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;2
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 see3 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, Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms.1 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 chasten'd by their grief. And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, When thou of late, wert doom'd to twine,-Just when thy bridal hour was by,The cypress with the myrtle tie. Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled," And bless'd 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 coldFar may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind! But not around his honour'd 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 bring my tribute to his grave:-
"Tis little-but 'tis all I have.

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 flagg'd, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too;9 Thou gravely labouring to portray The blighted oak's fantastic spray; I spelling o'er, with much delight, The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp,10 with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other's motions view'd, And scarce suppress'd 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 blossom'd bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When Winter stript the summer's bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear,12

The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd

gay,

And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

And he was held a laggard soul,

Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl.

Then he, whose absence we deplore,13 Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,

The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more;

7 See Appendix, Note 2 W.

8 MS." And nearer title may I plead."

9 MS.-"Our thoughts in social silence too."

10 Camp was a favourite dog of the Poet's, a bull-terrier of extraordinary sagacity. He is introduced in Raeburn's portrait of Sir Walter Scott, now at Dalkeith Palace.-ED. 11 MS.-"Till oft our voice suppress'd the feud."

12 MS." When light we heard what now I hear."

13 Colin Mackenzie, Esq. of Portmore, one of the Principal Clerks of Session at Edinburgh, and through life an intimate friend of Sir Walter Scott, died on 10th September 1830.-En

And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-
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 drown'd 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,3 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.

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."7

II.

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd,

Nor wholly understood,

His comrades' clamorous plaints suppress'd;
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 marvell'd at the wonders told,-
Pass'd them as accidents of course,
And bade his clarions sound to horse.

III.

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 clamour'd loud for armour lost;
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host;
"By Becket's bones," cried one, "I fear,5
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 horse-boy sware,
Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.

Sir William Rae of St. Catharine's, Bart., subsequently Lord Advocate of Scotland, was a distinguished member of the volunteer corps to which Sir Walter Scott belonged; and he, the Poet, Mr. Skene, Mr. Mackenzie, and a few other friends, had formed themselves into a little semi-military club, the meetings of which were held at their family suppertables in rotation.-ED.

9 The gentleman whose name the Poet "might not say," was the late Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Bart., son of the author of the Life of Beattie, and brother in law of Mr. Skene,

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckon'd 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,8
Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home:

For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trample to and fro."-
The laughing host look'd on the hire,-
"Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou comest among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo."
Here stay'd their talk,-for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.

through life an intimate, and latterly a generous friend of Sir Walter Scott-died 24th October 1828.-ED.

The Palmer showing forth the way, They journey'd all the morning day.'

IV.

The green-sward 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 over head

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,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells;
And oft, in such, the story tells,
The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion's meed."
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind:
Perchance to show his lore design'd;

For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome
Of Caxton, or De Worde.3

Therefore he spoke,--but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answer'd nought again.

V.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;

Each ready archer grasp'd his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know,
They breathed no point of war.
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land,
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band,
Some opener ground to gain;
And scarce a furlong had they rode,
When thinner trees, receding, show'd
A little woodland plain.

Just in that advantageous glade,
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang So late the forest echoes rang;

1 MS.-"They journeyed till the middle day." MS. "Upon a black and ponderous tome." William Caxton, the earliest English printer, was born Kent, A.D. 1412, and died 1491. Wynken de Worde was his next successor in the production of those

"Rare volumes, dark with tarnish'd gold,"

which are now the delight of bibliomaniacs.

4 The MS. has "Scotland's royal Lion" here; in line 9th

On prancing steeds they forward press'd,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest;

Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon1 bore:
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a King-at-arms,

Whose hand the armorial truncheon hela
That feudal strife had often quell'd,
When wildest its alarms.

VII.

He was a man of middle age;
In aspect manly, grave, and sage,

As on King's errand come;
But in the glances of his eye,
A penetrating, keen, and sly

Expression found its home;
The flash of that satiric rage,
Which, bursting on the early stage,
Branded the vices of the age,

And broke the keys of Rome."
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced,
His cap of maintenance was graced
With the proud heron-plume.
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and
breast,

Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, Embroider'd round and round. The double tressure might you see, First by Achaius borne, The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,

And gallant unicorn.

So bright the King's armorial coat,
That scarce the dazzled eye could note,
In living colours, blazon'd brave,
The Lion, which his title gave,
A train, which well beseem'd his state,
But all unarm'd, around him wait.
Still is thy name in high account,
And still thy verse has charms,
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms!?

Whom royal James himself had crown'd,
And on his temples placed the round

Of Scotland's ancient diadem:
And wet his brow with hallow'd wine,
And on his finger given to shine

The emblematic gem.

Their mutual greetings duly made,

The Lion thus his message said:

"Though Scotland's King hath deeply swore
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more,
And strictly hath forbid resort
From England to his royal court;
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name,
And honours much his warlike fame,
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack
Of courtesy, to turn him back;
And, by his order, I, your guide,
Must lodging fit and fair provide,

Till finds King James meet time to see
The flower of English chivalry."

IX.

Though inly chafed at this delay,
Lord Marmion bears it as he may,
The Palmer, his mysterious guide,
Beholding thus his place supplied,

Sought to take leave in vain:
Strict was the Lion-King's command,
That none, who rode in Marmion's band,

Should sever from the train: "England has here enow of spies In Lady Heron's witching eyes:" To Marchmount thus, apart, he said, But fair pretext to Marmion made. The right hand path they now decline, And trace against the stream the Tyne.

X.

At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle2 crown's the

bank;

For there the Lion's care assigned

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That Castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne: And far beneath, where slow they creep, From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.3 The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows The builders' various hands;

A mighty mass, that could oppose,*

1 MS.-"The Lion-King his message said :

1

'My Liege hath deep and deadly swore," &c.

See Appendix, Note 2 Z; and, for a fuller description of Crichton Castle, see Sir Walter Scott's Miscellaneous Prose Works, vol. vii. p. 157.

MS." Her lazy streams repine."

When deadliest hatred fired its toes, The vengeful Douglas bands.

XI.

Crichtoun though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, Quarter'd in old armorial sort,

Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced

Thy lordly gallery fair;

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruin'd stair.

Still rises unimpair'd below,
The court-yard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, stili may we explore,
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More ;6

Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

May trace, in undulating line,

The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,
As through its portal Marmion rode;
But yet 'twas melancholy state
Received him at the outer gate;
For none were in the Castle then,

But women, boys, or aged men.

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
To welcome noble Marmion, came;

Her son, a stripling twelve years old,
Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold;

For each man that could draw a sword
Had march'd that morning with their lord,
Earl Adam Hepburn, he who died
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side,7
Long may his Lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train,8
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-
Dean.

"Twas a brave race, before the name

Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.

4 MS." But the huge mass could well oppose."

5 MS.-"Of many a mouldering shield the sense."

6 The pit, or prison vault.-See Appendix, Note 2%

7 See Appendix, Note 3 A.

8 MS.-"Well might his gentle Lady mourn,

Doom'd ne'er to see her Lord's return."