Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirl. winds go, Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring ; The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well, Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain-waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know ; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong; Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal fielii, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield ! Day dawns upon the mountain's side.There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride, Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one; The sad survivors all are gone. View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be ; Nor to yon Border castle high Look northward with upbraiding eye; Nor cherish hope in vain That, journeying far on foreign strand, The Royal Pilgrim to his land May yet return again. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought. Reckless of life, he desperate fought, And fell on Flodden plain : And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within his manly hand, Beseemed the monarch slain. But oh! how changed since yon blithe night! Gladly I turn me from the sight Unto my tale again. Short is my tale :--Fitz-Eustace' care A pierced and mangled body bare To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; And there, beneath the southern aisle A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.Now vainly for its site you look ; 'T was levelled when fanatic Brook The fair cathedral stormed and took, But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint Chad, His hands to heaven upraised; His arms and feats were blazed. prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. From Ettrick woods a peasant swain Followed his lord to Flodden plain, One of those flowers whom plaintive lay In Scotland mourns as “wede away : Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied, And dragged him to its foot, and died Close by the noble Marmion's side, The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain, But every mark is gone : And broke her font of stone ; Oft halts the stranger there. And shepherd boys repair To seek the water-flag and rush, And plait their garlands fair, brave. When thou shalt find the little hill, With thy heart commune and be still. If ever in temptation strong Thou left'st the right path for the wrong, If every devious step thus trod Still led thee further from the road, Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; But say, "He died a gallant knight, With sword in hand, for England's right." I do not rhyme to that dull elf Who cannot image to himself That all through Flodden's dismal night Wilton was foremost in the fight, That when brave Surrey's steed was slain 'T'was Wilton mounted him again ; 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest bewed Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood : Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; That, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again, And charged bis old paternal shield, With bearings won on Flodden Field. Nor sing I to that simple maid To whom it must in terms be said That king and kinsmen did agrer, To bless fair Clara's constancy ; Who cannot, unless I relate, Paint to her mind the bridal's state,That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More. Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine's hand the stocking threw; And afterwards, for many a day, That it was held enough to say, In blessing to a wedded pair, “Love they like Wilton and like Clare!” November, 1806--January, 1808. February 23, 1808. SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O‘ER SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not break ing ; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the day break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champ ing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done ; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den ; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. From The Lady of the Lake, 1810. HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES ! Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad. vances ! Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Earth lend it sap anew, While every Highland glen ieroe !" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, her shade. Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then Echo his praise again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ' ho ! ieroe !" Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, replied : Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smok ing in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Long shall lament our raid, with woe; Shake when they hear again, ieroe !" The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manlood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever! From The Lady of the Lake. HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL! Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine ! O that the rosebud that graces yon is lands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine ! Worthy such noble stem migiit grow ! Ring from her deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe !" From The Lady of the Lake. HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade de scending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder min strelsy ; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sivay, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Mucli have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.-That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. CORONACH He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, When our need was the sorest. From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, a Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! T'is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell-And now, 't is silent all !--Enchantress, fare thee well ! Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake. BRIGNALL BANKS During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote to Morritt: "There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, I like them myself One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-a Yet sung she, “ Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay ; To reign his Queen of May ! " With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, That lists the tuck of drum." No more the trumpet hear; My comrades take the spear. And Greta woods be gay, Would reign my Queen of May! ** Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I ! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. And Greta woods are green, From Rokeby, 1813. 66 Dale." O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, Would grace a summer queen. Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily : “O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; Than reign our English queen.” “If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with nie, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May." And Greta woods are green ; Than reign our English queen. “I read you, by your bugle horn, And by your palfrey good, To keep the king's greenwood." “A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 't is at peep of light; ALLEN-A-DALE ALLEN-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen a-Dale has no fleece for the spin ning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come, read me my riddle !come, heark. en my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkin dale side. The mere for his net and the land for his game, The chase for the wild and the park for the tame : Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen a-Dale ! Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. Though his spur be as sharp and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, word ; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale ! Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; and hone: “Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,” quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still : 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale And with all its bright spangles !” said Allen-a-Dale. Dimly seen through twilight bending, From Guy Mannering, 1815. WASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE STAY WASTED, weary, wherefore stay, Wrestling thus with earth and clay ? From the body pass away ; Hark! the mass is singing. From thee doff thy mortal weed, Hark! the knell is ringing. That shall ne'er know waking. Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Earth flits fast, and time draws on,Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, Day is near the breaking. From Guy Mannering. HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY Ilie away, hie away, (ver bank and over brae, Hie to haunts right seldom seen, From Waverley, 1814. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN “Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? Why weep ye by the tide ? And ye sall be his bride : Sae comely to be seen For Jock o' Hazeldean. TWIST YE, TWINE YE! EVEN SO Twist ye, twine ye! even so, Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hlope and fear and peace and strife, In the thread of human life. " Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And «lry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington And lord of Langley-dale ; His sword in battle keen "- For Jock o' Hazeldean, While the mystic twist is spinning, And the infant's life beginning, |