Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,--forced back,-now low,

now high,

The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear: "By heaven and all its saints! I swear I will not see it lost!

Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads and patter prayer,-
I gallop to the host."

And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.

The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made for a space an opening large,—
The rescued banner rose,--
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground
It sank among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too,-yet stayed,
As loath to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast

To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left in that dreadful hour alone: Perchance her reason stoops or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own,

Braces her mind to desperate tone.— The scattered van of England wheels ;She only said, as loud in air The tumult roared. "Is Wilton there?"-They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die.--" Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms where smeared with blood and sand.

Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion!.. Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said, "By Saint George, he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head!

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry, Marmion to the rescue !'-Vain!
Last of my race, on battle-plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again!-
Yet my last thought is England's-fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.--
Fitz-Eustace. to Lord Surrey hie:
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His lifeblood stains the spotless shield
Edmund is down; my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire.--
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.—
Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly!-
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."
They parted, and alone he lay;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst i”

O Woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brows,

A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the piteous accents said, When with the baron's casque the maid To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side Where raged the war, a dark-red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark

A little fountain cell,

66

Then, as remembrance rose,

Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare;

Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, "the while.-
Oh! think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal !
She died at Holy Isle."

Lord Marmion started from the ground
As light as if he felt no wound,
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth," he said “ I knew
That the dark presage must be true.-
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be !-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then fainting down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labor Clara bound
And strove to stanch the gushing

wound :

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,

Where Huntley, and where Home?→→
Oh! for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died!

Such blasts might warn them, not in vain,

To quit the plunder of the slain
And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side

Afar the Royal Standard flies,

And round it toils and bleeds and dies
Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.-
“O lady,” cried the monk, “away!”
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

But as they left the darkening heath
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;

Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep

To break the Scottish circle deep

That fought around their king.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,

Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,

As fearlessly and well,

Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves from wasted lands
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest
low,

They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow,

Dissolves in silent dew.

Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band
Disordered through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land;

To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song
Shall many an age that wail prolong;
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear
Of Flodden's fatal field,
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear
And broken was her shield!

Day dawns upon the mountain's side.-
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one;
The sad survivors all are gone.
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in vain

That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land

May yet return again.

He saw the wreck his rashness wrought Reckless of life, he desperate fought,

And fell on Flodden plain :

And well in death his trusty brand, Firm clenched within his manly hand, Beseemed the monarch slain.

But oh! how changed since yon blithe night!

Gladly I turn me from the sight
Unto my tale again.

Short is my tale :--Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle
A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.—
Now vainly for its site you look;
'T was levelled when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took,
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint
Chad,

A guerdon meet the spoiler had!-
There erst was martial Marmion found,
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priests for Marmion breathed the

prayer,

The last Lord Marmion lay not there.
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain
Followed his lord to Flodden plain,—
One of those flowers whom plaintive lay
In Scotland mourns as "wede away:
Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied,
And dragged him to its foot, and died
Close by the noble Marmiou's side,
The spoilers stripped and gashed the
slain,

And thus their corpses were mista'en;
And thus in the proud baron's tomb
The lowly woodsman took the room.

Less easy task it were to show
Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low
They dug his grave e'en where he lay,
But every mark is gone:
Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey,

And broke her font of stone;
But yet from out the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.

Oft halts the stranger there.

For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;

And shepherd boys repair

To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
And plait their garlands fair,
Nor dream they sit upon the grave
That holds the bones of Marmion
brave.-

When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune and be still.
If ever in temptation strong

Thou left'st the right path for the wrong,

If every devious step thus trod

Still led thee further from the road,
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say, "He died a gallant knight,
With sword in hand, for England's
right."

I do not rhyme to that dull elf
Who cannot image to himself
That all through Flodden's dismal night
Wilton was foremost in the fight,
That when brave Surrey's steed was
slain

'Twas Wilton mounted him again;
"Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
He won his rank and lands again,
And charged his old paternal shield,
With bearings won on Flodden Field.
Nor sing I to that simple maid
To whom it must in terms be said
That king and kinsmen did agree
To bless fair Clara's constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal's state,-
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke;
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Katherine's hand the stocking
threw ;

And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,

"Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" November, 1806-January, 1808. February 23, 1808.

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE

O'ER

SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not break-, ing;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,

Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying:
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then Echo his praise again,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,

And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied:

Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,

And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine !

O that the rosebud that graces yon islands

Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

From The Lady of the Lake.

CORONACH

HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain.
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever!

From The Lady of the Lake.

HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL !

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!

Yet, once again, forgive my feeble