In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or wɔe,
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; 17 Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, And the crazed brain restore: 18 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 pledged 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 wassel roar,

The ministrels ceased 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.

19

THE scenes are desert now, and bare,
Where flourish'd once a forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.

Yon Thorn

-

perchance whose prickly spears
Have fenced him for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,

Since he, so grey and stubborn now,
Waved 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 noon-tide 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:

* Mountain ash.

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 green-wood 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 hunter's 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 paced along,
But had its legend or its song.
All silent now for now are still

Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!**

*Slowhound. ** A seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on the Yarrow.

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 't were 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.

From Yair, which hills so closely 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 ** is 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.

* Harriet, Countess of Dalkeith, afterwards Duchess of Buccleuch. **The late Alexander Pringle, Esq. of Whytbank.

*** The sons of Mr. Pringle of Whytbank.