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Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wallflower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall. I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all his round surveyed ; And still I thought that shattered tower The mightiest work of human power ; And marvelled as the aged hind With some strange tale bewitched my mind Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurred their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home returning, filled the hall With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. -Methought that still with tramp and clang The gateway's broken arches rang ; Methought grim features, seamed with scars, Glared through the windows' rusty bars. And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,

Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ;
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold ;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,

The Scottish clans, in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war displayed ;
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before.

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Crichtoun Castle.

That castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne ; And far beneath, where slow they creep From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose ;
Their various architecture shows

The builders' various hands ;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,

The vengeful Douglas bands.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court

But pens the lazy steer and sheep,

Thy turrets rude, and tottered Keep, Have been the minstrel's loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort,

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,

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Quartered in old armorial sort,

Remains of rude magnificence:
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced

Thy lordly gallery fair ;
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,

Adorn thy ruined stair.
Still rises unimpaired, below,
The courtyard's graceful portico ;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair hewn facets richly show

Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go

To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,

Where oft whilome were captives pent, The darkness of thy Massy More ;1

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.


Another aspect Crichtoun showed,
As through its portal Marmion rode ;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate ;

1 The pit, or prison vault.


For none were in the castle then,
But women, boys, or aged men.
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion came;
Her son, a strippling twelve years old,
Proffered the Baron's rein to hold ;
For each man, that could draw a sword,
Had marched that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn-he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side.
Long may his lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.
'Twas a brave race, before the name
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

And here two days did Marmion rest,

With every rite that honour claims,
Attended as the King's own guest,-

Such the command of royal James ;
Who marshalled then his land's array,
Upon the Borough moor that lay.
Perchance he would not foeman's eye
Upon his gathering host should pry,
Till full prepared was every band
To march against the English land.


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