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. 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. 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 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. HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES! HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honored and blessed be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back again. "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, 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 46 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 sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.- That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! T'is 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, I like 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. A maiden on the castle wall "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, "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, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood 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; Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, I would I were with Edmund there, "With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold dragoon, 66 That lists the tuck of drum." I list no more the tuck of drum, Yet mickle must the maiden dare "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die : The fiend whose lantern lights the mead And when I'm with my comrades met And you may gather garlands there From Rokeby, 1813. |