Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he 's muttering,
And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listen'd at his cell;
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth
to tell,

He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.
I cannot tell; I like it not;
Friar John hath told us it is wrote
No conscience clear and void of wrong
Can rest awake and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have mark'd ten aves, and two
creeds.'

XXVII.

'Let pass,' quoth Marmion; by my fay,

This man shall guide me on my way,

Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This Palmer to the Castle-hall.'
The summon'd Palmer came in place;
His sable cowl o'erhung his face;
In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

On his broad shoulders wrought; The scallop shell his cap did deck; The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought; His sandals were with travel tore; Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; The faded palm-branch in his hand Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land,

XXVIII.

Whenas the Palmer came in hall, Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,

Or had a statelier step withal,

Or look'd more high and keen; For no saluting did he wait, But strode across the hall of state, And fronted Marmion where he sate, As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;

His cheek was sunk, alas the while! And when he struggled at a smile,

His eye look'd haggard wild : Poor wretch the mother that him bare,

If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,
Soon change the form that best we
know;

For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair; Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want can quench the eye's bright

grace,

Nor does old age a wrinkle trace More deeply than despair.

Happy whom none of these befall, But this poor Palmer knew them all.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
'But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair St. Andrews bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,

Sung to the billows' sound; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,

And the craz'd brain restore : Saint Mary grant that cave or spring Could back to peace my bosom bring, Or bid it throb no more!'

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep,

Where wine and spices richly steep, In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee. Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, The Captain pledg'd his noble guest, The cup went through among the rest, Who drain'd it merrily; Alone the Palmer pass'd it by, Though Selby press'd him courteously. This was a sign the feast was o'er; It hush'd the merry wassail roar,

The minstrels ceas'd to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard, But the slow footstep of the guard, Pacing his sober round.

XXXI.

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : And first the chapel doors unclose; Then, after morning rites were done (A hasty mass from Friar John)

And knight and squire had broke their fast

On rich substantial repast,

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse;
Then came the stirrup-cup in course:
Between the Baron and his host
No point of courtesy was lost;
High thanks were by Lord Marmion
paid,

Solemn excuse the Captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd
That noble train, their Lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call ;
Thunder'd the cannon from the wall,

And shook the Scottish shore; Around the castle eddied slow, Volumes of smoke as white as snow,

And hid its turrets hoar;

Till they roll'd forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there, Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

TO THE

REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. THE scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourish'd once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lin❜d,

And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly

spears

Have fenc'd him for three hundred

years,

While fell around his green com

peers

Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,
Since he, so grey and stubborn now,
Wav'd in each breeze a sapling bough;

Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made;
How broad the shadows of the oak,
How clung the rowan to the rock,
And through the foliage show'd his
head,

With narrow leaves and berries red;
What pines on every mountain sprung,
O'er every dell what birches hung,
In every breeze what aspens shook,
What alders shaded every brook!

'Here, in my shade,' methinks he'd
say,

'The mighty stag at noontide lay :
The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game,
(The neighbouring dingle bears his
name,)

With lurching step around me prowl,
And stop, against the moon to howl;
The mountain-boar, on battle set,
His tusks upon my stem would whet;
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,
Have bounded by, through gay green-
wood.

Then oft, from Newark's riven tower,
Sallied a Scottish monarch's power:
A thousand vassals muster'd round
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and
hound;

And I might see the youth intent
Guard every pass with crossbow bent;
And through the brake the rangers
stalk,

And falc'ners hold the ready hawk;
And foresters, in greenwood trim,
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,
Attentive, as the bratchet's bay
From the dark covert drove the prey,
To slip them as he broke away.
The startled quarry bounds amain,
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;
Whistles the arrow from the bow,
Answers the harquebuss below;
While all the rocking hills reply

To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry,
And bugles ringing lightsomely.'

Of such proud huntings, many tales Yet linger in our lonely dales, Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. But not more blithe that silvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp, and mean our game,

Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. Remember'st thou my greyhounds true?

O'er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
Nor dull, between each merry chase,
Pass'd by the intermitted space;
For we had fair resource in store,
In Classic and in Gothic lore:
We mark'd each memorable scene,
And held poetic talk between ;
Nor hill nor brook we pac'd along,
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now-for now are still
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!
No longer, from thy mountains dun,
The yeoman hears the well-known
gun,

And while his honest heart glows warm,

At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks The Chieftain of the

Hills!'

No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers,
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;
No youthful Baron 's left to grace
The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase,
And ape, in manly step and tone,
The majesty of Oberon :

And she is gone, whose lovely face
Is but her least and lowest grace;
Though, if to Sylphid Queen 'twere
given

To show our earth the charms of

Heaven,

She could not glide along the air
With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow's deafen'd ear
Grows quick that lady's step to hear:
At noontide she expects her not,
Nor busies her to trim the cot;
Pensive she turns her humming wheel,
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal;
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
The gentle hand by which they're fed.

On the free hours that we have spent Together on the brown hill's bent.

bind,

Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret and chafe and toil

Till all his eddying currents boil,-
Her long-descended lord has gone,
And left us by the stream alone.
And much I miss those sportive boys,
Companions of my mountain joys,
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech, and speech
is truth.

Close to my side, with what delight
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight,
When, pointing to his airy mound,
I call'd his ramparts holy ground!
Kindled their brows to hear me speak;
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,
Despite the difference of our years,
Return again the glow of theirs.
Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,
They will not, cannot, long endure;
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude
tide,

You may not linger by the side;

For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,

And Passion ply the sail and oar.
Yet cherish the remembrance still,
Of the lone mountain, and the rill;
For trust, dear boys, the time will
come,

When fiercer transport shall be dumb,
And you will think right frequently,
But, well I hope, without a sigh,

Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,
'Twixt resignation and content.
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone Saint Mary's silent lake;
Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor
sedge,

Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
And just a trace of silver sand
Marks where the water meets the land.
Far in the mirror, bright and blue,
Each hill's huge outline you may view;
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
Nortree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,
Save where, of land, yon slender line
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.
Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal'd might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,
Where swain, or woodman lone,
might dwell;

There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness:
And silence aids-though the steep
hills

Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer tide, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too
rude,

So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,
Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil,
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid,
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.
If age had tamed the passions' strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to
dwell,

And rear again the chaplain's cell,
Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton long'd to spend his age.
'Twere sweet to mark the setting day
On Bourhope's lonely top decay;
And, as it faint and feeble died
On the broad lake, and mountain's
side,

To say 'Thus pleasures fade away;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,'
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;'
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower,
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower :
And when that mountain-sound I
heard,

Which bids us be for storm prepar'd, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, To sit upon the Wizard's grave, That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust

From company of holy dust,

On which no sunbeam ever shines (So superstition's creed divines), Thence view the lake with sullen roar Heave her broad billows to the shore; And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,

Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,

And ever stoop again to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,

Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;.
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was
come,

To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,
And smil'd to think that I had fear'd.

But chief 'twere sweet to think such life

(Though but escape from fortune's strife)

Something most matchless, good and wise,

A great and grateful sacrifice;
And deem each hour to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, Such peaceful solitudes displease : He loves to drown his bosom's jar Amid the elemental war:

And my black Palmer's choice had been Some ruder and more savage scene, Like that which frowns round dark

Loch-skene.

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
yell.