Followed his lord to Flodden plain,

One of those flowers whom plaintive lay 1
In Scotland mourns as wede

66

away:"

2

Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied,
And dragged him to its foot, and died,
Close by the noble Marmion's side.
The spoilers stripped 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.

Less

XXXVII.

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 ;3

But yet out from 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,

1 An old Scotch ballad of Flodden.

2 Laid waste; literally, weeded away.

3 The stone basin referred to in Stanza xxx.

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 trod

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 Hollinshed1 or Hall,1
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith 2 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,

1 A chronicler of the sixteenth century.

2 Innocence.

3 Cardinal Wolsey.

More,1 Sands, and Denny, passed the joke:
That bluff King Hal the curtain 2 drew,

And Catherine's hand the stocking threw ; 4
And afterwards, for many a day,

That it was held enough to say,

In blessing to a wedded pair,

"Love they 5 like Wilton and like Clare!"

L'ENVOY.

TO THE READER.

HY then a final note prolong,

WHY

Or lengthen out a closing song,

Unless to bid the gentles speed,

Who long have listed to my rede ??
To statesmen grave, if such may deign
To read the minstrel's idle strain,

Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit,
And patriotic heart-as 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?

1 Sir Thomas More (lord chancellor after Wolsey), Lord Sands, and Anthony Denny. Compare Shakespeare's Henry VIII.

2 The curtain of the bridal apartment.

3 Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII., divorced in 1533.

4 An old English marriage custom was to throw a stocking after the bride

or groom.

And knowledge to the studious sage,
And pillow to the head of age.

To thee, dear schoolboy, 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!

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.

TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

TOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear,

NOVE

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 greenwood 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 double 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 Yair.
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To sheltered dale and down are driven,