Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene.1
There eagles scream from isle to shore;
Down all the rocks the torrents roar ;

O'er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemn'd to lave
Some demon's subterranean cave,
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan
And well that Palmer's form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,

and yell.

Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of considerable size, at the head of the Moffat-water. The character of the scenery is uncommonly savage; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has, for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an islet in the lake. Lochskene discharges itself into a brook, which, after a short and precipitate course, falls from a cataract of immense height, and gloomy grandeur, called, from its appearance, the "Grey Mare's Tail." The "Giant's Grave," afterwards mentioned, is a sort of trench, which bears that name, a little way from the foot of the It has the appearance of a battery, designed to command

cataract.

the pass.

Where, deep deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ;
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,
And wheeling round the Giant's Grave,
White as the snowy charger's tail,
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, To many a Border theme has rung:1 Then list to me, and thou shalt know Of this mysterious Man of Woe.

1 [See various ballads by Mr Marriott, in the 4th vol. of the Border Minstrelsy, and of the present edition.]

MARMION.

CANTO SECOND.

The Convent.

MARMION.

CANTO SECOND.

The Canbent.

I.

THE breeze, which swept away the smoke,
Round Norham Castle roll'd,
When all the loud artillery spoke,

With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold.

It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze,
For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

It freshly blew, and strong,

Where, from high Whitby's cloister❜d pile,1

1 The Abbey of Whitby, in the Archdeaconry of Cleaveland, on the coast of Yorkshire, was founded A. D. 657, in consequence of a vow of Oswy, King of Northumberland. It contained both monks and nuns of the Benedictine order; but, contrary to what was usual in such establishments, the abbess was superior to the abbot. The monastery was afterwards ruined by the Danes, and