight is Scotland's king. 
 
 — Stanza xxvi. 
 
 This discovery will probably remind the reader 
 of the beautiful Arabian tale of II Bondocani. 
 Yet the incident is not borrowed from that ele- 
 gant story, but from Scottish tradition. James 
 V., of whom we are treating, was a monarch 
 whose good and benevolent intentions often ren- 
 dered his romantic freaks venial, if not respect- 
 able, since, from his anxious attention to the 
 interests of the lower and most oppressed class 
 of his subjects, he was, as we have seen, popu- 
 larly termed the King of the Commons. For the 
 purpose of seeing that justice was regularly 
 administered, and frequently from the less jus- 
 tifiable motive of gallantry, he used to traA r erse 
 the vicinage of his several palaces in various 
 disguises. The two excellent comic songs, en- 
 titled "The Gaberlunzie Man," and "We'll 
 gae nae mair a roving," are said to have been 
 founded upon the success of his amorous adven- 
 
 tures when travelling in«the disguise of a beg- 
 gar. The latter is perhaps the best comic ballad 
 hi any language. 
 
 Another adventure, which had nearly cost 
 James his life, is said to have taken place at the 
 village of Cramond, near Edinburgh, where he 
 had rendered his addresses acceptable to a pretty 
 girl of the lower rank. Four or five persons, 
 whether relations or lovers of his mistress is 
 uncertain, beset the disguised monarch, as he 
 returned from his rendezvous. Naturally gal- 
 lant, and an admirable master of his weapon, the 
 king took post on the high and narrow bridge 
 over the Almond river, and defended himsel 
 bravely with his sword. A peasant, who was 
 threshing in a neighbouring barn, came out upon 
 the noise, and, whether moved by compassion or 
 by natural gallantry, took the weaker side, and 
 laid about with his flail so effectually, as to dis- 
 perse the assailants, well threshed, even accord- 
 ing to the letter. He then conducted the king 
 into his barn, where his guest requested a basin 
 and towel, to remove the stains of the broil. 
 This being procured with difficulty, James em- 
 ployed himself in learning what was the summit 
 of his deliverer's earthly wishes, and found that 
 they were bounded by the desire of possessing, 
 in property, the farm of Braehead, upon which 
 he laboured' as a bonds-man. The lands chanced 
 to belong to the crown ; and James directed him 
 to come to the palace of Holy-Rood, and enquire 
 for the Guidman (i. e. farmer) of Ballangiech, a 
 name by which he was known in his excursions, 
 and which answered to II Bondocani of Haroun 
 Alraschid. He presented himself accordingly, 
 and found, with due astonishment, that he had 
 saved his monarch's life, and that he was to be 
 gratified with a crown-charter of the lands of 
 Braehead, under the service of presenting an 
 ewer, basin, and towel, for the king to wash his 
 hands, when he shall happen to pass the Bridge 
 of Cramond. This person was ancestor of the 
 Howisons of Braehead, in Mid-Lothian, a re- 
 spectable family, who continue to hold the lands I 
 (now passed into the female line) under the same ' 
 tenure. 
 
 Another of James's frolics is thus narrated by 
 Mr Campbell, from the Statistical Account. 
 " Being once benighted when out a hunting, and 
 separated from his attendants, he happened to 
 enter a cottage in the midst of a moor, at the 
 foot of the Ochil hills, near Alloa, where, un- 
 known, he was kindly received. In order to 
 regale their unexpected guest, the gudeman, 
 (i. e. landlord, farmer,) desired the gudewife to 
 fetch the hen that roosted nearest the cock, 
 which is always the plumpest, for the stranger's 
 supper. The king, highly pleased with his 
 night's lodging and hospitable entertainment, 
 told mine host, at parting, that he should be glad 
 to return his civility, and requested that the 
 first time he came to Stirling he would call at 
 the castle, and enquire for the gude-man of Bal- 
 linguich. Donaldson, the landlord, did not fail 
 to call on the gude-man of Ballinguich, when his 
 astonishment at finding that the king had been 
 his guest afforded no small amusement to the 
 merry monarch and his courtiers; and, to carry 
 on the pleasantry, he was thenceforth designated 
 by James with the title of King of the Moors, 
 which name and designation have descended 
 from father to son ever since, and they continued 
 in possession of the identical spot till laUiy." 
 
 END OF THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
 
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