'For many a year wrought the wizard here,

In Cheviot's bosom low,

mine,

If thy heart be firm and bold.

'But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear

Thy recreant sinews know, The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, Thy nerves the hooded crow.'

The wanderer raised him undismay'd:
'My soul, by dangers steel'd,
Is stubborn as my border blade,
Which never knew to yield.

'And if thy power can speed the hour

Of vengeance on my foes, Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate To feed the hooded crows.'

The Brownie look'd him in the face,
And his colour fled with speed-
'I fear me,' quoth he, 'uneath it will be
To match thy word with deed.

'In ancient days when English bands Sore ravaged Scotland fair,

July's heat

Appear'd December's snow; But Cessford's Halbert never came

The wondrous cause to know.

For years before in Bowden aisle

The warrior's bones had lain; And after short while, by female guile, Sir Michael Scott was slain.

'But me and my brethren in this cell His mighty charms retain ; And he that can quell the powerful spell

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign.'

He led him through an iron door
And up a winding stair,
And in wild amaze did the wanderer
gaze

On the sight which open'd there.

Through the gloomy night flash'd ruddy light,

A thousand torches glow;

Was valiant Halbert Kerr.

O'er stalls in double row.

In every stall of that endless hall
Stood a steed in barbing bright;
At the foot of each steed, all arm'd
save the head,

Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight.

In each mail'd hand was a naked brand; As they lay on the black bull's hide, Each visage stern did upwards turn, With eyeballs fix'd and wide.

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long,

By every warrior hung; At each pommel there, for battle yare, A Jedwood axe was slung.

The casque hung near each cavalier;
The plumes waved mournfully
At every tread which the wanderer
made

Through the hall of gramarye.

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam

That glared the warriors on, Reflected light from armour bright, In noontide splendour shone.

And onward seen in lustre sheen,

Still lengthening on the sight, Through the boundless hall stood steeds in stall,

And by each lay a sable knight.

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread,

And moved nor limb nor tongue; Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff,

Nor hoof nor bridle rung.

No sounds through all the spacious hall The deadly still divide,

Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted roof

To the wanderer's step replied.

At length before his wondering eyes,
On an iron column borne,
Of antique shape, and giant size,
Appear'd a sword and horn.

'Now choose thee here,' quoth his leader,

'Thy venturous fortune try; Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale,

In yon brand and bugle lie.'

To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, But his soul did quiver and quail; The life-blood did start to his shuddering heart,

And left him wan and pale.

The brand he forsook, and the horn he took

To 'say a gentle sound; But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, That the Cheviot rock'd around. From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, The awful bugle rung; On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, To arms the warders sprung.

With clank and clang the cavern rang, The steeds did stamp and neigh; And loud was the yell as each warrior fell

Sterte up with hoop and cry.

'Woe, woe,' they cried, 'thou caitiff coward,

'That ever thou wert born! Why drew ye not the knightly sword Before ye blew the horn?'

The morning on the mountain shone,
And on the bloody ground,
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd
bone,

The mangled wretch was found.

And still beneath the cavern dread,
Among the glidders grey,
A shapeless stone with lichens spread
Marks where the wanderer lay.

AT FLODDEN.

A FRAGMENT.

(1799.)

Go sit old Cheviot's crest below,
And pensive mark the lingering snow
In all his scaurs abide,
And slow dissolving from the hill
In many a sightless, soundless rill,
Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide.

Fair shines the stream by bank and lea, As wimpling to the eastern sea

She seeks Till's sullen bed, Indenting deep the fatal plain, Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain,

Around their monarch bled.

And westward hills on hills you see,
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea
Heaves high her waves of foam,
Dark and snow-ridged from Cutsfeld's
wold

To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd,
Earth's mountain billows come.

A SONG OF VICTORY.
(1800.)

(From The House of Aspen.")

Joy to the victors! the sons of old Aspen!

Joy to the race of the battle and scar!

Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasping;

Generous in peace, and victorious

in war.

Honour acquiring,

Valour inspiring,

Bursting, resistless, through foemen they go:

War-axes wielding,

Broken ranks yielding,

Till from the battle proud Roderic retiring,

Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foc.

Joy to each warrior, true follower of Aspen!

Joy to the heroes that gain'd the bold day!

Health to our wounded, in agony gasping;

Peace to our brethren that fell in the fray!

Boldly this morning,

Roderic's power scorning, Well for their chieftain their blades did they wield:

Joy blest them dying,

As Maltingen flying,

Low laid his banners, our conquest adorning,

Their death-clouded eyeballs descried on the field!

Now to our home, the proud mansion of Aspen,

Bend we, gay victors, triumphant