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How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt and of disguise
Have steeled her brow and armed her eyes!
No more of virgin terror speaks
The blood that mantles in her cheeks;
Fierce and unfeminine are there,
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair;
And I the cause for whom were given
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven!-
Would,' thought he, as the picture grows,
'I on its stalk had left the rose !
Oh, why should man's success remove
The very charms that wake his love?
Her convent's peaceful solitude
Is now a prison harsh and rude;
And, pent within the narrow cell,
How will her spirit chafe and swell!
How brook the stern monastic laws!
The penance how and I the cause!-
Vigil and scourge - perchance even worse!'
And twice he rose to cry, 'To horse!'
And twice his sovereign's mandate came,
Like damp upon a kindling flame;
And twice he thought, 'Gave I not charge
She should be safe, though not at large ?

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THE HOST'S TALE

'A clerk could tell what years have flown
Since Alexander filled our throne,
Third monarch of that warlike name, ·
And eke the time when here he came
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:
A braver never drew a sword;
A wiser never, at the hour

Of midnight, spoke the word of power;
The same whom ancient records call
The founder of the Goblin-Hall.
I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay
Gave you that cavern to survey.
Of lofty roof and ample size,
Beneath the castle deep it lies:
To hew the living rock profound,
The floor to pave, the arch to round,
There never toiled a mortal arm,

It all was wrought by word and charm;
And I have heard my grandsire say
That the wild clamor and affray
Of those dread artisans of hell,
Who labored under Hugo's spell,
Sounded as loud as ocean's war
Among the caverns of Dunbar.

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'The king Lord Gifford's castle sought, Deep laboring with uncertain thought.

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Even then he mustered all his host,
To meet upon the western coast;
For Norse and Danish galleys plied
Their oars within the Firth of Clyde.
There floated Haco's banner trim
Above Norweyan warriors grim,
Savage of heart and large of limb,
Threatening both continent and isle,
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
Heard Alexander's bugle sound,
And tarried not his garb to change,
But, in his wizard habit strange,
Came forth,
a quaint and fearful sight:
His mantle lined with fox-skins white;
His high and wrinkled forehead bore
A pointed cap, such as of yore
Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore;

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His shoes were marked with cross and spell,
Upon his breast a pentacle;
His zone of virgin parchment thin,
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin,
Bore many a planetary_sign,
Combust, and retrograde, and trine;
And in his hand he held prepared
A naked sword without a guard.

As born upon that blessed night
When yawning graves and dying groan
Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, -
With untaught valor shalt compel
Response denied to magic spell."

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410

Gramercy," quoth our monarch free, "Place him but front to front with me, And, by this good and honored brand, The gift of Coeur-de-Lion's hand, Soothly I swear that, tide what tide, The demon shall a buffet bide." His bearing bold the wizard viewed, And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed: "There spoke the blood of Malcolm ! — mark:

Forth pacing hence at midnight dark,
The rampart seek whose circling crown
Crests the ascent of yonder down:
A southern entrance shalt thou find;
There halt, and there thy bugle wind,
And trust thine elfin foe to see
In guise of thy worst enemy.
Couch then thy lance and spur thy steed
Upon him! and Saint George to speed!
If he go down, thou soon shalt know
Whate'er these airy sprites can show;
If thy heart fail thee in the strife,
I am no warrant for thy life."

XXIII

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'Soon as the midnight bell did ring,
Alone and armed, forth rode the king
To that old camp's deserted round.
Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound
Left hand the town, the Pictish race
The trench, long since, in blood did trace;
The moor around is brown and bare,
The space within is green and fair.
The spot our village children know,
For there the earliest wild-flowers grow;
But woe betide the wandering wight
That treads its circle in the night!
The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career;
Opposed to the four points of heaven,
By four deep gaps are entrance given.
The southernmost our monarch passed, 450
Halted, and blew a gallant blast;
And on the north, within the ring,

Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce by the pale moonlight were seen
The foldings of his mantle green:
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,
Of sport by thicket, or by stream,
Of hawk or hound, or ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form with nodding plume;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion's voice he knew:

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my

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Fitz-Eustace! rise,- I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, mood; And graver thoughts have chafed The air must cool my feverish blood, And fain would I ride forth to see The scene of elfin chivalry. Arise, and saddle me my steed; And, gentle Eustace, take good heed Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; I would not that the prating knaves Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, That I could credit such a tale.' Then softly down the steps they slid,

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Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,
And marked him pace the village road,
And listened to his horse's tramp,
Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp
Lord Marmion sought the round.
Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes,
That one, so wary held and wise,
Of whom 't was said, he scarce received
For gospel what the Church believed,
Should, stirred by idle tale,
Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Arrayed in plate and mail.
For little did Fitz-Eustace know
That passions in contending flow
Unfix the strongest mind;

Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,
We welcome fond credulity,
Guide confident, though blind.

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In other pace than forth he yode,
Returned Lord Marmion.
Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And in his haste wellnigh he fell;
To the squire's hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But yet the moonlight did betray
The falcon-crest was soiled with clay;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger's knee
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines,
Broken and short; for still between
Would dreams of terror intervene:
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO

FOURTH

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

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Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, That now November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen Have donned their wintry shrouds again, And mountain dark and flooded mead Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly; The shepherd who, in summer sun, Had something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, The features traced of hill and glen, He who, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessened tide, At midnight now the snowy plain Finds sterner labor for the swain.

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When red hath set the beamless sun Through heavy vapors dank and dun, When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail and sleeted rain Against the casement's tinkling pane; The sounds that drive wild deer and fox To shelter in the brake and rocks Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers and he guides To open downs and mountain-sides, Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast that whistles o'er the fells Stiffens his locks to icicles;

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His cottage window seems a star,
Loses its feeble gleam, and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging
sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain:
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes tuned on high To Marion of the blithesome eye, His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed?

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Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene?
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage 110
Against the winter of our age;

As he, the ancient chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy,
But Grecian fires and loud alarms
Called ancient Priam forth to arms.
Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief;
Whose joys are chastened by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou of late wert doomed to twine -
Just when thy bridal hour was by-
The cypress with the myrtle tie.
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And blessed the union of his child,
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions next his end
Speak more the father than the friend:
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid

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