For there the earliest wild-flowers grow;
But woe betide the wandering wight
That treads its circle in the night!
The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career;
Opposed to the four points of heaven,
By four deep gaps are entrance given.
The southernmost our monarch passed,
Halted, and blew a gallant blast;
And on the north, within the ring,
Appeared the form of England's king,
Who then, a thousand leagues afar,
In Palestine waged holy war :
Yet arms like England's did he wield;
Alike the leopards in the shield,
Alike his Syrian courser's frame,
The rider's length of limb the same.
Long afterwards did Scotland know
Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.

The vision made our monarch start, But soon he manned his noble heart, And in the first career they ran, The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man Yet did a splinter of his lance Through Alexander's visor glance, And razed the skin a puny wound. The king, light leaping to the ground, With naked blade his phantom foe Compelled the future war to show.

Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
Where still gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war;
Himself he saw, amid the field,
On high his brandished war-axe wield
And strike proud Haco from his car,
While all around the shadowy kings
Denmark's grim ravens cowered their
wings.

'Tis said that in that awful night
Remoter visions met his sight,
Foreshowing future conquest far,
When our sons' sons wage Northern war;
A royal city, tower and spire,
Reddened the midnight sky with fire,
And shouting crews her navy bore
Triumphant to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.

XXV.

'The joyful king turned home again,
Headed his host, and quelled the Dane;
But yearly, when returned the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,

His wound must bleed and smart ;
Lord Gifford then would gibing say,
“Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start."

Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave,
King Alexander fills his grave,

Our Lady give him rest!
Yet still the knightly spear and shield
The Elfin Warrior doth wield

Upon the brown hill's breast,
And many a knight hath proved his chance
In the charmed ring to break a lance,
But all have foully sped;

Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight and Gilbert Hay. -
Gentles, my tale is said.'

XXVI.

The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong,
And on the tale the yeoman-throng
Had made a comment sage and long,

But Marmion gave a sign:
And with their lord the squires retire,
The rest around the hostel fire

Their drowsy limbs recline;
For pillow, underneath each head,
The quiver and the targe were laid.
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,
Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore;
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII.

Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay;
Scarce by the pale moonlight were seen
The foldings of his mantle green:
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,
Of sport by thicket, or by stream,
Of hawk or hound, or ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love.

A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form with nodding plume;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion's voice he knew:

XXVIII.

'Fitz-Eustace! rise, I cannot rest;
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast,
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood:
The air must cool my feverish blood,
And fain would I ride forth to see
The scene of elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves:
I would not that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale,
That I could credit such a tale.'
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable door undid,

And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed, While, whispering, thus the baron said:

XXIX.

'Didst never, good my youth, hear tell
That on the hour when I was born
Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,
A weary wight forlorn?
The flattering chaplains all agree
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen's truth to show,
That I could meet this elfin foe!
Blithe would I battle for the right
To ask one question at the sprite.
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.'
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

XXX.

As hoping half to meet a sprite,

Arrayed in plate and mail. For little did Fitz-Eustace know That passions in contending flow Unfix the strongest mind; Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, We welcome fond credulity,

Guide confident, though blind.

XXXI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,
But patient waited till he heard
At distance, pricked to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed

Come townward rushing on;
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,
Then, clattering on the village road, --
In other pace than forth he yode,
Returned Lord Marmion.
Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And in his haste wellnigh he fell;
To the squire's hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew :
But yet the moonlight did betray
The falcon-crest was soiled with clay;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger's knee
And his left side, that on the moor
He had not kept his footing sure.
Long musing on these wondrous signs,
At length to rest the squire reclines,
Broken and short; for still between
Would dreams of terror intervene :
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark
The first notes of the morning lark.

