Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell I love the license all too well, In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 25 To raise the desultory song?

Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, Some transient fit of lofty rhyme To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse For many an error of the muse, 30 Oft hast thou said, 'If, still misspent, Thine hours to poetry are lent, Go, and to tame thy wandering course, Quaff from the fountain at the source; Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 35 Immortal laurels ever bloom: Instructive of the feebler bard, Still from the grave their voice is heard; From them, and from the paths they show'd, Choose honour'd guide and practised road; 40 Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days.

'Or deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for cla.s.sic rhyme?

Hast thou no elegiac verse 45 For Brunswick's venerable hea.r.s.e?

What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, When valour bleeds for liberty?-- Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivall'd light sublime,-- 50 Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Though banded Europe stood her foes-- The star of Brandenburgh arose!

Thou couldst not live to see her beam 55 For ever quench'd in Jena's stream.

Lamented Chief!--it was not given To thee to change the doom of Heaven, And crush that dragon in its birth, Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60 Lamented Chief!--not thine the power, To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And s.n.a.t.c.h'd the spear, but left the shield!

Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 65 And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.

Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; 70 Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, And witness woes thou could'st not heal!

On thee relenting Heaven bestows For honour'd life an honour'd close; And when revolves, in time's sure change, 75 The hour of Germany's revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK'S tomb, 80

'Or of the Red-Cross hero teach Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the sh.o.r.e, The brand, the bridle, or the oar: Alike to him the war that calls 85 Its votaries to the shatter'd walls, Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, 90 When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd; Or that, where Vengeance and Affright Howl'd round the father of the fight, Who s.n.a.t.c.h'd, on Alexandria's sand, 95 The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.

'Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp, which silent hung 100 By silver Avon's holy sh.o.r.e, Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame!

From the pale willow s.n.a.t.c.h'd the treasure, 105 And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again.' 110

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.

But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 115 That secret power by all obey'd, Which warps not less the pa.s.sive mind, Its source conceal'd or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120 One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier term'd the sway Of habit, form'd in early day?

Howe'er derived, its force confest 125 Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain.

Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 130 He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull ca.n.a.l?

He'll say, from youth he loved to see 135 The white sail gliding by the tree.

Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; 140 Through England's laughing meads he goes, And England's wealth around him flows; Ask, if it would content him well, At ease in those gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 145 And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between?

No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range; Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 150 Bennevis grey, and Carry's lake.

Thus while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime Return the thoughts of early time; 155 And feelings, roused in life's first day, Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.

Then rise those crags, that mountain tower Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour.

Though no broad river swept along, 160 To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, To prompt of love a softer tale; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; 165 Yet was poetic impulse given, By the green hill and clear blue heaven.

It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliff's were rudely piled; But ever and anon between 170 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honey-suckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 175 I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all its round survey'd; And still I thought that shatter'd tower The mightiest work of human power; And marvell'd as the aged hind 180 With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185 And, home returning, fill'd the hall With revel, wa.s.sel-rout, and brawl.

Methought that still with trump and clang, The gateway's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seam'd with scars, 190 Glared through the window's rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 195 Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200 Had swept the scarlet ranks away.

While stretch'd at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and sh.e.l.ls, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war display'd; 205 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brighten'd at our evening fire! 210 From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, Show'd what in youth its glance had been; 215 Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable Priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint 220 Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 225 But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caress'd.

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The cla.s.sic poet's well-conn'd task?

Nay, Erskine, nay--On the wild hill 230 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay--Since oft thy praise 235 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; Since oft thy judgment could refine My flatten'd thought, or c.u.mbrous line; Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240 Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!

CANTO THIRD.

THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

I.

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer show'd By glen and streamlet winded still, Where stunted birches hid the rill.

They might not choose the lowland road, 5 For the Merse forayers were abroad, Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way.

Oft on the trampling band, from crown Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down; 10 On wing of jet, from his repose In the deep heath, the black-c.o.c.k rose; Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, Nor waited for the bending bow; And when the stony path began, 15 By which the naked peak they wan, Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.

The noon had long been pa.s.s'd before They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; Thence winding down the northern way, 20 Before them, at the close of day, Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay.

II.

No summons calls them to the tower, To spend the hospitable hour.

To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone; 25 His cautious dame, in bower alone, Dreaded her castle to unclose, So late, to unknown friends or foes.

On through the hamlet as they paced, Before a porch, whose front was graced 30 With bush and flagon trimly placed, Lord Marmion drew his rein: The village inn seem'd large, though rude; Its cheerful fire and hearty food Might well relieve his train. 35 Down from their seats the hors.e.m.e.n sprung, With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; They bind their horses to the stall, For forage, food, and firing call, And various clamour fills the hall: 40 Weighing the labour with the cost, Toils everywhere the bustling host.

III

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, Through the rude hostel might you gaze; Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 45 The rafters of the sooty roof Bore wealth of winter cheer; Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, And gammons of the tusky boar, And savoury haunch of deer. 50 The chimney arch projected wide; Above, around it, and beside, Were tools for housewives' hand; Nor wanted, in that martial day, The implements of Scottish fray, 55 The buckler, lance, and brand.

Beneath its shade, the place of state, On oaken settle Marmion sate, And view'd around the blazing hearth.

His followers mix in noisy mirth; 60 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, From ancient vessels ranged aside, Full actively their host supplied.

IV.

Theirs was the glee of martial breast, And laughter theirs at little jest; 65 And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, And mingle in the mirth they made; For though, with men of high degree, The proudest of the proud was he, Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 70 To win the soldier's hardy heart.

They love a captain to obey, Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; With open hand, and brow as free, Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 75 Ever the first to scale a tower, As venturous in a lady's bower:-- Such buxom chief shall lead his host From India's fires to Zembla's frost.

V.

Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 80 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, 85 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.

VI.

By fits less frequent from the crowd 90 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, 95 Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, Thus whispered forth his mind:-- 'Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight?

How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100 Whene'er the firebrand'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.' 105

VII.

But Marmion, as to chase the awe Which thus had quell'd their hearts, who saw The ever-varying fire-light show That figure stern and face of woe, Now call'd upon a squire:-- 110 'Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, To speed the lingering night away?

We slumber by the fire.'--

VIII.

'So please you,' thus the youth rejoin'd, 'Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 115 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 120 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, 125 Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern, Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

Now must I venture as I may, To sing his favourite roundelay.'