Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, The stubborn spearmen still made good No thought was there of dastard flight; As fearlessly and well, Till utter darkness closed her wing They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong; Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal field. Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield! He saw the wreck his rashness wrought: Reckless of life, he desperate fought, And fell on Flodden plain : Gladly I turn me from the sight Short is my tale :-Fitz-Eustace' care A guerdon meet the spoiler had!— His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair. And priests for Marmion breathed the If every devious step thus trod do not rhyme to that dull elf Who cannot image to himself Chat all through Flodden's dismal night Wilton was foremost in the fight, fhat when brave Surrey's steed was slain Twas Wilton mounted him again; Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: Jnnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; Chat, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again, And charged his old paternal shield, With bearings won on Flodden Field. for sing I to that simple maid fo whom it must in terms be said Chat king and kinsmen did agree o bless fair Clara's constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate. Paint to her mind the bridal's state,hat Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More. Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; hat bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine's hand the stocking threw ; And afterwards, for many a day, hat it was held enough to say, a blessing to a wedded pair, Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" November, 1806--January, 1808. February 23, 1808. OLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not break Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, How thy gallant steed lay dying. From The Lady of the Lake, 1810. Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell- And now, 't is silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well! Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake. BRIGNALL BANKS During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote to Morritt: There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, Thike them myself One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-aDale." O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, A maiden on the castle wall "O. Brignall banks are fresh and fair, "If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, 66 As read full well you may, "I read you, by your bugle horn, To keep the king's greenwood." "A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 't is at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, I would I were with Edmund there, With burnished brand and musketoon I read you for a bold dragoon, 66 That lists the tuck of drum." "I list no more the tuck of drum, But when the beetle sounds his hum, Yet mickle must the maiden dare "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." From Rokeby, 1813. THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL "It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth, namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west. are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's hand." Lockhart's Life of Scott, Chapter 39. THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. WHEN Israel of the Lord beloved Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands The cloudy pillar glided slow; Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays With priest's and warrior's voice be tween. No portents now our foes amaze, |