Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,--forced back,-now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear: "By heaven and all its saints! I swear I will not see it lost! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare And to the fray he rode amain, The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Then Eustace mounted too,-yet stayed, When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight. Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: Perchance her reason stoops or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone.— The scattered van of England wheels ;She only said, as loud in air The tumult roared. "Is Wilton there?"-They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die.--" Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms where smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion!.. Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said, "By Saint George, he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head! Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! Tell him his squadrons up to bring.-- Let Stanley charge with spur of fire.-- To slake my dying thirst i” O Woman! in our hours of ease By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brows, A ministering angel thou! Scarce were the piteous accents said, When with the baron's casque the maid To the nigh streamlet ran: Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ?-behold her mark A little fountain cell, 66 Then, as remembrance rose, Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!" "Alas!" she said, "the while.- Lord Marmion started from the ground It may not be !-this dizzy trance- With fruitless labor Clara bound wound : By this, though deep the evening fell, Where Huntley, and where Home?→→ That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain While yet on Flodden side Afar the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils and bleeds and dies In vain the wish-for far away, Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. But as they left the darkening heath 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 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, To town and tower, to down and dale, Day dawns upon the mountain's side.- That, journeying far on foreign strand, May yet return again. 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 Short is my tale :--Fitz-Eustace' care A guerdon meet the spoiler had!- 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 prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. And thus their corpses were mista'en; Less easy task it were to show And broke her font of stone; Oft halts the stranger there. For thence may best his curious eye And shepherd boys repair To seek the water-flag and rush, When thou shalt find the little hill, Thou left'st the right path for the wrong, If every devious step thus trod Still led thee further from the road, I do not rhyme to that dull elf 'Twas Wilton mounted him again; And afterwards, for many a day, "Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" November, 1806-January, 1808. February 23, 1808. SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not break-, ing; Dream of battled fields no more, 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, How thy gallant steed lay dying. From The Lady of the Lake, 1810. Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then Echo his praise again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied: Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine ! O that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" From The Lady of the Lake. CORONACH HE is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Fleet foot on the correi, How sound is thy slumber! From The Lady of the Lake. HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble |