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 whirlwinds 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 field.
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,

A guerdon meet the spoiler had!-
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon_rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priests for Marmion breathed the

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,

And thus their corpses were mista'en;
And thus in the proud baron's tomb
The lowly woodsman took the room.

Less easy task it were to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,
But every mark is gone:
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey,

And broke her font of stone;
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.

Oft halts the stranger there.
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;

And shepherd boys repair

To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
And plait their garlands fair,
Nor dream they sit upon the grave
That holds the bones of Marmion
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

"Twas Wilton mounted him again;
"Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed
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 his 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 agree
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

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 daybreak 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 champing,

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.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moored in the rifted rock,

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,

And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied:

Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,

And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

66

Shake when they hear again, 'Roderigh_Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

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-aDale."

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
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;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen."

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with

me,

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." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green ; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.

"I read you, by your bugle horn, And by your palfrey good,

I read you for a ranger sworn

To keep the king's greenwood." "A ranger, lady, winds his horn,

And 't is at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!

"With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum."

"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And O, though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare
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. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." From Rokeby, 1813.