When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle plain, His way to Surrey took.

-The good Lord Marmion, by my life! Welcome to danger's hour! Short greeting serves in time of strife! Thus have I ranged my power: Myself will rule this central host,

Stout Stanley fronts their right, My sons command the vaward post, With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, Shall be in rearward of the fight, And succour those that need it most.

Now gallant Marmion, well I know, Would gladly to the vanguard go: Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, With thee their charge will blithely share; There fight thine own retainers too Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." "Thanks, noble Surrey!" Marmion said, Nor further greeting there he paid; But, parting like a thunderbolt, First in the vanguard made a halt, Where such a shout there rose Of "Marmion! Marmion!" that the cry, Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, Startled the Scottish foes.

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill,
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view.
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,

Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day.But see! look up-on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent. And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and fast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear or see their foes,

Until at weapon-point they close.-
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Oh! life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of cheftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;

But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly;
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;

Although against them come

Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntly and with Home.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broadsword plied.
'Twas vain:-But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,

The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky:
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:

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
May bid your beads and patter prayer,-
I gallop to the host."
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,-
The rescued banner rose,—
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-tree rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too :-yet stayed
As loth to leave the helpless maid,

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.

DEATH OF MARMION.

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 were 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 armour 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.

Good night to Marmion!"

Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace
where?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?
Redeem my pennon,-charge again!
Cry, Marmion to the rescue!'-Vain:
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again.
Yet my last thought is England's; fly-
To Dacre bear my signet-ring:

Tell him his squadrons up to bring.-
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield;
Edmund is down-my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.-
Must I bid twice?-hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die.'
They parted, and alone he lay.

Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured, "Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring

To slake my dying thirst?"

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made,
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
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,

Where water, clear as diamond spark,
In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,
Brink. weary. pilgrim. drink, and . pray
For the. kind. soul, of. Sibyl. Grey.

Who. built. this. cross. and . well.
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A monk supporting Marmion's head: A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave

Is it the hand of Clare?" he said,

"Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,—

"

Then it was truth," he said; "I knew That the dark presage must be true.— I would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar-stone, Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be!-this dizzy trance-Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand! A sinful heart makes feeble hand." Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labour, Clara bound
And strove to staunch 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
So the notes rung; [of the dying!"
"Avoid thee, Fiend !-with cruel hand
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ;-
Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

Oh, 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 swelled 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!-

Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on !'
Were the last words of Marmion.

CLOSE OF THE BATTLE.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,

Where Huntly, and where Home?
Oh for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvallès died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,

Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for far away,
While spoil and havock mark their way,
Near Sibyl's Cross the plunderers stray.
"O lady," cried the monk, "away!"
And placed her on her steed,
And led her to the chapel fair

Of Tillmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.

But as they left the dark'ning heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
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 bill-men ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men 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
Oer their thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful Surrey s sage commands
Led back from strite his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.

Then did their loss his foemen know;
Their King, their lords, their mightiest low,
They melted from the field as snow,
When streams are swoln and south winds
Dissolves in silent dew.
[blow,
Tweed s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disordered, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land;
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song
Shall many an age that wail prolong;
Sull from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear
Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield!

Day dawns upon the mountain's side:-
There, Scotland, lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one:
The sad survivors all are gone.-
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be;
Nor to yon Border castle high
Look northward with upbraiding eye;
Nor cherish hope in vain,
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land

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. [night!—
But, oh! how changed since yon blithe
Gladly I turn me from the sight.

EVENING IN THE TROSSACHS.
THE western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path, in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass,
Huge as the tower which builders vain
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,

Wild crests as pagod ever decked,
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-born castles bare,
Nor lacked they many a banner fair;
For, from their shivered brows displayed,
Far o'er th' unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,
The brier-rose fell in streamers green,
And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.
Boon nature scattered free and wild
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child:
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Grouped their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where glistening streamers waved and
danced,

The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue;
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream.

Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep
A narrow inlet, still and deep,

Affording scarce such breadth of brim
As served the wild duck's brood to swim,
Lost for a space, through thickets veering,
But broader when again appearing,
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face
Could on the dark blue mirror trace;
And farther as the hunter strayed,
Still broader sweeps its channels made.
The shaggy mounds no longer stood
Emerging from entangled wood,
But, wave-encircled, seemed to float
Like castle girdled with its moat;
Yet broader floods extending still
Divide them from their parent hill,
Till each, retiring, claims to be
An islet in an inland sea.

And now, to issue from the glen,
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken,
Unless he climb, with footing nice,
A far projecting precipice.

The broom's tough roots his ladder made,
The hazel saplings lent their aid,
And thus an airy point he won,
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,
One burnished sheet of living gold,
Loch Katrine lay, beneath him rolled,
In all her length far winding lay,
With promontory, creek, and bay,
Till far beyond her piercing ken
The hurricane had swept the glen.
Faint and more faint, its failing din
Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn,
And silence settled, wide and still,
On the lone wood and mighty hill.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

AND ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,-
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had trained her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;
E'en the slight harebell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread.

What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,-
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!

A Chieftain's daughter seemed the maid;
Her satin snood,* her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.
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:
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true
Than every free-born glance confessed
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claimed a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion poured a prayer,
Or tale of injury called forth
Th' indignant spirit of the North.
One only passion unrevealed,
With maiden pride the maid concealed,
Yet not less purely felt the flame;—
Oh, need I tell that passion's name?

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE. "THE Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For, ere he parted, he would say Farewell to lovely Loch Achray: Where shall he find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand? There is no breeze upon the fern, Nor ripple on the lake; Upon her eyry nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud,

The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound
That mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warriors' measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
'That on the thicket streams,
Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

-I see the dagger-crest of Mar,
I see the Moray's silver star,

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