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Hast thou no elegiac verse
For Brunswick's venerable hearse?
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,
When valour bleeds for liberty!
O, hero of that glorious time,
When, with unrivall’d light sublime,-
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes-
The star of Brandenburgh arose !
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
Forever quench'd in Jena's stream.
Lamented chief !-It was not given,
To thee to change the doom of heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented chief !_not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatch'd the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill 'twas thine to try,
And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.
III had it seem'd thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms rest, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given ;
Thy lands, thy children's wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou couldst not heal!
On thee relenting heaven bestows
For honour'd life an honour'd close;
And when revolves, in time's sure change,
The hour of Germany's revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake.
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb.

“Or of the Red-Cross hero teach,
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach:
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The brand, the bridal, or the oar;
Alike to him the war that calls
Its votaries to the shatter'd walls
Which the grim Turks besmear'd with blood,
Against the invincible made good;
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,
When stubborn Russ, and metall’d Swede,
On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd;
Or that, where vengeance and affright
Howl'd round the father of the fight,
Who snatch'd, on Alexander's sand,
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.

“Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung, By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years rollid o'er ; When she, the bold enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame ! From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure ; Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at th' inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.”


Thy friendship thus thy judgment wrong

With praises not to me belonging,
In task more meet for mightiest powers,
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd
That secret power by all obey'd,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source conceal'd or undefined;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth,
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours;
Or whether fitlier term'd the sway
Of habit, form'd in early day?
Howe'er derived, its force confess'd
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky,
He seeks not, eager to inhale,
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whiten'd wall
Beside the dank and dull canal ?
He'll say, from youth he loved to see
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weather-beaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak;
Through England's laughing meads he goes,
And England's wealth around him fows;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in these gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,
And spires and forests intervene,
And the neat cottage peeps between ?
No, not for these will be exchange
His dark Lochaber's boundless range ;
Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake
Bennevis gray and Garry's lake.

Thus, while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charm'd me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime,
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings, roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along
To claim, perchance, heroic song;
Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale,
'To prompt of love a softer tale ;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed;
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.

3 н 2



I. The livelong day Lord Marmion rode. The mountain path the palmer show'd; By glen and streainlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill. They might not choose the lowland road, For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down; On wing of jet, from his repose In the deep heath, the black cock rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began, By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. The noon had long been past before They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, Before them, at the closing day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round survey'd ;
And still I thought that shatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power ;
And marvell'd, as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind,
Of forayers, who, with head long force,
Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.-
Methought that still with trump and clang
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seam'd with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of wo or mirth,
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old,
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their highland height,
The Scottish clans in headlong sway,
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While, stretch'd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war display'd;
And onward still the Scottish lion bore,
And still the scalier'd Southron ned before.

Still, with vain fondoess, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brighten'd at our evening fire;
From the thatch'd mansiod's gray-hair'd sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Show'd what in youth its glance had been ;
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-willd imp, a grandame's child;
But, half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, carest.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poet's well-conn'd task?
Nay, Erskine, vay,-on the wild hill
Let the wild heathbell flourish still;
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine:
Nay, my friend, nay,-since oft thy praise
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays,
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line,
Still kind, as is thy wout, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend;
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my tale !

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.
To Scotland's camp the lord was gone,
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,
So late, to unknown friends or foes.

On through the bamlet as they paced,
Before a porch, whose front was graced
With bush and Aaggon trimly placed,

Lord Marmion drew his reign :
The village inn seem'd large, though rude:
Its cheerful fire and hearty food

Might well relieve his train. Down from their seats the horsemen sprang, With jingling spurs the court-yard rang; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall; Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaze;
Might see, where in dark nook aloof,
The rafters of the sooly roof

Bore wealth of winter cheer;
Of sea fowl dried, and solands store,
And gammons of the tusky boar,

And savoury haunch of deer.
The chimney arch projected wide;
Above, around it, and beside,

Were tools for housewifes' hand: Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray,

The buckler, lance, and brand. Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate,

And view'd, around the blazing hearth,
His followers mix in noisy mirth,
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,
From ancient vessels ranged aside,
Full actively their host supplied.

