Methought that still with tramp and clang

The gate-way'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 grey-haired Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,

And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Shewed what in youth its glance had been;
Whose doom discording neighbours 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-will'd imp, a grandame's child;
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, carest.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask

The classic poet's well-conned task?
Nay, Erskine, nay—on the wild hill
Let the wild heathbell 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 vigour 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!

MARMION.

CANTO THIRD.

The Hostel, or Inn.