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As ended Albert's simple lay,

Arose a bard of loftier port;
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay,

Renown'd in haughty Henry's court:
There rung thy harp unrivall’d long,
Fitztraver of the silver song!
The gentle Surrey loved his lyre-

Who has not heard of Surrey's fame?
His was the hero's soul of fire,

And his, the bard's immortal name, And his was love exalted high By all the glow of chivalry.

But soon, within that mirror huge and high,

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ;
And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan spy,

Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream ; Till, slow arranging, and defined, they seem

To form a lordly and a lofty room, Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam,

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, And part by moonshine pale, and part was hid in


They sought together, climes afar,

And oft within some olive grove,
When evening came, with twinkling star,

They sung of Surrey's absent love. His step th’ Italian peasant stay'd,

And deem'd, that spirits from on high, Round where some hermit saint was laid,

Were breathing heavenly melody So sweet did harp and voice combine, To praise the name of Geraldine.

Fair all the pageant—but how passing fair

The slender form, which lay on couch of Ind! O'er her white bosom stray'd her hazel hair,

Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she pined; All in her night-robe loose she lay reclined,

And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul to find :

That favour'd strain was Surrey's raptured line, That fair and lovely form, the Ladye Geraldine.

Slow roll’d the clouds upon the lovely form,

And swept the goodly vision all away-
So royal envy rolld the murky storm

O'er my beloved master's glorious day.
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant! Heaven repay

On thee, and on thy children's latest line,
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway,

XV. Fitztraver! O what tongue may say

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew,

The gory bridal bed, the plunder'd shrine, The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of Geraldine!

Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

XXI. Both Scots, and Southern chiefs prolong Applauses of Fitztraver's song: These hated Henry's name as death, And those still held the ancient faith.Then, from his seat with lofty air, Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair; St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home Had with that lord to battle come. Harold was born where restless seas Howl round the storm-swept Orcades; Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway O’er isle and islet, strait and bay ; Still nods their palace to its fall, Thy pride and sorrow fair Kirkwall! Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave, As if grim Odin rode her wave; And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, And throbbing heart, the struggling sail ; For all of wonderful and wild Had rapture for the lonely child.

XXII. And much of wild and wonderful In these rude isles mighty Fancy cull; For thither came, in times afar, Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, The Norseman, train’d to spoil and blood, Skill'd to prepare the raven's food ; Kings of the main their leaders brave, Their barks the dragons of the wave. And there in many a stormy vale, The scald had told his wondrous tale, And many a Runic column high Had witness'd grim idolatry. And thus had Harold, in his youth, Learn'd many a saga's rhyme uncouth,Of that sea-spake tremendous curl'd, Whose monstrous circle girds the world : Of those dread Maids; whose hideous yell Maddens the battle's bloody swell: Of chiefs, who, guided through the gloom By the pale-death like of the tomb, Ransack'd the graves of warriors old, Their falchions wrench'd from corpses' hold, Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, And bade the dead arise to arms ! With war and wonder all on flame, To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, He learn'd a milder minstrelsy; Yet something of the northern spell Mix'd with the softer numbers well.

“ The blackening wave is edged with white ;

To inch* and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the water sprite,

Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. “ Last night the gifted seer did view

A wet shroud swathe a ladye gay ; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch :

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?” “ 'Tis not because lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle hall. “ 'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide,

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.” O’er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen : 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavernd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire, that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie; Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheath'd in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale: Shone every pillar foliage bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle : Each one the holy vault doth hold

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.



So sweet was Harold's piteous lay,

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd hall, Though, long before the sinking day,

A wondrous shade involved them all;
It was not eddying mist or fog,
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog;

Of no eclipse had sages told ;
And yet, as it came on apace,

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. “ Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew !

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!

* Inch, Isle.

Each one could scarce his neighbour's face,

Could scarce his own stretch'd hand behold. A secret horror check'd the feast, And chill'd the soul of every guest : Even the high dame stood half aghast, She knew some evil on the blast; The elfish page fell to the ground, And, shuddering, mutter'd, “Found, found,


Did to St. Bride of Douglas make,
That he a pilgrimage would take,
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake

Of Michael's restless sprite.
Then each, to ease his troubled breast,
To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd;
Some to St. Modan made their vows,
Some to St. Mary of the Lowes,
Some to the holy Rood of Lisle,
Some to our lady of the Isle ;
Each did his patron witness make,
That he such pilgrimage would take,
And monks should sing, and bells should toll,
All for the weal of Michael's soul.
While vows were ta’en, and prayers were

pray'd, Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid.

Then sudden through the darken'd air

A flash of lightning came;
So broad, so bright, so red the glare,

The castle seem'd on flame;
Glanced every rafter of the hall,
Glanced every shield upon the wall;
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone
Were instant seen, and instant gone ;
Full through the guests' bedazzled band
Resistless flash'd the levinbrand,
And fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke,
As on the elfish page it broke.

It broke, with thunder long and loud,
Dismay'd the brave, appall’d the proud,

From sea to sea the larum rung;
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal,

To arms the startled warders sprung.
When ended was the dreadful roar,
The elfish dwarf was seen no more !


Nought of the bridal will I tell,
Which after in short space befell;
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair
Bless'd Teviot's flower, and Cranstoun's heir :
After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain,
To wake the note of mirth again.
More meet it were to mark the day

Of penitence and prayer divine,
When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array,

Sought Melrose' holy shrine.


