Marmion.

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,

He viewed it with a chief's delight,

Until within him burned his heart,

And lightning from his eye did part,

As on the battle-day;

Such glance did falcon never dart,

When stooping on his prey.

"Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,

Thy King from warfare to dissuade

Were but a vain essay;

For, by Saint George, were that host mine,

Not power infernal, nor divine,

Should once to peace my soul incline,

Till I had dimmed their armour's shine

In glorious battle fray!"

Answered the bard, of milder mood:

"Fair is the sight, and yet 'twere good,

That kings would think withal,

When peace and wealth their land have blessed,

'Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall."

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,

For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed.

When sated with the martial show

That peopled all the plain below,

The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red;

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston Bay, and Berwick Law; And, broad between them rolled, The gallant Firth the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent,

The spur he to his charger lent,

And raised his bridle-hand,

Edinburgh.

And, making demi-volte in air,

66

Cried, Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!"

The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;
Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee.

Lady Heron's Song.

THE Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day,

The war against her native soil,

Her Monarch's risk in battle broil;

And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,

Dame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.

Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
The strings her fingers flew ;

And as she touched, and tuned them all,
Even her bosom's rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.

And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring;
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,

She could not, would not, durst not play!

Lady Heron's Song.

At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,

A soft, yet lively, air she rung,

While thus the wily lady sung.

Lochinvar.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"