Our Lady give him rest!

Yet still the knightly spear and shield

The elfin warrior doth wield,

Upon the brown hill's breast; (8)

And many a knight hath proved his chance,

In the charm'd 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,
Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore:
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows strange.

-«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 I ride forth, to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed:
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;
I would not that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.»-
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable-door undid,
And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd,
While, whispering, thus the baron said:-

XXIX.

« Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell That on the hour when I was born,

A wooden cup, composed of staves hooped together.

Saint 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!
Blithe 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 follow'd him abroad,
And mark'd him pace the village road,
And listen'd to his horse's tramp,

Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp

Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seem'd, in the squire's eyes,
That one, so wary held, and wise,—
Of whom it was said, he scarce received
For gospel what the church believed,—
Should, stirr'd by idle tale,
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Array'd in plate and mail.
For little did Fitz-Eustace know,
That passions, in contending flow,
Unfix the strongest mind;
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,

Guide confident, though blind.

ΧΧΧΙ.

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

Come town-ward rushing on:
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
Then clattering on the village road,-
In other pace than forth he yode, '

Return'd 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 moon-light did betray, The falcon crest was soil'd 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 wond'rous signs, At length to rest the squire reclinesBroken and short; for still, between, Would dreams of terror intervene : Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark. Used by old poets for went.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO IV.

ΤΟ

JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick 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 view'd,
Not even that clown could amplify,
On this trite text, so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell,

Since we have known each other well;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand;
And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone;

And though deep mark'd, like all below,
With chequer'd shades of joy and woe;

Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged,
Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fever'd 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 Ettrick Pen,
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again;
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix'd with the rack, the snow-mists fly;
The shepherd, who, in summer sun,
llas something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;
He who, outstretch'd the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View'd the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book,

Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o'er the lessen'd tide; -
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.

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

When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half-asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal, and to dangerous task.
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till dark above and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.
Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreaths 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 stiffen'd swain: (1)
The widow sees, at dawning pale,

His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their 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 green-wood trec, 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, Call'd 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;

1 The Scottish Harvest-home.

Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And bless'd 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 (2)
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 honour'd 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 :-
"T is little-but 't is all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recals our summer walks again;
When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,-
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.
Even when it flagg'd, 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, yclept the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with
of fire,
eyes
Jealous, each other's motions view'd,
And scarce suppres'd 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 beam'd 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 we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd, bewail'd 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 drown'd the whistling wind.
Mirth was within; and Care, without,
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene-
Of the good horse that bore him best,
Ilis 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
Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day, or the drill,
Seem less important now-yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark, how like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

CANTO IV.

THE CAMP.

I.

EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the
lark.
merry
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.

game

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; And as the charge he cast and paid,

Ill thou deservest thy hire, » he said; e 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 trow,
All night they trampled to and fro. »
The laughing host look'd on the hire,-
«Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo. »
llere stay'd their talk,-for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journey'd all the morning day.

IV.

The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;
A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed, till overhead
A vaulted screen the branches made.

A pleasant path, » Fitz-Eustace said;
Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,

Alias, Will o' the Wisp.-See Note.

The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.»-
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind;
Perchance to show his lore design'd;

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 answer'd nought again.

V.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;

Each ready archer grasp'd his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band
Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees receding, show'd
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 press'd,
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 showing
Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing,

Attendant on a king-at-arms,

Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quell'd,
When wildest its alarms.

Though inly chafed at this delay,
Lord Marmion bears it as he may.
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,

Sought to take leave in vain :
Strict was the Lion-King's command,
That none who rode in Marmion's band
Should sever from the train :
«England has here enow of spies
In Lady Heron's witching eyes; »
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said,
But fair pretext to Marmion made.
The right-hand path they now decline,
And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.

At length up that wild dale they wind,
Where Crichtoun Castle (5) crowns the bank;
For there the Lion's care assign'd

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 totter'd 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, Quarter'd 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 notes, with roses laced,

Adorn thy ruin'd stair.

Still rises unimpair'd, below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show

Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy-more;'

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

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet't was 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,
Proffer'd the baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword
Had march'd that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn, (6)—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.

'T was a brave race, before the name

Of hated Bothwell stain'd 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 marshall'd then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay.

1 The pit, or prison vault.-See Note.