No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range, Not for fair Devon's meads forsake Ben Nevis gray 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 Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed, Yet 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 honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its 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, wassail-rout, and brawl. Methought that still with trump and clang The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamed with scars, Glared through the window's 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 gray-haired sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Showed what in youth its glance had been;
Whose doom discording neighbors sought, Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable priest, Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well 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-willed imp, a grandame's child, But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caressed.
From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conned task? Nay, Erskine, nay on the wild hill
Let the wild heath-bell 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 vigor 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!
THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode; The mountain path the Palmer showed By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road, For the Merse forayers 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 blackcock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor 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 Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.
No summons calls them to the tower, To spend 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,
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