MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

[Marmion, Canto vi.]

XIII.

NOT far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;
He had safe conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,

And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfry place,
And whisper'd in an under tone,

(Nay, never look upon your lord,

And lay your hands upon your sword,)

I tell thee thou'rt defied!

And if thou said'st I am not peer

To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"

On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth," And darest
thou, then,

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

flown.".

The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu: "Though something I might plain," he said,

"Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand.". But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: "My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still

Be open, at my Sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my King's alone,
from turret to foundation-stone
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.".

XIV.

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,

And shook his very frame for ire,

And "This to me!" he said, "An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,

go?

No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms-what, Warder, ho!

Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turn'd, - well was his need,

And dash'd the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

XV.

The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reach'd his

band,

He halts, and turn'd with clench'd hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried,
"and chase!"

But soon he rein'd his fury's pace:
"A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly
skill.

Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line.
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.-

THE CHASE.

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him too," he cried:
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,
I warrant him a warrior tried."
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

DEATH OF MARMION.

[Marmion, Canto vi.]

XXXII.

WITH fruitless labor, Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing

wound;

The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that, the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung:
"Avoid thee, Fiend! - with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O, think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swell'd the
gale,

And STANLEY! was the cry;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;

With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!

[Lady of the Lake, Canto i.]

V.

THE noble stag was pausing now,
Upon the mountain's southern brow,
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor
And ponder'd refuge from his toil,
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle.

But nearer was the copsewood gray,
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray
And mingled with the pine-trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue.

Fresh vigor with the hope return'd, With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, Held westward with unwearied race, And left behind the panting chase.

VIII.

The Hunter mark'd that mountain high
The lone lake's western boundary,
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay,
Where that huge rampart barr'd the

way.

Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes;
For the death-wound and death-halloo,
Muster'd his breath, his whinyard drew;
But thundering as he came prepared,
With ready arm and weapon bared,
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock,
And turn'd him from the opposing
rock;

Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken,
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.

There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed

Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yell'd again.

IX.

Close on the hounds the Hunter came,

on!"

Were the last words of Marmion.

But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell.

The impatient rider strove in vain
To rouse him with the spur and rein,
For the good steed, his labors o'er,
Stretch'd his stiff limbs to rise no more;
Then, touch'd with pity and remorse,
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse.
"I little thought, when first thy rein
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed.
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the
day,

That costs thy life, my gallant gray!"

X.

Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limp'd, with slow and crippled

pace,

The sulky leaders of the chase;
Close to their master's side they press'd,
With drooping tail and humbled crest;
But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note.
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream,
Round and arcund the sounds were
cast,

Till echo seem'd an answering blast;
And on the Hunter bied his way,
To join some comrades of the day;
Yet often paused, so strange the road,
So wondrous were the scenes it show'd.

XVII.

But scarce again his horn he wound,
When lo! forth starting at the sound,
From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,
A damsel guider of its way,
A little skiff shot to the bay,
That round the promontory steep
Led its deep line in graceful sweep,
Eddying in almost viewless wave,
The weeping willow-twig to lave,
And kiss, with whispering sound and
slow,

The beach of pebbles bright as snow.
The boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the Hunter left his stand,
And stood conceal'd amid the brake,

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood,' her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might
bring

The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;

1 Snood, the fillet worn round the hair of maidens.