How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,
Whene'er the fire-brand's fickle light
Glances beneath his cowl!

Full on our Lord he sets his eye;

For his best palfrey, would not I
Endure that sullen scowl."-

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe

Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who saw The ever-varying fire-light shew

That figure stern and face of woe,

Now called upon a squire

Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay,

To speed the lingering night away?

We slumber by the fire."

VIII.

"So please you," thus the youth rejoined,

"Our choicest minstrel's left behind.

Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustomed Constant's strains to hear.

The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover's lute alike';
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush ;
No nightingale her love-lorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,

Lavished on rocks, and billows stern,

Or duller monks of Lindisfarn.
Now must I venture as I may,

To sing his favourite roundelay."

IX.

A deep and mellow voice he had, The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band,

When falls before the mountaineer,

On lowland plains, the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song:
Oft have I listened, and stood still,

As it came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men

Who languished for their native glen ;

And thought, how sad would be such sound,
On Susquehana's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake,

Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again!

X.

Song.

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving ;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never.

XI.

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle,

With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap,

Oer the false-hearted ;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it,—

Never, O never.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never.