XXVI. Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, Some saw a sight, not seen by all; That dreadful voice was heard by some, Cry, with loud summons,“ GYLBIN, COME !” And on the spot where burst the brand,

Just where the page had flung him down, Some saw an arm, and some a hand,

And some the waving of a gown.
The guests in silence pray'd and shook,
And terror dimm'd each lofty look.
But none of all the astonish'd train
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine:
His blood did freeze, his brain did burn,
'Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er return;

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man.
At length by fits, he darkly told,
With broken hint, and shuddering cold-

That he had seen, right certainly,
A shape with amice wrapp'd around,
With a wrought Spanish baldrick bound,

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea ;
And knew-but how it matter'd not-
It was the wizard, Michael Scott!

With naked foot, and sackloth vest,
And arms enfolded on his breast,

Did every pilgrim go;
The standers-by might hear uneath,
Footstep, or voice, or highdrawn breath,

Through all the lengthen'd row :
No lordly look, nor martial stride,
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride,

Forgotten their renown;
Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide
To the high altar's hallow'd side,

And there they knelt them down;
Above the suppliant chieftains wave
The banners of departed brave ;
Beneath the letter'd stones were laid
The ashes of their fathers dead;
From many a garnish'd niche around,
Stern saints, and tortured martyrs frown'd.



And slow up the dim aisle afar;
With sable shroud and scapular,
And snow-white stoles, in order due,
The holy fathers, two and two,

In long procession came;
Taper, and host, and book they bare,
And holy banner, flourish'd fair

With the Redeemer's name: Above the prostrate pilgrim band The mitred abbot stretch'd his hand,

And bless'd them as they kneelid;

The anxious crowd, with horror pale,
All trembling, heard the wondrous tale.

No sound was made, no word was spoke,
Till noble Angus silence broke:

And he a solemn sacred plight



Alas! that Scottish maid should sing

The combat where her lover fell ! That Scoutish bard should wake the string.

The triumph of our foes to tell.- Leyden.

With holy cross he sign'd them all,
And pray'd they might be sage in hall,

And fortunate in field.
The mass was sung, and prayers were said,
And solemn requiem for the dead;
And bells tolld out their mighty peal
For the departed spirit's weal;
And ever in the office close
The hymn of intercession rose;
And far the echoing aisles prolong
The awful burthen of the song,


SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA : While the pealing organ rung;

Were it meet with sacred strain

To close my lay, so light and vain. Thus the holy fathers sung.






That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away, What power shall be the singers stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead:

ADVERTISEMENT. It is hardly to be expected that an author, whom the public bas honoured with some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the author of Marmion must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which bis first poem may have procured him. The present story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the author was, if possible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his story, and to prepare them for the manners of the age in which it is laid. Any historical narrative, far more an attempt at epic composition, exceeds his plan of a romantic tale; yet he may be permitted to hope from the popularity of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting history, will not be unacceptable to the public.

The poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of Flodden, 9th September, 1513.

0! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man from judgment wakes from clay,
Be Thou the trembling sinnner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away!


Hush'd is the harp—the minstrel gone. And did he wander forth alone, Alone, in indigence and age, To linger out his pilgrimage ? No:-close beneath proud Newark's tower Arose the minstrel's lowly bower: A simple hut; but there was seen The little garden hedged with green, The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, Oft heard the tale of other days; For much he loved to ope his door, And give the aid he begg'd before. So pass'd the winter's day; but still, When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, And July's eve, with balmy breath, Waved the blue bells on Newark heath; When throstles sun in Hare-head shaw, And corn was green on Carterhaugh, And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak, The aged harper's soul awoke ! Then would he sing achievements high, And circumstance of chivalry, Till the rapt traveller would stay, Forgetful of the closing day; And noble youths, the strain to hear, Forsook the hunting of the deer; And Yarrow, as he rollid along, Bore burden to the minstrel's song.


Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
NOVEMBER's sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear;
Late, gazing down the steepy linn,
That hems our little garden in,
Low in its dark and narrow glen,
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled greenwood grew,
So feeble trill'd the streamlet through:
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Though bush and brier, no longer green,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade,
And, foaming brown with double speed,
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our forest hills is shed;
No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;

Away hath pass'd the hether-bell,
That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell,
Sallow his brow, and russet bare
Are now the sister-beights of Yare.
'The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To shelter'd dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines,
And yet a watery sunbeam shines;
In meek despondency they eye
The wither'd sward and wintry sky,
And far beneath their summer hill,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold
And wraps him closer from the cold ;
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel :
A cowering glance they often cast,
As deeper moans the gathering blast.

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild
As best befits the mountain child,
Feels the sad influence of the hour,
And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower;
Their summer's gambols tell, and mourn,
And anxious ask,-Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower ;
· Again the hawthorn shall supply

The garlands you delight to tie ;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round,
And while you frolic, light as they.
Too short shall seem the summer day.

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings ;
The genial call dead nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But 0! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise?
The mind, that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand, that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
E'en on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine,
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, 0 Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb !

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave;
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given,
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd, and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ;

Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain's weal was early wise ;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride, he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the free-

man's laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp’d the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver sound is still,
The warder silent on the hill !

0, think, how to his latest day,
When death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood,
Firm at his dangerous post be stood :
Each call for needful rest repellid,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the helm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallow'd day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,-
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy requiescat dumb,
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employ'd, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,-
They sleep with him who sleeps below;
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung,
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,

• Copenhagen.

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