IV. Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest ; And oft Lord Marmion deign’d to aid, Apd mingle in the mirth they made : For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, train’d in camps, he knew the art To win the soldier's bardy heart. They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy, Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a ladye's bower:Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear.
The harp full destly can he strike,
And wake the lover's lute alike;
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush
Sings livelier from a springtide bush;
No nightingale her lovelorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Wo to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfern.
Now must I venture, as I may,
To sing his favourite roundelay.”

V. Resting upon his pilgrim staff,

Right opposite the palmer stood: His thin dark visage seen but half,

Half hidden by his hood. Still fix'd on Marmion was his look, Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,

Strove by a frown to quell; But not for that, though more than once Full met their stern encountering glance,

The palmer's visage fell.

IX. A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On lowland plains, the ripen'd ear. Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, As it came soften'd up the hill, And deem'd it the lament of men Who languish'd for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound, On Susquehannah's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake, Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake, Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again!


By fits less frequent from the crowd
Was heard the burst of laughter loud;
For still as squire and archer stared
On that dark face and matted beard,

Their glee and game declined.
All gaze at length in silence drear,
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear
Some yeomen, wondering in his fcar,

Thus whisper'd forth his mind :
“ Saint Mary! saw 'st thou ere such sight?
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light

Glances beneath his cowl! Full on our lord he sets his cye; For his best palfray, would not I

Endure that sullen scowl.”

Where shall the lover rest,

Whoin the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die,

Under the willow.


Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving; There while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving: There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever, Never again to wake,

Never, O never.

VII. But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who saw The ever-varying firelight show That figure stern and face of wo,

Now calld upon a squire:“ Fitz Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away?

We slumber by the fire.”


Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never.

VIII. “ 80 please you,” thus the youth rejoin'd, « Our choicest minstrel's left behind.

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

CHORUS. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

For either in the tone,
Or something in the palmer's look,
So full upon his conscience strook,

That answer he found none.
Thus oft it haps, that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,

A feather daunts the brave, A fool's wise speech confounds the wise, And proudest princes veil their eyes

Before their meanest slave.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted, His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ; Blessing shall hallow it,

Never, 0 never.


Eleu loro, &c. Never, 0 never.

It ceased, the melancholy sound,
And silence sunk on all around.
The air was sad; but sadder still

It fell on Marmion's ear,
And plain'd as if disgrace and ill,

And shameful death were near.
He drew his mantle past his face,

Between it and the band,
And rested with his head a space,

Reclining on his hand.
His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,
That, could their import have been seen,
The meanest groom in all the hall,
That e'er tied courser to a stall,
Would scarce have wish'd to be their prey,
For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XV. Well might he falter !—by his aid Was Constance Beverly betray'd; Not that he augur'd of the doom, Which on the living closed the tomb: But, tired to hear the desperate maid Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid: And wroth, because, in wild despair, She practised on the life of Clare; Its fugitive the church he gave, Though not a victim, but a slave ; And deem'd restraint in convent strange Would hide her wrongs and her revenge. Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, Held Romish thunders idle fear; Secure his pardon he might hold, For some slight mulct of penance gold. Thus judging, he gave secret way, When the stern priests surprised their prey ; His train but deem'd the favourite page Was left behind, to spare his age; Or other is they decm'd, none dared To mutter what he thought and heard : Wo to the vassal, who durst pry Into Lord Marmion's privacy!

XIII. High minds, of oative pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse! Fear, for their scourge, mean villains haveThou art the torturer of the brave! Yet fatal strength they boast, to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel. E'en while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil conflict in the heart. For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,

“Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister's soul?

Say, what may this portend !"Then first the palmer silence broke (The livelong day he had not spoke,)

« The death of a dear friend."

XVI. His conscience slept-be deem'd her well, And safe secured in distant cell; But, waken’d by her favourite Jay, And that strange palmer's boding say, That fell so ominous and drear, Full on the object of his fear, To aid remorse's venom'd throes, Dark tales of convent vengeance rose ; And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd All lovely on his soul return'd; Lovely as when, at treacherous call, She left her convent's peaceful wall, Crimson'd with shame, with terror muta, Dreading alike escape, pursuit, Till love, victorious o'er alarms, Hid fears and blushes in his arms.

XIV. Marmion, whose steady heart and eye Ne'er changed in worst extremity; Marınion, whose soul could scantly brook, E'en from his king a haughty look ; Whose accent of command controllid, In camps, the boldest of the boldThought, look, and utterance, fail'd him now, Fallen was his glance, and flush'd his brow;

XVII. “Alas!” he thought, “how changed that mien ! How changed these timid looks have been, Since years of guilt, and of disguise, Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes; No more of virgin terror speaks The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, Frenzy for joy, for grief, despair ; And I the cause--for whom were given Her peace on earth, her bopes in heaven!

