Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan.

ROSABELLE.

[Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto vi.]

XXIII.

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle:

-"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white :

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

"Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye

gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?”

"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

""Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.".

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam.

1 Inch, an island.

When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead,

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay,

Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away.

HUSH'D is the harp-the Minstrel
gone.

And did he wander forth alone?
Alone, in indigence and age,
To linger out his pilgrimage?

No; close beneath proud Newark's tower,

Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower;
A simple hut; but there was seen
The little garden hedged with green,
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean.
There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze,
Oft heard the tale of other days;
For much he loved to ope his door,
And give the aid he begg'd before.
So pass'd the winter's day; but still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
And July's eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak,
The aged Harper's soul awoke!
Then would he sing achievements high,
And circumstance of chivalry,
Till the rapt traveller would stay,
Forgetful of the closing day;
And noble youths, the strain to hear,
Forsook the hunting of the deer;
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song.

A distant trampling sound he hears; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,

Beneath a pennon gay;

A horseman, darting from the crowd, Like lightning from a summer cloud, Spurs on his mettled courser proud, Before the dark array. Beneath the sable palisade, That closed the Castle barricade,

His bugle-horn he blew; The warder hasted from the wall, And warn'd the Captain in the hall, For well the blast he knew; And joyfully that knight did call, To sewer, squire, and seneschal.

By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the rill.
They might not choose the lowland
road,

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;
On wing of jet, from his repose

In the deep heath, the black-cock rose;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been pass'd before
They gain'd the height of Lammermoor;
Thence winding down the northern way
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;
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
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. Down from their seats the horsemen

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 savory haunch of deer. 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,

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; 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;
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
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;
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.