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Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep

To break the Scottish circle deep

That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,

Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like
knight,

As fearlessly and well,

Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves from wasted lands
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their king, their lords, their mightiest
low,

They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow,

Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong; Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear

Of Flodden's fatal field. Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear And broken was her shield!

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He saw the wreck his rashness wrought: Reckless of life, he desperate fought,

And fell on Flodden plain :
And well in death his trusty brand,
Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the monarch slain.
But oh! how changed since yon blithe
night!-

Gladly I turn me from the sight
Unto my tale again.

Short is my tale :-Fitz-Eustace' care
A pierced and mangled body bare
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile;
And there, beneath the southern aisle,
A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear.-
Now vainly for its site you look;
'T was levelled when fanatic Brook
The fair cathedral stormed and took.
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint
Chad,

A guerdon meet the spoiler had!—
There erst was martial Marmion found
His feet upon a couchant hound,

His hands to heaven upraised; And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair. And priests for Marmion breathed the

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If every devious step thus trod
Still led thee further from the road,
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
Du noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say. He died a gallant knight,
With sword in hand, for England's
right."

do not rhyme to that dull elf Who cannot image to himself Chat all through Flodden's dismal night Wilton was foremost in the fight, fhat when brave Surrey's steed was slain

Twas Wilton mounted him again; Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: Jnnamed by Holinshed or Hall, He was the living soul of all; Chat, after fight, his faith made plain, He won his rank and lands again, And charged his old paternal shield, With bearings won on Flodden Field. for sing I to that simple maid fo whom it must in terms be said Chat king and kinsmen did agree o bless fair Clara's constancy; Who cannot, unless I relate. Paint to her mind the bridal's state,hat Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, More. Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; hat bluff King Hal the curtain drew, And Katherine's hand the stocking threw ;

And afterwards, for many a day, hat it was held enough to say, a blessing to a wedded pair,

Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" November, 1806--January, 1808. February 23, 1808.

OLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER

OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not break

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Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,

Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying:
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

From The Lady of the Lake, 1810.

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Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string!

Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;

And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

A wandering witch-note of the distant spell-

And now, 't is silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well!

Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake.

BRIGNALL BANKS

During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote to Morritt: There are two or three Songs, and particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, which I trust you will like-because, entre nous, Thike them myself One of them is a little dashing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-aDale."

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,

A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:

"O. Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen."

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with

me.

To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read,

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As read full well you may,
Then to the green wood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May."
Yet sung she, Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund 'there
Than reign our English queen.

"I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn

To keep the king's greenwood." "A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 't is at peep of light;

His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!

With burnished brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold dragoon,

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That lists the tuck of drum."

"I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;

But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
And O, though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare
Would reign my Queen of May!

"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die;

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen."

From Rokeby, 1813.

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THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW

HILL

"It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth, namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west. are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's hand." Lockhart's Life of Scott, Chapter 39.

THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore,

Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

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WHEN Israel of the Lord beloved

Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands

Returned the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen,

And Zion's daughters poured their lays With priest's and warrior's voice be tween.

No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone :
Our fathers would not know Thy ways.
And Thou hast left them to their own.

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