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What pines on every mountain sprung,

Nor dull, between each merry chase, O'er every dell what birches hung,

Pans’d by the intermitted space; In every breeze what aspens shook,

For we had fair resource in store, What alders shaded every brook!

In Classic and in Gothic lore:

We mark'd each memorable scene, “ Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say,

And held poetic talk between ; “ The mighty stag at noon-tide lay:

Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game,

But had its legend or its song. (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,)

All silent now-for now are still With lurching step around me prowl,

Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!4 And stop, against the moon to howl;

No longer, from thy mountains dun, The mountain-boar, on battle set,

The yeoman hears the well-known gun, His tusks upon my stem would whet;

And while his honest heart glows warm, While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,

At thought of his paternal farm, Have bounded by, through gay green-wood.

Round to his mates a brimmer fills, Then oft, from Newark's' riven tower,

And drinks, “ The Chieftain of the Hills!" Sallied a Scottish monarch's power:

No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers,
A thousand vassals muster'd round,

Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers,
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; Fair as the eives whom Janet saw
And I might see the youth intent,

By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;
Guard every pass with crossbow bent;

No youthful Baron 's left to grace And through the brake the rangers stalk,

The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk;

And ape, in manly step and tone, And foresters, in green-wood trim,

The majesty of Oberon :: Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,

And she is gone, whose lovely face Attentive, as the bratchet's' bay

Is but her least and lowest grace;6 From the dark covert drove the prey,

Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, To slip them as he broke away.

To show our earth the charms of Heaven, The startled quarry bounds amain,

She could not glide along the air, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;

With form more light, or face more fair. Whistles the arrow from the bow,

No more the widow's deafen'd ear Answers the harquebuss below;

Grows quick that lady's step to hear: While all the rocking bills reply,

At noontide she expects her not, To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry,

Nor busies her to trim the cot; And bugles ringing lightsomely."

Pensive she turns her humming wheel,

Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; Of such proud huntings, many tales

Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
Yet linger in our lonely dales,

The gentle hand by which they're fed.
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. 8

From Yair,—which hills so closely bind,
But not more blithe that silvan court,

Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Than we have been at humbler sport;

Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Though small our pomp, and mean our

Till all his eddying currents boil,game,

Her long-descended lord7 is gone, Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.

And left us by the stream alone. Remember'st thou my greyhounds true!

And much I miss those sportive boys, O'er holt or hill there never flew,

Companions of my mountain joys, From slip or leash there never sprang,

Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.

When thought is speech, and speech is truth.

1 See Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel.

6 Mr. Marriott was governor to the young nobleman here ? Slowhound.

alluded to, George Henry, Lord Scott, son to Charles, Earl of

Dalkeith, (afterwards Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry, 3 The Tale of the Outlaw Murray, who held out Newark and who died early in 1808.-See Life of Scott, vol. fii. pp. 59-61. Castle and Ettrick Forest against the King, may be found in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. i. In the Macfarlane M8., among

6 The four next lines on Harriet, Countess of Dalkeith, afother causes of James the Fifth's charter to the burgh of Sel-terwards Duchess of Buccleuch, were not in the original MS. kirk, is mentioned, that the citizens assisted him to suppress 7 The late Alexander Pringle, Esq., of Whytbank—whose this dangerous outlaw.

beautiful seat of the Yair stands on the Tweed, about two • A seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on the Yarrow, in Et- miles below Ashestiel, the then residence of the poet, trick Forest. See Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. 8 The song of Mr. Pringle of Whytbank.

Close to my side, with what delight
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight,
When, pointing to his airy mound,
I call’d his ramparts holy ground !!
Kindled their brows to hear me speak;
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,
Despite the difference of our years,
Return again the glow of theirs.
Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,
They will not, cannot, long endure;
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide,
You may not linger by the side;
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,
And Passion ply the sail and oar.
Yet cherish the remembrance still,
Of the lone mountain, and the rill;
For trust, dear boys, the time will come,
When fiercer transport shall be dumb,
And you will think right frequently,
But, well I hope, without a sigh,
On the free hours that we have spent
Together, on the brown hill's bent.

Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
Where living thing conceal'd might lie;
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,
Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;
There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness:
And silence aids—though the steep bille
Send to the lake a thousand rills;
In summer tide, so soft they weep,
The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, Where erst his simple fathers pray d.

When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, Something, my friend, we yet may gain; There is a pleasure in this pain: It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impress’d. 'Tis silent amid worldly toils, And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, 'Twixt resignation and content. Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone Saint Mary's silent lake ;3 Thou know'st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand 4 Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view;5 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.

