To chase the fiend, and win the prize,
In that same dungeon ever tries
An aged Necromantic Priest;

It is an hundred years at least,
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost or won.

And oft the Conjuror's words will make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake ;
And oft the bands of iron break,

Or bursts one lock, that still amain,
Fast as 'tis opened, shuts again.
That magic strife within the tomb
May last until the day of doom,
Unless the Adept shall learn to tell
The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franch'mont locked the treasure cell.
An hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.

Such general superstition may

Excuse for old Pitscottie say;

Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from heaven,
That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland's King,
Nor less the infernal summoning.

But why such instances to you,

Who, in an instant, can review

Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more?
Hoards, not like their's whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest ;
While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use,

Give them the priest's whole century,
They shall not spell you letters three;
Their pleasure in the books the same
The magpie takes in pilfered gem.
Thy volumes, open as thy heart,
Delight, amusement, science, art,
To every ear and eye impart;

Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can, like the owner's self, enjoy them?—

But, hark! I hear the distant drum : The day of Flodden field is come.— Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth.

MARMION.

CANTO SIXTH.

The Battle.