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The Hostel, or Jnn.
The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer shewed; By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not chuse the lowland road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with bate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely failed to bar their way.
Oft on the trampling band, from crown
No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.
On through the hamlet as they paced,
Lord Marmion drew his rein:
The village inn seemed large, though rude;
Might well relieve his train.
Down from their seats the liorsemen sprung,
With jingling spurs the court-yard rung ;
Weighing the labour' with the cost,
Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze,
Might see, where, in dark nook aloof,
The rafters of the sooty roof
Bore wealth of winter cheer ;
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar,
And savoury haunch of deer. The chimney arch projected wide ; Above, around it, and beside,
Were tools for housewives' hand :
Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The buckler, lance, and brand.
Beneath its shade, the place of state,