Rise from the busy harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer,
On Lowland plains, the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song:
Oft have I listened, and stood still,
As it came softened up the hill,

And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their native glen;

And thought how sad would be such sound,
On Susquehanna's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake,
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again!

Susquehana (raig e

X.

SONG.

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted forever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted forever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

ΧΙ.

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it,

Never, O never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

XII.

It ceased, the melancholy sound;
And silence sunk on all around.
The air was sad; but sadder still
It fell on Marmion's ear,
And plained as if disgrace and ill,
And shameful death, were near.
He drew his mantle past his face,
Between it and the band,

And rested with his head a space,

Reclining on his hand.

His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,

That, could their import have been seen,

The meanest groom in all the hall,

That e'er tied courser to a stall,

Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force,
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,
Thou art the torturer of the brave!
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,
Even while they writhe beneath the smart
Of civil conflict in the heart.

For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,-
"Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister's soul?

Say, what may this portend?"

Then first the Palmer silence broke, -
The livelong day he had not spoke, -
"The death of a dear friend."

XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye
Ne'er changed in worst extremity;
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,
Even from his King, a haughty look;
Whose accent of command controlled,
In camps, the boldest of the bold -

Thought, look, and utterance failed him now,
Fall'n was his glance, and flushed his brow:
For either in the tone,

Or something in the Palmer's look,
So full upon his conscience strook,
That answer he found none.

Thus oft it haps, that when within

They shrink at sense of secret sin,

A feather daunts the brave;
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes veil their eyes
Before their meanest slave.

XV.

Well might he falter!- By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed.
Not that he augured of the doom,
Which on the living closed the tomb:
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid;
And wroth, because, in wild despair,
She practised on the life of Clare:
Its fugitive the Church he gave,
Though not a victim, but a slave;
And deemed restraint in convent strange
Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge.
Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear,
Secure his pardon he might hold,
For some slight mulet of penance-gold.
Thus judging, he gave secret way,

When the stern priests surprised their prey.
His train but deemed the favorite page

Was left behind, to spare his age;

Or other if they deemed, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard:
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion's privacy!

XVI.

His conscience slept - he deemed her well,
And safe secured in distant cell;