When red hath set the beamless sun, Through heavy vapours dark and dun; When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears half-asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, Against the casement's tinkling pane; The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, To shelter in the brake and rocks, Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above, and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers, and he guides, To open downs, and mountain-sides, Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back, while streaming far,
His cottage window seems a star,
Loses its feeble gleam, and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale:

His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain: 41
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,

Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheeks to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot,
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree,
His rustic kirn's* loud revelry,
His native hill-notes tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye;
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia's golden creed?

Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage, Against the winter of our age: As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy; But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. Then happy those, since each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain, Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given; Whose lenient sorrows find relief, Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou, of late, wert doom'd to twine, Just when thy bridal hour was by, The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, And bless'd the union of his child, When love must change its joyous cheer And wipe affection's filial tear. Nor did the actions next his end, Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes 42 paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold—

The Scottish Harvest-home.

Far may we search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!
But not around his honour'd urn,
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;
The thousand eyes his care had dried,
Pour at his name a bitter tide;
And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim

The Almighty's attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
"The widow's shield, the orphan's stay."
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme;
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
"Thy father's friend forget thou not:'
And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:
"Tis little but 'tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;

When, doing nought,
Not anxious to find aught to do,
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,

and, to speak true,

to gay.

Ranged, unconfined, from grave
Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely labouring to pourtray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray;
I spelling o'er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,

Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

* Camp was a favourite dog of the Poet's, a bull-terrier of extraordinary sagacity.

Jealous, each other's motions view'd,
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossom'd bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear,

The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul,

Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl.
Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd bewail'd the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae,
And one whose name I may not say,
For not Mimosa's tender tree

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,
In merry chorus well combined,

With laughter drown'd the whistling wind.
Mirth was within; and Care without
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we've had; and, though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,

And though the field-day, or the drill
Seem less important now

- yet still

Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark, how like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

Scott, Poetical Works. I.

13

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

I.

EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sung shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came, and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part,
Of something disarranged."

Some clamour'd loud for armour lost;
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host;
"By Becket's bones," cried one, "I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!".
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,
"Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:

To Marmion who the plight dare tell,
Of the good steed he loves so well?"
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one who would seem wisest, cried, -
"What else but evil could betide,

With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush."43

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd,
Nor wholly understood,

His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd;
He knew Lord Marmion's mood.