Marmion.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

To JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

AN ancient Minstrel sagely said,
'Where is the life which late we led?'
That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,
Not even that clown could amplify
On this trite text so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell
Since we have known each other well,
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the voluntary brand;
And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone;
And though deep marked, like all below,
With checkered shades of joy and woe,
Though thou o'er realms and seas.hast
ranged,

Marked cities lost and empires changed,
While here at home my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw and men;
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears.
Fevered the progress of these years,
Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem
The recollection of a dream,

So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, That now November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen Have donned their wintry shrouds again,

The shepherd who, in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen,
He who, outstretched the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
Viewed the light clouds with vacant look.
Or slumbered o'er his tattered book,
Or idly busied him to guide

His angle o'er the lessened tide,
At midnight now the snowy plain
Finds sterner labor for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun
Through heavy vapors dank and dun,
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm.
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer and fox
To shelter in the brake and rocks
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.
Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid :
His flock he gathers and he guides
To open downs and mountain-sides,
Where fiercest though the tempest blow.
Least deeply lies the drift below.
The blast that whistles o'er the fells
Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back while, streaming far.
His cottage window seems a star,
Loses its feeble gleam,

and then

Turns patient to the blast again,

And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging

sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain:
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,

Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes tuned on high To Marion of the blithesome eye, His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed?

Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage Against the winter of our age; As he, the ancient chief of Troy, His manhood spent in peace and joy, But Grecian fires and loud alarms Called ancient Priam forth to arms. Then happy those, since each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain, Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, To whom the mingled cup is given; Whose lenient sorrows find relief, Whose joys are chastened by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou of late wert doomed to twineJust when thy bridal hour was by – The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her sire had smiled, And blessed the union of his child, When love must change its joyous cheer, And wipe affection's filial tear. Nor did the actions next his end Speak more the father than the friend: Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his minstrel's shade, The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honored urn Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; The thousand eyes his care had dried Pour at his name a bitter tide, And frequent falls the grateful dew For benefits the world ne'er knew. If mortal charity dare claim The Almighty's attributed name, Inscribe above his mouldering clay, The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.' Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem My verse intrudes on this sad theme, For sacred was the pen that wrote, Thy father's friend forget thou not; ' And grateful title may I plead, For many a kindly word and deed,

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;
When, doing nought, — and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,

Ranged unconfined from grave to gay.
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too;
Thou gravely laboring to portray
The blighted oak's fantastic spray,
I spelling o'er with much delight
The legend of that antique knight,
Tirante by name, ycleped the White.
At either's feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,
Jealous each other's motions viewed,
And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud;
The stream was lively, but not loud;
From the white thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:
Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossomed bough than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been

ours,

When Winter stript the Summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear,

The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright and lamps beamed gay,

And ladies tuned the lovely lay,
And he was held a laggard soul
Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.
Then he whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer missed, bewailed the more,
And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae,
And one whose name I may not say,
For not mimosa's tender tree
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,
In merry chorus well combined,
With laughter drowned the whistling wind.
Mirth was within, and Care without
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest;
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care
Was horse to ride and weapon wear.
Such nights we've had; and, though the
game

Of manhood be more sober tame,
And though the field-day or the drill
Seem less important now, yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

Marmion.

CANTO FOURTH.

THE CAMP.

I.

EUSTACE, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,
And with their light and lively call
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.
Whistling they came and free of heart,
But soon their mood was changed;
Complaint was heard on every part
Of something disarranged.
Some clamored loud for armor lost;
Some brawled and wrangled with the host;
'By Becket's bones,' cried one, I fear
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second
squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and mire,
Although the rated horseboy sware

Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,

Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder,
Help, gentle Blount! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall;

To Marmion who the plight dare tell
Of the good steed he loves so well?'
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw
The charger panting on his straw;
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,
'What else but evil could betide,
With that cursed Palmer for our guide?

Better we had through mire and bush Been lantern-led by Friar Rush.'

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, Nor wholly understood,

His comrades' clamorous plaints suppressed;

He knew Lord Marmion's mood. Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, And found deep plunged in gloomy thought. And did his tale display

Simply, as if he knew of nought

To cause such disarray.

Lord Marmion gave attention cold, Nor marvelled at the wonders told, Passed them as accidents of course, And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckoned with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
Ill thou deserv'st thy hire,' he said;
'Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight?
Fairies have ridden him all the night,

And left him in a foam!

I trust that soon a conjuring band,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land

To their infernal home;
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.'
The laughing host looked on the hire:
'Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com'st among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'
Here stayed their talk, for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journeyed all the morning-day.

IV.

The greensward way was smooth and good, Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's wood;

A forest glade, which, varying still, Here gave a view of dale and hill, There narrower closed till overhead A vaulted screen the branches made. 'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said; 'Such as where errant-knights might see Adventures of high chivalry,

Might meet some damsel flying fast, Wih hair unbound and looks aghast; And smooth and level course were here. In her defence to break a spear.