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XXIV.

To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,

Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd.
He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;
Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the stream or lake.
This were a guide o'er moor and dale;
But, when our John hath quaff'd his ale,
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,1
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes."-"

XXV.

"Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion, "Full loth were I, that Friar John, That venerable man, for me, Were placed in fear or jeopardy. If this same Palmer will me lead

From hence to Holy-Rood, Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, Instead of cockle-shell, or bead, With angels fair and good. I love such holy ramblers; still They know to charm a weary hill, With song, romance, or lay: Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, Some lying legend, at the least, They bring to cheer the way."—

XXVI.

"Ah! noble sir," young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid,

"This man knows much, perchance e'en more

Than he could learn by holy lore.

Still to himself he's muttering,

And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listen'd at his cell;

Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again.

I cannot tell-I like it not-
Friar John hath told us it is wrote,

No conscience clear, and void of wrong,
Can rest awake, and pray so long.

1 MS.-" And with metheglin warm'd his nose, As little as," &c.

?" This poem has faults of too great magnitude to be passed without notice. There is a debasing lowness and vulgarity in some passages, which we think must be offensive to every reader of delicacy, and which are not, for the most part, redeemed by any vigour or picturesque effect. The venison pasties, we think, are of this description; and this commemoration of Sir Hugh Heron's troopers, who

Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale,' &c. The long account of Friar John, though not without merit,

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This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company.
So please you, gentle youth, to call
This Palmer4 to the Castle-hall."
The summon'd Palmer came in place;
His sable cowl o'erhung his face;
In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red,

On his broad shoulders wrought;
The scallop shell his cap did deck;
The crucifix around his neck

Was from Loretto brought; His sandals were with travel tore, Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore; The faded palm-branch in his hand Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land.

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As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;
His cheek was sunk, alas the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,

His eye look'd haggard wild:
Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, waut, or woe,

Soon change the form that best we know-
For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard toil can roughen form and face,7

And want can quench the eye's bright grace,

Nor does old age a wrinkle trace

More deeply than despair.

offends in the same sort, nor can we easily conceive, how any one could venture, in a serious poem, to speak of

the wind that blows,

And warms itself against his nose.""-JEFFREY.] 4 Ibid. Note S.

3 See Appendix, Note R.

5 "The first presentment of the mysterious Palmer is laud able."-JEFFREY.

6 MS.-"And near Lord Marmion took his seat."

7 MS.-"Hard toil can alter form and face,
roughen youthful grace,
And want can quench
the eyes of grace.
dim

Happy whom none of these befall,' But this poor Palmer knew them all.

XXIX.

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask;
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
"But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair St. Andrews bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,
Sung to the billows' sound;3
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,
And the crazed brain restore: 4
Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!"

XXX.

And now the midnight draught of sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The Captain pledged his noble guest,
The cup went through among the rest,"
Who drain'd it merrily;
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by,
Though Selby press'd him courteously.
This was a sign the feast was o'er;
It hush'd the merry wassel roar,"

The minstrels ceased to sound. Soon in the castle nought was heard, But the slow footstep of the guard, Pacing his sober round.

XXXI.

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose:
And first the chapel doors unclose;
Then, after morning rites were done,
(A hasty mass from Friar John,7)

And knight and squire had broke their fast,
On rich substantial repast,

1 MS.-"Happy whom none such woes befall." MS." So he would ride with morning tide." 3 See Appendix, Note T. 4 Ibid. Note U. 5 MS.-"The cup pass'd round among the rest." 6 MS." Soon died the merry wassel roar." 7 "In Catholic countries, in order to reconcile the pleasures of the great with the observances of religion, it was common, when a party was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass, abridged and maimed of its rites, called a hunting-mass, the brevity of which was designed to correspond with the impatience of the audience."-Note to "The Abbot." New Edit. 8 MS.-"Slow they roll'd forth upon the air." See Appendix, Note V.

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse:
Then came the stirrup-cup in course:
Between the Baron and his host,
No point of courtesy was lost;

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the Captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd
That noble train, their Lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call;
Thunder'd the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar;
Till they roll'd forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.

