The tribute to his minstrel's shade,
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator's heart was cold-
Far may we search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!
But not around his honored urn

Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;
The thousand eyes his care had dried
Pour at his name a bitter tide,
And frequent falls the grateful dew
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty's attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.'
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme,
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
Thy father's friend forget thou not;'
And grateful title may I plead,

For

many a kindly word and deed, To bring my tribute to his grave: 'T is little but 't is all I have.

-

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To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing nought, and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do, The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way,

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Ranged unconfined from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely laboring to portray The blighted oak's fantastic spray, I spelling o'er with much delight The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, ycleped the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous each other's motions viewed, And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the May-flower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossomed bough than we. And blithesome nights, too, have been When Winter stript the Summer's bowers.

ours,

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Careless we heard, what now I hear,
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright and lamps beamed
gay,

And ladies tuned the lovely lay,

And he was held a laggard soul

Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.

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Then he whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more, And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, And one whose name I may not say, For not mimosa's tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drowned the whistling wind. Mirth was within, and Care without Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest; For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care Was horse to ride and weapon wear. Such nights we've had; and, though the game

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Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day or the drill
Seem less important now, yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

CANTO FOURTH

THE CAMP

I

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Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and mire, Although the rated horseboy sware

Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, -20 'Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all! Bevis lies dying in his stall;

To Marmion who the plight dare tell
Of the good steed he loves so well?'
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,
'What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'

II

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, Nor wholly understood,

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His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed;

He knew Lord Marmion's mood. Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, And found deep plunged in gloomy thought, And did his tale display Simply, as if he knew of nought

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvelled at the wonders told,
Passed them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckoned with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
Ill thou deserv'st thy hire,' he said
'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night,

And left him in a foam !

I trust that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land
To their infernal home;
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.'
The laughing host looked on the hire :
"Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com'st among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'

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Here stayed their talk, for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journeyed all the morning-day.

IV

The greensward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;

A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed till overhead
A vaulted screen the branches made.
'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said;
'Such as where errant-knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry,
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.'
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind,
Perchance to show his lore designed;

For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome

Of Caxton or de Worde.
Therefore he spoke,

but spoke in vain, For Marmion answered nought again.

V

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasped his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band
Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees receding showed
A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI

First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward pressed,

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With scarlet mantle, azure vest;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore:
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing,
Attendant on a king-at-arms,

Whose hand the armorial truncheon held
That feudal strife had often quelled

When wildest its alarms.

VII

He was a man of middle age,
In aspect manly, grave, and sage,
As on king's errand come;
But in the glances of his eye
A penetrating, keen, and sly
Expression found its. home;
The flash of that satiric rage
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,

And broke the keys of Rome.

On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume.

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From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground,

With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
Embroidered round and round.

The double tressure might you see,

First by Achaius borne,

The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,
And gallant unicorn.

So bright the king's armorial coat

That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colors blazoned brave,
The Lion, which his title gave;

A train, which well beseemed his state,
But all unarmed, around him wait.
Still is thy name in high account,
And still thy verse has charms,
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms!

VIII

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Down from his horse did Marmion spring
Soon as he saw the Lion-King;

For well the stately baron knew
To him such courtesy was due

Whom royal James himself had crowned,
And on his temples placed the round
Of Scotland's ancient diadem,
And wet his brow with hallowed wine,
And on his finger given to shine

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At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assigned

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank.
That castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne;
And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose,
Their various architecture shows

The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.

ΧΙ

Crichtoun though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep

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Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair,

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.

Still rises unimpaired below

The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair-hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.

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And, shuddering, still may we explore, 230
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More,

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace in undulating line
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE

"Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling;
And in its park, in jovial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blithe the blackbird's lay!
The wild buck bells from ferny brake,
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take

To see all nature gay. But June is to our sovereign dear The heaviest month in all the year; Too well his cause of grief you know, June saw his father's overthrow. Woe to the traitors who could bring The princely boy against his king! Still in his conscience burns the sting. In offices as strict as Lent King James's June is ever spent.

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'When last this ruthful month was come, And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The king, as wont, was praying;

While for his royal father's soul

The chanters sung, the bells did toll,
The bishop mass was saying-

For now the year brought round again 310
The day the luckless king was slain -
In Catherine's aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth shirt and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming;
Around him in their stalls of state
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o'er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stained casement gleam-
ing;

But while I marked what next befell
It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
Down hung at length his yellow hair.
Now, mock me not when, good my lord,
I pledge to you my knightly word
That when I saw his placid grace,
His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace
So stately gliding on,

Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint
So just an image of the saint
Who propped the Virgin in her faint,
The loved Apostle John!

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So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and

bone:

"My mother sent me from afar, Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — Woe waits on thine array; If war thou wilt, of woman fair, Her witching wiles and wanton snare, James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: God keep thee as He may !"The wondering monarch seemed to seek For answer, and found none; And when he raised his head to speak, The monitor was gone. The marshal and myself had cast

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To stop him as he outward passed;
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,
He vanished from our eyes,

Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.'

XVIII

While Lindesay told his marvel strange
The twilight was so pale,

He marked not Marmion's color change
While listening to the tale;
But, after a suspended pause,
The baron spoke: Of Nature's laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause

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Could e'er control their course, And, three days since, had judged your aim Was but to make your guest your game; But I have seen, since past the Tweed, What much has changed my sceptic creed, And made me credit aught.' He stayed, And seemed to wish his words unsaid, But, by that strong emotion pressed Which prompts us to unload our breast Even when discovery 's pain, To Lindesay did at length unfold The tale his village host had told,

At Gifford, to his train.

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Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance or of Clare;
The thoughts which broke his sleep he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

XIX

'In vain,' said he, 'to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couched my head;
Fantastic thoughts returned,
And, by their wild dominion led,

My heart within me burned.
So sore was the delirious goad,
I took my steed and forth I rode,
And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reached the camp upon the wold.
The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,
Yet was the blast so low and drear,
So hollow, and so faintly blown,
It might be echo of my own.

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'Thus judging, for a little space I listened ere I left the place,

But scarce could trust my eyes, Nor yet can think they serve me true,

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