And shouting crews her navy bore,
Triumphant, to the victor shore.*
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

"The joyful King turn'd home again, Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane; But yearly, when return'd the night Of his strange combat with the sprite, His wound must bleed and smart; Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 'Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay

The penance of your start.' Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, King Alexander fills his grave,

Our Lady give him rest!

Yet still the knightly spear and shield
The Elfin Warrior doth wield,

Upon the brown hill's breast; 40 And many a knight hath proved his chance,

In the charm'd ring to break a lance,
But all have foully sped;
Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay. -
Gentles, my tale is said."

Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream
Of sport by thicket, or by stream.
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion's voice he knew.

XXVIII.

-"Fitz-Eustace! rise, I cannot rest; Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast,

And graver thoughts have chafed my mood:

The air must cool my feverish blood;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of Elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves;
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.".
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable-door undid,
And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd,
While, whispering, thus the Baron said:-

XXIX.

"Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell,

That on the hour when I was born, Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle,

Down from his steed of marble fell,

A weary wight forlorn?
The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen's truth to show,
That I could meet this Elfin Foe!
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite: -
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there
be,

An empty race, by fount or sea.
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring."
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,
But, patient, waited till he heard,
At distance, prick'd to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed,

Come town-ward rushing on;
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
Then, clattering on the village road,
In other pace than forth he yode,*
Return'd Lord Marmion.
Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell;
To the squire's hand the rein he
threw,

And spoke no word as he withdrew:
But yet the moonlight did betray,
The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger's knee,
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines,
Broken and short; for still, between,
Would dreams of terror intervene:
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.

* Vode, used by old poets for went.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO

FOURTH.

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.†

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

AN ancient Minstrel sagely said,
"Where is the life which late we led?"
That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jacques with envy
view'd,

Not even that clown could amplify,
On this trite text, so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand,

And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone;
And though deep mark'd, like all below,
With chequer'd shades of joy and woe;
Though thou o'er realms and seas hast
ranged,

Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed,
While here, at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fever'd the progress of these years,
Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but

seem

The recollection of a dream,

So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day,
Since first I tuned this idle lay;
A task so often thrown aside,
When leisure graver cares denied,
That now, November's dreary gale,
Whose voice inspired my opening tale,
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.
Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again:
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly:

† James Skene, Esq., of Rubislaw, Aberdeen shire.

The shepherd, who in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen;
He who, outstretch'd the live-long day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View'd the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book,
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o'er the lessen'd tide, —
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labor for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun,
Through heavy vapors 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 his 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 cheek 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 coldFar may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honor'd urn, Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried, Pour at his name a bitter tide;

* Scottish harvest-home.

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 naught,--and, to speak true,
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,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.
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 bravely laboring to portray
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,
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 whitethorn 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;

* A favorite bull-terrier of Sir Walter's. Laverock, the lark.

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 R―,§
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.

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

I.

EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeomen 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.

Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore.

§ Sir William Rae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. Sir William Forbes, Bart., of Pitsligo. Son of the author of the Life of Beattie and brotherin-law of James Skene.

Common name for an idiot; assumed by Edgar in King Lear.

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 dressed 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.
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy
thought,

And did his tale display
Simply as if he knew of naught
To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told,
Pass'd them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost Had reckon'd with their Scottish host; And, as the charge he cast and paid, "Ill thou deserv'st thy hire," he said; "Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?

Fairies have ridden him all the night,

And left him in a foam!

I trust that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home:
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trample to and fro."
The laughing host look'd on the hire:
"Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo."
Here stay'd their talk,- for Marmion
Gave now a signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journey'd all the morning day.

IV.

The green-sward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood:

A forest glade, which, varying still, Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed, till over-head A vaulted screen the branches made. "A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said; "Such as where errant-knights might

see

Adventures of high chivalry;

Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.”
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind:
Perchance to show his lore design'd;

For Erstace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome
Of Caxton, or De Worde.*
Therefore he spoke, but spoke in
vain,

For Marmion answer'd naught again.

* William Caxton was the earliest English printer; born in Kent, A.D. 1412, died 1491; Wynken de Worde was his successor.