treasure,

And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the

grove

With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare liv'd again.'

The friendship thus thy judgment

wronging

With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers

Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.

But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd
That secret power by all obey'd,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source conceal'd or undefin'd;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth,
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours;
Or whether fitlier term'd the sway
Of habit, form'd in early day?
Howe'er deriv'd, its force confest
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky,
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whiten'd wall
Beside the dank and dull canal?
He'll say, from youth he loved to see
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak;
Through England's laughing meads he

goes

And England's wealth around him flows;

At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant

screen,

And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between ?
No! not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochaber's boundless range;
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake
Ben Nevis grey, and Garry's lake.

Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime

Return the thoughts of early time; And feelings, rous'd in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. Then rise those crags, that mountain tower

Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour.

Though no broad river swept along, To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale,

To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed;

Yet was poetic impulse given,
Bythegreen hilland clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely pil'd;
But ever and anon between

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle lov'd to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wail.
Ideem'd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round survey'd ;
And still I thought that shatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell'd as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitch'd my
mind,

Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurr'd

their horse,

Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,
And, home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and
clang

The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seam'd with

scars,

Glar'd through the window's rusty bars,

And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old

By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland
height,

The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretch'd at length upon the
floor,

Again I fought each combat o'er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war display'd;
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scatter'd Southron fled
before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I
trace,

Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brighten'd at our evening fire!
From the thatch'd mansion's grey-

hair'd Sire,

Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;

Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,

Show'd what in youth its glance had been;

Whose doom discording neighbours

sought,

Content with equity unbought;

To him the venerable Priest,

Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint

Alike the student and the saint;

Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endur'd, belov'd, caress'd.

For me, thus nurtur'd, dost thou ask,
The classic poet's well-conn'd task?
Nay, Erskine, nay; on the wild hill
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay; since oft thy
praise

Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend.
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!

Canto Third. The Hostel, or Jnn.

I.

THE livelong day Lord Marmion rode : The mountain path the Palmershow'd, By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road,

For the Merse forayers were abroad,

Who, fir'd with hate and thirst of

prey,

Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way.
Oft on the trampling band, from crown
Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd
down;

On wing of jet, from his repose
In the deep heath, the black-cock

rose;

Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been pass'd before
They gain'd the height of Lammer-
moor;

Thence winding down the northern way,

Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone:
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.

On through the hamlet as they pac'd,
Before a porch, whose front was
grac'd

With bush and flagon trimly plac'd,

Lord Marmion drew his rein; The village inn seem'd large, though rude;

Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen

sprung,

III.

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you

gaze;

Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, The rafters of the sooty roof

Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar,

And savoury haunch of deer. The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside,

Were tools for housewives' hand; Nor wanted, in that martial' day, The implements of Scottish fray,

The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And view'd around the blazing hearth. His followers mix in noisy mirth; Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.

IV.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast,
And laughter theirs at little jest ;
And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid,
And mingle in the mirth they made;
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art
To win the soldier's hardy heart.
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May;
With open hand, and brow as free,
Lover of wine and minstrelsy;
Ever the first to scale a tower,
As venturous in a lady's bower:
Such buxom chief shall lead his host

rung;

They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall : Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff,

Right opposite the Palmer stood; His thin dark visage seen but half, Half hidden by his hood.