To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told,
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,

Then couch'd him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound, so dull and stern.

["The sound of the knell that was rung for the parting soul of this victim of seduction, is described with great force and solemnity.”—JEFFREY.

"The whole of this trial and doom presents a high-wrought scene of horror, which, at the close, rises almost to too great a pitch."-Scots Mag. March, 1808.]

MARMION.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO

WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.1

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

LIKE April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o'er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,

Now in a torrent racing forth,

Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,
Whose voice inconstant dies away,

1 [William Erskine, Esq., advocate, Sheriff-depute of the Orkneys, became a Judge of the Court of Session by the title of Lord Kinnedder, and died at Edinburgh in August, 1822, He had been from early youth the most intimate of the Poet's friends, and his chief confidant and adviser as to all literary matters. See a notice of his life and character by the late Mr. Hay Donaldson, to which Sir Walter Scott contributed several paragraphs.-ED.]

And ever swells again as fast,
When the ear deems its murmur past;
Thus various, my romantic theme
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees;
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,

Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale !

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell
I love the license all too well,

In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song?-1
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse
For many an error of the muse,
Oft hast thou said, "If, still misspent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,2
Go, and to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source;

1 [MS." With sound now lowly, and now higher, Irregular to wake the lyre."]

2 [MS.-"Thine hours to thriftless rhyme are lent.”]