“ The king Lord Gifford's castle sought,
Deep labouring with uncertain thought
Even then he muster'd all his host,
To meet upon the western coast;
For Norse and Danish galleys plied
Their oar: within the Frith of Clyde.
There floated Haco's banger trim,
Above Norweyan warriors grim,
Savage of heart, and large of limb;
Threatening both continent and isle,
Bute, Arran, Cunningham, and Kyle.
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
Heard Alexander's bugle sound,
And tarried not his garb to change,
But, in his wizard habit strange,
Came forth,--a quaint and fearful sight!
His mantle lined with foxskins white;
His high and wrinkled forehead bore
A pointed cap, such as of yore
Clerks say that Pharoah's magi wore ;
His shoes were mark'd with cross and spell,
Upon his breast a pentacle;

of virgin parchment thin,
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin,
Bore many a planetary sign,
Combust, and retrogade, and trine;
And in his hand he held prepared,
A naked sword without a guard.

His zone,


“ Would,” thought he, as the picture grows,
I on its stalk had left the rose !
O why should man's success remove
The very charms that wake his love!
Her convent's peaceful solitude
Is now a prison harsh and rude ;
And, pent within the narrow cell,
How will her spirit chafe and swell!
Her brook the stern monastic laws!
The penance how—and I the cause !
Vigil and scourge--perchance, e'en worse !"-
And twice he rose to cry “ to horse!”
And twice his sovereign's mandate came,
Like damp upon a kindling fame;
And twice he thought, “ Gave I not charge
She should be safe, though not at large ?
They durst not, for their island, shred
One golden ringlet from her head.”-

While thus in Marmion's bosom strove
Repentance and reviving love,
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway
I've seen Loch Vennachar obey,
Their host the palmer's speech had heard,
And, talkative, took up the word:-

" Ay, reverend pilgrim, you, who stray
From Scotland's simple land away,

To visit realms afar,
Full often learn the art to know
Of future weal, or future wo,

By word, or sign, or star.
Yet might a knight his fortune hear,
If, knight like, he despises fear,
Not far from hence ;-if fathers old
Aright our hamlet legend told.”_
These broken words the menials move
(For marvels still the vulgar love ;)
And, Marmion giving license cold,
His tale the host thus gladly told.


THE HOST'S TALE. “A clerk could tell what years have flown Since Alexander fill'd our throne (Third monarch of that warlike name,) And eke the time when here he came To seek Sir Ilugo, then our lord : A braver never drew a sword; A wiser never, at the hour Of midnight, spoke the word of power; The same, whom ancient records call The founder of the Goblin Hall. I would, sir knight, your longer stay Gave you that cayern to survey. Of lofty roof, and ample size, Beneath the castle deep it lies : To hew the living rock profound, The floor to pave, the arch to round, There never toil'd a mortal arm, It all was wrought by word and charm; And I have heard my grandsire say, That the wild clainour and affray Of those dread artisans of hell, Who labour'd under Hugo's spell, Sounded as loud as ocean's war, Among the caverns of Dunbar.

“ Dire dealings with the fiendish race
Had mark'd strange lines upon his face ;
Vigil and fast had worn him grim;
His eyesight dazzled seem'd, and dim,
As one unused to upper day;
E'en his own menials with dismay
Beheld, sir knight, the griesly sire,
In this unwonted wild attire ;
Unwonted,- for traditions run,
He seldom thus beheld the sun.

I know,' he said, --his voice was hoarse,
And broken seem'd its hollow force,
"I know the cause, although untold,
Why the king seeks his vassal's hold:
Vainly from me my liege would know
His kingdom's future weal or wo;
But yet is strong his arm and heart,
His courage may do more than art.

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XXII. “Of middle air the demons proud, Who ride upon the racking cloud, Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, The issue of events afar, But still their sullen aid withhold, Save when by mightier force controll'd. Such late 1 summond to my hall; And though so potent was the call, That scarce the deepest nook of hell I deem'd a refuge from the spell; Yet, obstinate in silence still, The haughty demon mocks my skill. But thou,

--who little knowest thy might, As born upon that blessed night,

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