Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed, XXIX. "Didst never, good my youth, hear tell, The flattering chaplains all agree, To dashing waters dance and sing, Or round the green oak wheel their ring."- XXX. Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, G Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, Ride forth in silence of the night, Guide confident, though blind. XXXI. Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, Down hastily he sprung from selle, *Used by old poets for went. 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 blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark. END OF CANTO THIRD. ΤΟ JAMES SKENE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettrrik Forest. AN ancient Minstrel sagely said, "Where is the life which late we led?". That motley clown in Arden Wood. Eleven years we now may tell, Since we have known each other well 1; Since, riding side by side, our hand First drew the voluntary brand; And sure, through many a varied scene, Away these winged years have flown, To join the mass of ages gone; And though deep marked, like all below, Though thou o er realms and seas hast ranged, While here, at home, my narrower ken 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 vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse Heights, and Ettrick Pen, Have donned their wintry shrouds again; And mountain dark, and flooded mead, Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack, the snow-mists fly; The shepherd, who, in summer sun, Has something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, The features traced of hill and glen ;He who, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er'the lessened tide ;At midnight now, the snowy plain Finds sterner labour for the swain. When red hath set the beamless sun, Through heavy vapours dank and dun; |