X.

At length up that wild dale they wind,

Where Crichtoun-Castle 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 whilome were captives pent,

The darkness of thy Massy More;*

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

May trace, in undulating line,

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun shew'd,
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,

Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword

Had march'd that morning with their lord,

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

Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long may his Lady look in vain!

She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean,
'Twas 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. 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,—

Train'd 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 walk'd,

And, by the slowly fading light,

Of varying topics talk'd;

And, unaware, the Herald-bard

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,

In travelling so far;

For that a messenger from heaven

In vain to James had counsel given

Against the English war:

And, closer question'd, thus he told
A tale, which chronicles of old

In Scottish story have enroll'd :