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XXX. Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. When sated with the martial show That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o'er it go, And mark the distant city glow With gloomy splendour red; For on the smoke-wreaths huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town: But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; Here Preston-Bay, and Berwick-Law; And, broad between them rolled, The gallant Firth the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold.

Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent. The spur he to his charger lent, And raised his bridal hand, And, making demi-vault in air, Cried, “Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land!” The Lion smiled his joy to see; Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,
And sackbut deep, and psaltery,
And war-pipe with discordant cry,
And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,
Did up the mountain come;
The whilst the bells, with distant chime,
Merrily tolled the hour of prime,
And thus the Lion spoke:—
“Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The King to mass his way has ta'en,
Or to St. Catherine's of Sienne,
Or chapel of Saint Rocque.
To you they speak of martial fame;
But me remind of peaceful game,
When blither was their cheer,

Thrilling in Faulkland-woods the air,

In signal none his steed should spare,

But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfal of the deer.

XXXII. “Nor less,” he said, “when looking forth, I view yon Empress of the North Sit on her hilly throne; Her palace's imperial bowers, Her castle, proof to hostile powers, Her stately halls, and holy towers— Nor less,” he said, “I moan, To think what wo mischance may bring, And how these merry bells may ring The death-dirge of our gallant King, Or, with their larum, call The burghers forth to watch and ward, 'Gainst southern sack and fires to guard Dun-Edin's leagured wall.— But not, for my presaging thought, Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought! Lord Marmion, I say nay:— God is the guider of the field, He breaks the champion's spear and shield,— But thou thyself shalt say, When joins yon host in deadly stowre, That England's dames must weep in bower, Her monks the dead-mass sing;

Led on by such a King.”
And now, down winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain,

And there they made a stay.—
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling
His hand o'er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King,

In the succeeding lay.

| For never saw'st thou such a power


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