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ESTING 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.


Y 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 gazed at length in silence drear,
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

Thus whisper'd forth his mind :“Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight ? How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,

Whene'er the fire-brand's fickle light

Glances beneath his cowl !
Full on our Lord he sets his eye;
For his best palfrey, would not I

Endure that sullen scowl.” —


UT Marmion, as to chase the awe
Which thus had quell’d their hearts, who


The ever-varying fire-light show
That figure stern and face of woe,

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

We slumber by the fire.”


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O please you,” thus the youth re

join'd, “Our choicest minstrel's left behind. Ill may we hope to please your ear, Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear. The harp full deftly can he strike, And wake the lover's lute alike;

To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush,
No nightingale her love-lorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be,
Detains from us his melody,
Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture, as may,
To sing his favourite roundelay.”—


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 Susquehana'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!


Where shall the lober rest,

Whom the fates seber
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for eber?
Where, through grobes deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,
CU here early biolets die,
Under the willow.

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

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are labing ;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are bongbs wabing ;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for eber, Neber, again to wake,

Neber, 0 neber.

Elen loro, &c. Neber, 0 neber.


Where shall the traitor rest,

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

Ruin, and leave her ?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying, EN here mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

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

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-bearted ;
His warm blood the wolf sball lap,

Ere life be parted.

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