If age had tamed the passions' strife, And fate had cut my ties to life, Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell, And rear again the chaplain's cell, Like that same peaceful hermitage, Where Milton long'd to spend his age. "Twere sweet to mark the setting day, On Bourhope's lonely top decay; And, as it faint and feeble died On the broad lake, and mountain's side, To say, “ Thus pleasures fade away; Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;" Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin’d tower, And think on Yarrow's faded Flower: And when that mountain-sound I heard, Which bids us be for storm prepared, The distant rustling of his wings, As up his force the Tempest brings, 'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, To sit upon the Wizard's grave; That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are thrust From company of holy dust;. On which no sunbeam ever shines (So superstition's creed divines)-

silent. }brink;

1 There is, on a high mountainous ridgo above the farm of of peace and repose, as even the simple strains of our venerAshestiel, a fosse called Wallace's Trench.

able Walton."- Monthly Review. » MS.—" And youth shall ply the sail and oar."

8 “And may at last my weary age 8 See Appendix, Note W.

Find out the peaceful hermitage, 4 MS.—" At once upon the {

The hairy gown and mossy cell,
silver

Where I may sit and rightly spell
And just a line of pebbly sand."

Of every star that heaven doth show, 6 MS." Far traced upon the lake you

view

And every herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain sides and sombre hue."

To something like prophetic strain." • See Appendix, Note X.

Il Penserosa 7 " A few of the lines which follow breathe as true a spirit 9 See Appendix, Note Y.

The hills' { bare ?

CANTO SECOND.

Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,

Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, Heave her broad billows to the shore;

And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,

White as the snowy charger's tail,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,'

Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.
And ever stoop again, to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,
Then, when against the driving hail

To many a Border theme has rung:5 No longer might my plaid avail,

Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Back to my lonely home retire,

Of this mysterious Man of Woe.
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,

Marmion.
I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!
And bade my busy fancy range,
To frame him fitting shape and strange,
Till from the task my brow I clear'd,

The Convent.
And smiled to think that I had fear’d.

I. But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life,

The breeze, which swept away the smoke, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,)

Round Norham Castle roll’d, Something most matchless good and wise,

When all the loud artillery spoke, A great and grateful sacrifice;

With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke, And deem each hour to musing given,

As Marmion left the Hold. A step upon the road to heaven.

It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze,

For, far upon Northumbrian seas, Yet him, whose heart is ill at case,

It freshly blew, and strong, Such peaceful solitudes displease :

Where, from high Whitby's cloister'd pile, He loves to drown his bosom's jar

Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle, Amid the elemental war:

It bore a bark along. And my black Palmer's choice had been

Upon the gale she stoop'd her side,
Some ruder and more savage scene,

And bounded o'er the swelling tide,
Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene. As she were dancing home;
There eagles scream from isle to shore;

The merry seamen laugh'd, to see
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;

Their gallant ship su lustily O'er the black waves incessant driven,

Furrow the green sea-foam. Dark mists infect the summer heaven;

Much joy'd they in their honour'd freight; Through the rude barriers of the lake,

For, on the deck, in chair of state, Away its hurrying waters break,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,

II.
Thunders the viewless stream below,

'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, Diving, as if condemn’d to lave

Like birds escaped to green-wood shades, Some demon's subterranean cave,

Their first flight from the cage, Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell,

How timid, and how curious too, Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.

For all to them was strange and new, And well that Palmer's form and mien

And all the common sights they view, Had suited with the stormy scene,

Their wonderment engage. Just on the edge, straining his ken

One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, To view the bottom of the den,

With many a benedicite; Where, deep deep down, and far within,

One at the rippling surge grew pale, Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;

And would for terror pray;

I MS.--" Spread through broad mist their snowy sail."
! MS.--" Till fancy wild had all her sway."
3 MS –“ Till from the task my brain I cleard."
4 See Appendix, Note Z.

5 See various ballads by Mr. Marriott, in the 4th vol. of the Border Minstrelsy.

6 See Appendix, Note 2 A.
7 See Appendix, Note 2 B

. Then shriek’d, because the sea-dog, nigh, His round black head, and sparkling eye,

Reard o'er the foaming spray; And one would still adjust her veil, Disorder'd by the summer gale, Perchance lest some more worldly eye Her dedicated charms might spy; Perchance, because such action graced Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist. Light was each simple bosom there, Save two, who ill might pleasure share, The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.

V. Nought say I here of Sister Clare, Save this, that she was young and fair; As yet a novice unprofess'd, Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. She was betroth'd to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. Her kinsmen bade her give her hand To one, who loved her for her land: Herself, almost heart-broken now, Was bent to take the vestal vow, And shroud, within Saint Hilda's gloom, Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom.

