From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and
kings;

Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,

Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;

Here, where the fretted aisles prolong The distant notes of holy song,

As if some angel spoke agen,
'All peace on earth, good-will to
men;'

If ever from an English heart,
O, here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch'd to France's
yoke,

And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave,
Was barter'd by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour's peace he
spurn'd,

The sullied olive-branch return'd, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nail'd her colours to the mast! Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave A portion in this honour'd grave,

And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
With more than mortal powers en-
dow'd,

How high they soar'd above the crowd!

Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look'd up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were

known

The nam
ames of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er fram'd in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with
these,

The wine of life is on the lees;
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
Where-taming thought to human
pride! -

The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT's the mournful requiem sound,

And Fox's shall the notes rebound. The solemn echo seems to cry, 'Here let their discord with them die.

Speak not for those a separate doom, Whom Fate made Brothers in the

tomb;

But search the land of living men, Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

Rest, ardent Spirits! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise; Not even your Britain's groans can pierce

The leaden silence of your hearse; Then, O, how impotent and vain This grateful tributary strain!

clime,

Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The Bard you deign'd to praise, your deathless names has sung.

Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, My wilder'd fancy still beguile ! From this high theme how can I part, Ere half unloaded is my heart! For all the tears e'er sorrow drew And all the raptures fancy knew, And all the keener rush of blood, That throbs through bard in bard-like mood,

Were here a tribute mean and low, Though all their mingled streams

could flow

Woe, wonder, and sensation high,
In one spring-tide of ecstasy!
It will not be, it may not last,
The vision of enchantment's past :
Like frostwork in the morning ray,
The fancied fabric melts away;
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone,
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone;
And, lingering last, deception dear,
The choir's high sounds die on my

ear.

Now slow return the lonely down, The silent pastures bleak and brown, The farm begirt with copsewood wild, The gambols of each frolic child, Mixing their shrill cries with the tone

Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on.

Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son : Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day,

In plucking from yon fen the reed, And watch it floating down the Tweed;

Or idly list the shrilling lay,

With which the milkmaid cheers her

way,

As from the field, beneath her pail,
She trips it down the uneven dale:
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn,
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn
Though oft he stop in rustic fear,
Lest his old legends tire the ear
Of one, who, in his simple mind,
May boast of book-learn'd taste
refin'd.

But thou, my friend, can'st fitly tell, (For few have read romance so well,) How still the legendary lay

O'er poet's bosom holds its sway;
How on the ancient minstrel strain
Time lays his palsied hand in vain;
And how our hearts at doughty deeds,
By warriors wrought in steely weeds,
Still throb for fear and pity's sake;
As when the Champion of the Lake
Enters Morgana's fated house,
Or, in the Chapel Perilous
Despising spells and demons' force,
Holds converse with the unburied
corse;

Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move,

(Alas, that lawless was their love!)
He sought proud Tarquin in his den,
And freed full sixty knights; or when,
A sinful man, and unconfess'd,
He took the Sangreal's holy quest,
And, slumbering, saw the vision high,
He might not view with waking eye.

The mightiest chiefs of British song Scorn'd not such legends to prolong: They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream,

And mix in Milton's heavenly theme;
And Dryden, in immortal strain,
Had raised the Table Round again,
But that a ribald King and Court
Bade him toil on, to make them sport;
Demanded for their niggard pay,
Fit for their souls, a looser lay,
Licentious satire, song, and play;

The Necromancer's felon might;

marr'd the lofty line.

Partenopex's mystic love :

Hear, then, attentive to my lay,

we then,

Though dwindled sons of little men,

Essay to break a feeble lance

In the fair fields of old romance;
Or seek the moated castle's cell,
Where long through talisman and spell,
While tyrants rul'd, and damsels wept,
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept :
There sound the harpings of the North,
Till he awake and sally forth,
On venturous quest to prick again,
In all his arms, with all his train,
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume,
and scarf,

Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf,
And wizard with his wand of might,
And errant maid on palfrey white.
Around the Genius weave their spells,
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells;
Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd;
And Honour, with his spotless shield;
Attention, with fix'd eye; and Fear,
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear;
And gentle Courtesy; and Faith,
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or
death;

And Valour, lion-mettled lord, Leaning upon his own good sword.

Well has thy fair achievement shown, A worthy meed may thus be won; Ytene's oaks-beneath whose shade

Their theme the merry minstrels made,
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,
And that Red King, who, while of old,
Through Boldrewood the chase he led,
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled-
Ytene's oaks have heard again
Renew'd such legendary strain;
For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul,
That Amadis so famed in hall,

Canto First.

The Castle.

I.

DAY set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone : The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates, where captives

weep,

The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,

Seem'd forms of giant height: Their armour, as it caught the rays, Flash'd back again the western blaze, In lines of dazzling light.

II.

St. George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the Donjon Tower,

So heavily it hung.

The scouts had parted on their search,

The Castle gates were barr'd; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,

The Warder kept his guard; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering song.

III.

A distant trampling sound he hears; He looks abroad, and soon appears

O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears

Beneath a pennon gay;

A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Like lightning from a summer cloud,
Spurs on his mettled courser proud,

Before the dark array.
Beneath the sable palisade,
That clos'd the Castle barricade,

His bugle horn he blew;
The warder hasted from the wall,
And warn'd the Captain in the hall,
For well the blast he knew ;
And joyfully that knight did call,
To sewer, squire, and seneschal.

IV.

'Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, Bring pasties of the doc,

And quickly make the entrance free,
And bid my heralds ready be,
And every minstrel sound his glee,

And all our trumpets blow;
And, from the platform, spare ye not
To fire a noble salvo-shot;

Lord MARMION waits below!' Then to the Castle's lower ward

Sped forty yeomen tall,

The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, Rais'd the portcullis' ponderous

guard,

The lofty palisade unsparr'd And let the drawbridge fall.

V.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddlebow;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalworth knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been;
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to
ire;

Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.

His forehead, by his casque worn bare, His thick mustache, and curly hair, Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,

But more through toil than age; His square-turn'd joints, and strength of limb,

Show'd him no carpet knight so trim, But in close fight a champion grim, In camps a leader sage.

VI.

Well was he arm'd from head to heel,
In mail and plate of Milan steel;
But his strong helm, of mighty cost,
Was all with burnish'd gold emboss'd;
Amid the plumage of the crest,
A falcon hover'd on her nest,
With wings outspread, and forward
breast;

E'en such a falcon, on his shield,
Soar'd sable in an azure field:
The golden legend bore aright,
TTlho checks at me, to death is dight.
Blue was the charger's broider'd rein;
Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane;
The knightly housing's ample fold
Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold.

VII.

Behind him rode two gallant squires, Of noble name, and knightly sires; They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim; For well could each a war-horse tame, Could draw the bow, the sword could

sway,

And lightly bear the ring away; Nor less with courteous precepts stor'd,

Could dance in hall, and carve at board,

And frame love-ditties passing rare, And sing them to a lady fair.

VIII.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs, With halbert, bill, and battle-axe: