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That peopled all the plain below,

       The wandering eye could o’er it go,

       And mark the distant city glow

       With gloomy splendour red;

       For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

       That round her sable turrets flow,

       The morning beams were shed,

       And tinged them with a lustre proud,

       Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.

       Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

       Where the huge castle holds its state,

       And all the steep slope down,

       Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,

       Piled deep and massy, close and high,

       Mine own romantic town!

       But northward far, with purer blaze,

       On Ochil mountains fell the rays,

       And as each heathy top they kissed,

       It gleamed a purple amethyst.

       Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;

       Here Preston Bay and Berwick Law:

       And, broad between them rolled,

       The gallant Frith the eye might note,

       Whose islands on its bosom float,

       Like emeralds chased in gold.

       Fitz Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;

       As if to give his rapture vent,

       The spur he to his charger lent,

       And raised his bridle hand,

       And making demivolte in air,

       Cried, “Where’s the coward that would not dare

       To fight for such a land!”

       The Lindesay smiled his joy to see;

       Nor Marmion’s frown repressed his glee.

       XXXI

      Thus while they looked, a flourish proud,

       Where mingled trump and clarion loud,

       And fife and kettledrum,

       And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

       And war-pipe with discordant cry,

       And cymbal clattering to the sky,

       Making wild music bold and high,

       Did up the mountain come;

       The whilst the bells, with distant chime,

       Merrily tolled the hour of prime,

       And thus the Lindesay spoke:

       “Thus clamour still the war-notes when

       The King to mass his way has ta’en,

       Or to St. Katharine’s of Sienne,

       Or chapel of Saint Rocque.

       To you they speak of martial fame;

       But me remind of peaceful game,

       When blither was their cheer,

       Thrilling in Falkland woods the air,

       In signal none his steed should spare,

       But strive which foremost might repair

       To the downfall of the deer.

       XXXII

      “Nor less,” he said, “when looking forth,

       I view yon empress of the North

       Sit on her hilly throne;

       Her palace’s imperial bowers,

       Her castle, proof to hostile powers,

       Her stately halls and holy towers -

       Nor less,” he said, “I moan,

       To think what woe mischance may bring,

       And how these merry bells may ring

       The death-dirge of our gallant king;

       Or with the ‘larum call

       The burghers forth to watch and ward,

       ‘Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard

       Dunedin’s leaguered wall.

       But not for my presaging thought,

       Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought!

       Lord Marmion, I say nay:

       God is the guider of the field,

       He breaks the champion’s spear and shield -

       But thou thyself shalt say,

       When joins yon host in deadly stowre,

       That England’s dames must weep in bower,

       Her monks the death-mass sing;

       For never saw’st thou such a power

       Led on by such a king.”

       And now, down winding to the plain,

       The barriers of the camp they gain,

       And there they made a stay.

       There stays the minstrel, till he fling

       His hand o’er every Border string,

       And fit his harp the pomp to sing,

       Of Scotland’s ancient court and king,

       In the succeeding lay.

Introduction to Canto Fifth

      To GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ. Edinburgh.

       Table of Contents

      When dark December glooms the day,

       And takes our autumn joys away;

       When short and scant the sunbeam throws,

       Upon the weary waste of snows,

       A cold and profitless regard,

       Like patron on a needy bard,

       When silvan occupation’s done,

       And o’er the chimney rests the gun,

       And hang, in idle trophy, near,

       The game-pouch, fishingrod, and spear;

       When wiry terrier, rough and grim,

       And greyhound, with his length of limb,

       And pointer, now employed no more,

       Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor;

       When in his stall the impatient steed

       Is long condemned to rest and feed;

       When from our snow-encircled home,

       Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam,

       Since path is none, save that to bring

       The needful water from the spring;

       When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o’er,

       Beguiles the dreary hour no more,

       And darkling politican, crossed

       Inveighs against the lingering post,

       And answering housewife sore complains

       Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains;

       When such the country cheer, I come,

       Well pleased, to seek our city home;

       For converse, and for books, to change

       The Forest’s melancholy range,

       And welcome, with renewed delight,

       The

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