Marmion.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

TO THE

REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. THE scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourish'd once a forest fair,9 When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind. Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly spears Have fenced him for three hundred years, While fell around his green compeersYon lonely Thorn, would he could tell The changes of his parent dell,10 Since he, so grey and stubborn now, Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; Would he could tell how deep the shade A thousand mingled branches made; How broad the shadows of the oak, How clung the rowan" to the rock, And through the foliage show'd his head, With narrow leaves and berries red;

10"The second epistle opens again with 'chance and change;' but it cannot be denied that the mode in which it is introduced is new and poetical. The comparison of Ettrick Forest, now open and naked, with the state in which it once was -covered with wood, the favourite resort of the royal hunt, and the refuge of daring outlaws-leads the poet to imagine an ancient thorn gifted with the powers of reason, and relating the various scenes which it has witnessed during a period of three hundred years. A melancholy train of fancy is naturally encouraged by the idea."-Monthly Review. 11 Mountain-ash.

MS.-"How broad the ash his shadows flung,
How to the rock the rowan clung."

What pines on every mountain sprung,
O'er every dell what birches hung,
In every breeze what aspens shook,
What alders shaded every brook!

"Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, "The mighty stag at noon-tide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop, against the moon to howl; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by, through gay green-wood. Then oft, from Newark's' riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power: A thousand vassals muster'd round,

With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;
And I might see the youth intent,
Guard every pass with crossbow bent;
And through the brake the rangers stalk,
And falc'ners hold the ready hawk;
And foresters, in green-wood trim,
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,
Attentive, as the bratchet's bay
From the dark covert drove the prey,
To slip them as he broke away.
The startled quarry bounds amain,
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;
Whistles the arrow from the bow,
Answers the harquebuss below;
While all the rocking hills reply,
To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry,
And bugles ringing lightsomely."

Of such proud huntings, many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.3
But not more blithe that silvan court,
Than we have been at humbler sport;
Though small our pomp, and mean our
game,

Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.
Remember'st thou my greyhounds true?
O'er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang,
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.

Nor dull, between each merry chase, Pass'd by the intermitted space; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic and in Gothic lore: We mark'd each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between; Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, But had its legend or its song. All silent now-for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!4 No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun, And while his honest heart glows warm, At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks, "The Chieftain of the Hills!" No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, Fair as the eives whom Janet saw By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh; No youthful Baron 's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon: 5 And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace;" Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, To show our earth the charms of Heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. No more the widow's deafen'd ear Grows quick that lady's step to hear: At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot; Pensive she turns her humming wheel, Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal; Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, The gentle hand by which they're fed.

From Yair, which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil,— Her long-descended lord? is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth.

See Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel. 2 Slowhound.

The Tale of the Outlaw Murray, who held out Newark Castle and Ettrick Forest against the King, may be found in the Border Minstrelsy, vol. i. In the Macfarlane MS., among other causes of James the Fifth's charter to the burgh of Selkirk, is mentioned, that the citizens assisted him to suppress this dangerous outlaw.

A seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on the Yarrow, in Ettrick Forest. See Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel.

5 Mr. Marriott was governor to the young nobleman here alluded to, George Henry, Lord Scott, son to Charles, Earl of Dalkeith, (afterwards Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry,) and who died early in 1808.-See Life of Scott, vol. iii. pp. 59-61.

6 The four next lines on Harriet, Countess of Dalkeith, af

terwards Duchess of Buccleuch, were not in the original MS. 7 The late Alexander Pringle, Esq., of Whytbank-whose beautiful seat of the Yair stands on the Tweed, about two

miles below Ash stiel, the then residence of the poet

8 The sons of dr. 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.

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 Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Fach 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.

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 hills
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.

If age had tamed the passions' strife,7
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;9

Cn which no sunbeam ever shines

(So superstition's creed divines)——

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

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able Walton."-Monthly Review.

8" And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.”
Il Penseroso.

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

Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore;
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,1
And ever stoop again, to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire;
There ponder o'er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,2
And, in the bittern's distant shriek,
1 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,3
And smiled to think that I had fear'd.

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, (Though but escape from fortune's strife,) Something most matchless good and wise, A great and grateful sacrifice;

And deem each hour to musing given,
A step upon the road to heaven.

Yet him, whose heart is ill at case,
Such peaceful solitudes displease:
He loves to drown his bosom's jar

Amid the elemental war:

And my black Palmer's choice had been

Some ruder and more savage scene,

Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene.1

There eagles scream from isle to shore;
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O'er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemn'd to lave
Some demon's subterranean cave,
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.
And well that Palmer's form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;

1 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 clear'd." See Appendix, Note Z.

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