true,

Not anxious to find aught to do-
The wild unbounded hills we rang'd,
While oft our talk its topic chang'd,
And, desultory as our way,
Rang'd, unconfin'd, 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;
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, 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 wc.

And blithesome nights, too, have
been ours,

When Winter stript the summer's bowers.

Careless we heard, what now I hear,
The wild blast sighing deep and drear,
When fires were bright, and lamps
beam'd gay,

And ladies tun'd the lovely lay;
And he was held a laggard soul,
Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling
bowl.

Then he, whose absence we deplore,
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd, bewail'd the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae1,
And one whose name I may not say2,-

1 Sir William Rae of St. Catharine's, Bart., subsequently Lord Advocate of Scotland.

2 Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Bart.

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,

In merry chorus well combin'd,
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 inter-

vene

Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:
For, like mad Tom's, 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.

Canto Fourth. 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 chang'd; Complaint was heard on every part,

Of something disarrang'd. Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host;

'By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear,

That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'

III.

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the

cost

Had reckon'd with their Scottish host;

squire,

Found his steed wet with sweat and

mire;

Although the rated horse-boy sware, Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair.

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,

thunder

Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder

Shall drive the devils from this land,
To their infernal home:
For in this haunted den, I trow,

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?

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

IV.

II.

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

Nor wholly understood,

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 clos'd, till over head

suppress'd,

He knew Lord Marmion's mood.
Him, ere he issu'd forth, he sought,
And found deep plung'd 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.

'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 por'd
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome

Of Caxton, or De Worde. Therefore he spoke,-butspoke 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 breath'd 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 Issu'd a gallant train.

VI.

First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang;
On prancing steeds they forward
press'd,

With scarlet mantle, azure vest;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon
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
held,

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 pac'd;
His cap of maintenance was grac'd
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!

VIII.

Down from his horse did Marmion spring,

Soon as he saw the Lion-King;
For well the stately Baron knew
To him such courtesy was due,
Whom royal James himself had
crown'd,

And on his temples plac'd 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 chaf'd 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 spics 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 Castle crowns the

bank;

For there the Lion's care assign'd

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

Of the green vale of Tyne:

The towers in different ages rose; Their various architecture shows

The builders' various hands; A mighty mass, that could oppose, When deadliest hatred fir'd its foes, 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 lov'd resort. Oft have I trac'd, 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 defac'd Thy lordly gallery fair;

Nor yet the stony cord unbrac'd, Whose twisted knots, with roses lac'd,

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, still may we
explore,

Where oft whilom were captives

pent,

The darkness of thy Massy More; Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

XII.

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd,

creep,

From pool to eddy, dark and deep, Where alders moist, and willows weep, You hear her streams repine.

But yet 'twas melancholy state Received him at the outer gate; For none were in the Castle then, But women, boys, or aged men.

F

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.
Long may his Lady look in vain!
She ne'er shall see his gallant train,
Come sweeping back through Crich-
toun-Dean.

'Twas a brave race, before the nam Of hated Bothwell stain'd their fame.

XIII.

And here two days did Marmion rest, With every rite that honour claims Attended as the King's own guest :

Such the command of Royal James, Who marshall'd then his land's array, Upon the Borough-moor that lay. Perchance he would not foeman's eye Upon his gathering host should pry, Till full prepar'd was every band To march against the English land. Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit

Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit; And, in his turn, he knew to prize Lord Marmion's powerful mind, and wise,

Train'd in the lore of Rome and

Greece,

And policies of war and peace.

XIV.

It chanc'd, as fell the second night,
That on the battlements they walk'd,
And, by the slowly fading light,
Of varying topics talk'd;
And, unaware, the Herald-bard
Said Marmion might his toil have
spar'd,

In travelling so far;

In vain to James had counsel given

Against the English war; And, closer question'd, thus he told A tale which chronicles of old In Scottish story have enroll'd :

xv.

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE. 'Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling, In Scotland, far beyond compare Linlithgow is excelling; And in its park in jovial June, How sweet the merry linnet's tune,

How blithe the blackbird's lay! The wild-buck bells from ferny brake, The coot dives merry on the lake; The saddest heart might pleasure take To see all nature gay.

But June is to our sovereign dear
The heaviest month in all the year:
Too well his cause of grief you know,
June saw his father's overthrow.
Woe to the traitors, who could bring
The princely boy against his King!
Still in his conscience burns the sting.
In offices as strict as Lent,
King James's June is ever spent.

XVI.

'When last this ruthful month was

come

And in Linlithgow's holy dome

The King, as wont, was praying; While, for his royal father's soul, The chanters sung, the bells did toll,

The Bishop mass was sayingFor now the year brought round again The day the luckless king was slainIn Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt,

With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt,

And eyes with sorrow streaming; Around him in their stalls of state, The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate,

Their banners o'er them beaming.