Even now it scarcely seems a day Since first I tuned this idle lay; A task so often thrown aside, When leisure graver cares denied, That now November's dreary gale, Whose voice inspired my opening tale, That same November gale once more Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, Once more our naked birches sigh, And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen Have donned their wintry shrouds again, And mountain dark and flooded mead Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. Earlier than wont along the sky, Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly; The shepherd who, in summer sun, Had something of our envy won, As thou with pencil, I with pen, The features traced of hill and glen, He who, outstretched the livelong day, At ease among the heath-flowers lay, Viewed the light clouds with vacant look, Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, Or idly busied him to guide His angle o'er the lessened tide, At midnight now the snowy plain Finds sterner labor for the swain.

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When red hath set the beamless sun Through heavy vapors dank and dun, When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, Hears, half asleep, the rising storm Hurling the hail and sleeted rain Against the casement's tinkling pane; The sounds that drive wild deer and fox To shelter in the brake and rocks Are warnings which the shepherd ask To dismal and to dangerous task. Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, The blast may sink in mellowing rain; Till, dark above and white below, Decided drives the flaky snow, And forth the hardy swain must go. Long, with dejected look and whine, To leave the hearth his dogs repine; Whistling and cheering them to aid, Around his back he wreathes the plaid: His flock he gathers and he guides To open downs and mountain-sides, Where fiercest though the tempest blow, Least deeply lies the drift below. The blast that whistles o'er the fells Stiffens his locks to icicles;

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Oft he looks back while, streaming far, 80

His cottage window seems a star, -
Loses its feeble gleam, and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging
sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain:
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, His healthy fare, his rural cot, His summer couch by greenwood tree, His rustic kirn's loud revelry, His native hill-notes tuned on high To Marion of the blithesome eye, His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, And all Arcadia's golden creed?

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Changes not so with us, my Skene, Of human life the varying scene? Our youthful summer oft we see Dance by on wings of game and glee, While the dark storm reserves its rage 110 Against the winter of our age;

As he, the ancient chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy,
But Grecian fires and loud alarms
Called ancient Priam forth to arms.
Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief;
Whose joys are chastened by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou of late wert doomed to twine
Just when thy bridal hour was by-
The cypress with the myrtle tie.
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And blessed the union of his child,
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection's filial tear.
Nor did the actions next his end
Speak more the father than the friend:
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid

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The tribute to his minstrel's shade,
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator's heart was cold
Far may we search before we find

A heart so manly and so kind !
But not around his honored urn

Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;
The thousand eyes his care had dried
Pour at his name a bitter tide,
And frequent falls the grateful dew
For benefits the world ne'er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty's attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
'The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.'
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme,
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
'Thy father's friend forget thou not;'
And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave:
'T is little but 't is all I have.

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To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing nought, and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do, The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way,

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Ranged unconfined from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely laboring to portray The blighted oak's fantastic spray, I spelling o'er with much delight The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, ycleped the White. At either's feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous each other's motions viewed, And scarce suppressed 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 inerrily Under the blossomed bough than we.

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

And ladies tuned the lovely lay,

And he was held a laggard soul

Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.

Then he whose absence we deplore,

Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more, And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, And one whose name I may not say,

For not mimosa's tende: tree

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,
In merry chorus well combined,

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With laughter drowned 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 intervene
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

2IC

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

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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 changed;
Complaint was heard on every part
Of something disarranged.
Some clamored loud for armor lost;
Some brawled and wrangled with the host;
By Becket's bones,' cried one, 'I fear
That some false Scot has stolen my spear!'

IC

Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
Had reckoned with their Scottish host;
And, as the charge he cast and paid,
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,
With English cross and blazing brand,
Shall drive the devils from this land
To their infernal home;
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.'
The laughing host looked on the hire :
'Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com'st among the rest,
With Scottish broadsword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.'

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Here stayed their talk, for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
They journeyed all the morning-day.

IV

The greensward way was smooth and 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 closed till overhead A vaulted screen the branches made. '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 designed;

For Eustace much had pored 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, but spoke in vain, For Marmion answered nought again.

V

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,
In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far;
Each ready archer grasped his bow,
But by the flourish soon they know
They breathed 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 showed
A little woodland plain.
Just in that advantageous glade
The halting troop a line had made,
As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI

First came the trumpets, at whose clang So late the forest echoes rang;

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On prancing steeds they forward pressed,

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 quelled

When wildest its alarms.

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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 paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume.

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From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground,
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,
Embroidered 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 colors blazoned brave,
The Lion, which his title gave;

A train, which well beseemed his state,
But all unarmed, 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!

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Though inly chafed 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 spies
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.

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At length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assigned

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

Of the green vale of Tyne;
And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.

The towers in different ages rose,
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.

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Crichtoun though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep

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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.

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