III. The Abbess was of noble blood, But early took the veil and hood, Ere upon life she cast a look, Or knew the world that she forsook. Fair too she was, and kind had been As she was fair, but ne'er had seen For her a timid lover sigh, Nor knew the influence of her eye. Love, to her ear, was but a name, Combined with vanity and shame ; Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all Bounded within the cloister wall : The deadliest sin her mind could reach, Was of monastic rule the breach

h; And her ambition's highest aim To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample dower,' To raise the convent's eastern tower ; For this, with carving rare and quaint, She deck'd the chapel of the saint, And gave the relic-shrine of cost, With ivory and gems emboss'd. The poor her Convent's bounty blest, The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

VI. She sate upon the galley's prow, And seem'd to mark the waves below; Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, To count them as they giided by. She saw them not—'twas seeming allFar other scene her thoughts recall,A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there; There saw she, where some careless hand O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, To hide it till the jackals come, To tear it from the scanty tomb. See what a woful look was given, As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

VII. Lovely, and gentle, and distress’dThese charms might tame the fiercest breast: Harpers have sung, and poets told, That he, in fury uncontroll’d, The shaggy monarch of the wood, Before a virgin, fair and good, Hath pacified his savage mood. But passions in the human frame, Oft put the lion's rage to shame: And jealousy, by dark intrigue, With sordid avarice in league, Had practised with their bowl and knife, Against the mourner's harmless life. This crime was charged 'gainst those who lay Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet grey.

IV. Black was her garb, her rigid rule Reform'd on Benedictine school; Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; Vigils, and penitence austere, Had early quench'd the light of youth, But gentle was the dame, in sooth; Though vain of her religious sway, She loved to see her maids obey, Yet nothing stern was she in cell, And the nuns loved their Abbess well. Sad was this voyage to the dame; Summond to Lindisfarne, she came, There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old, And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold A chapter of Saint Benedict, For inquisition stern and strict, On two apostates from the faith, And, if need were, to doom to death.

VIII. And now the vessel skirts the strand Of mountainous Northumberland; Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, And Tynemouth's priory and bay; They mark’d, amid her trees, the hall Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; They saw the Blythe and Wangbeck floods Rush to the sea through sounding woods;

1 MS.—“'Tuas she that gave her ample dower ...

'Tuas she, with carving rare and quaint, Who deck'd the chapel of the saint."

They pass'd the tower of Widderington,'

Yet still entire the Abbey stood, Mother of many a valiant son ;

Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. At Coquet-isle their beads they tell To the good Saint who own’d the cell;

XI. Then did the Alne attention claim,

Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name;

The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, And next, they cross'd themselves, to hear

And with the sea-wave and the wind, Tha whitening breakers sound so near,

Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar,

And made harmonious close; On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore;

Then, answering from the sandy shore, Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd they there, Half-drown'd amid the breakers' roar, King Ida's castle, huge and square,

According chorus rose : From its tall rock look grimly down,

Down to the haven of the ssle, And on the swelling ocean frown;

The monks and nuns in order fiie, Then from the coast they bore away,

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; And reach'd the Holy Island's bay.

Banner, and cross, and relics there,

To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; IX.

And, as they caught the sounds on air, The tide did now its flood-mark gain,

They echoed back the hymn. And girdled in the Saint's domain :

The islanders, in joyous mood, For, with the flow and ebb, its style

Rush'd emulously through the flood, Varies from continent to isle;

To hale the bark to land; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,

Conspicuous by her veil and hood, The pilgrims to the shrine find way;

Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, Twice every day, the waves efface

And bless'd them with her hand.
Of staves and sandall’d feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,

XII.
Higher and higher rose to view

Suppose we now the welcome said, The Castle with its battled walls,

Suppose the Convent banquet made: The ancient Monastery's halls,

All through the holy dome, A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,

Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, Placed on the margin of the isle.

Wherever vestal maid might pry,

Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye,
X.

The stranger sisters roam:
In Saxon strength that Abbey frown'd,

Till fell the evening damp with dew, With massive arches broad and round,

And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, That rose alternate, row and row,

For there, even summer night is chill. On ponderous columns, short and low,

Then, having stray'd and gazed their fill, Built ere the art was known,

They closed around the fire; By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,

And all, in turn, essay'd to paint The arcades of an alley'd walk

The rival merits of their saint, To emulate in stone.

A theme that ne'er can tire On the deep walls, the heathen Dane

A holy maid ; for, be it known, Had pour'd his impious rage in vain;

That their saint's honour is their own. And needful was such strength to these, Exposed to the tempestuous seas,

XIII. Scourged by the winds' eternal sway,

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, Open to rovers fierce as they,

How to their house three Barons bold Which could twelve hundred years withstand

Must menial service do ;: Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand.

While horns blow out a note of shame, Not but that portions of the pile,

And monks cry “ Fye upon your name! Rebuilded in a later style,

In wrath, for loss of silvan game, Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been ;

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.”Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen

“ This, on Ascension-day, each year, Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,

While labouring on our harbour-pier, And moulder'd in his niche the saint,

Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.”And rounded, with consuming power,

They told, how in their convent-cell The pointed angles of each tower;

A Saxon princess once did dwell,

" See the notes or Chery Chase.---Percy's Reliques.

2 See Appendix, Note 2

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