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come, with this lost love of mine,

       To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

       There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

       That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

      The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,

       He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

       She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

       With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

       He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar -

       “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

      So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

       That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

       While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

       And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume:

       And the bride’smaidens whispered, “‘Twere better by far

       To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

      One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

       When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

       So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

       So light to the saddle before her he sprung.

       “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

       They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

      There was mounting ‘mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

       Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

       There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

       But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

       So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

       Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

       XIII

      The monarch o’er the siren hung,

       And beat the measure as she sung;

       And, pressing closer and more near,

       He whispered praises in her ear.

       In loud applause the courtiers vied,

       And ladies winked and spoke aside.

       The witching dame to Marmion threw

       A glance, where seemed to reign

       The pride that claims applauses due,

       And of her royal conquest too,

       A real or feigned disdain:

       Familiar was the look, and told

       Marmion and she were friends of old.

       The king observed their meeting eyes

       With something like displeased surprise:

       For monarchs ill can rivals brook,

       E’en in a word or smile or look.

       Straight took he forth the parchment broad

       Which Marmion’s high commission showed:

       “Our Borders sacked by many a raid,

       Our peaceful liegemen robbed,” he said;

       “On day of truce our warden slain,

       Stout Barton killed, his vassals ta’en -

       Unworthy were we here to reign,

       Should these for vengeance cry in vain;

       Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,

       Our herald has to Henry borne.”

       XIV

      He paused, and led where Douglas stood,

       And with stern eye the pageant viewed -

       I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,

       Who coronet of Angus bore,

       And, when his blood and heart were high,

       Did the third James in camp defy,

       And all his minions led to die

       On Lauder’s dreary flat:

       Princes and favourites long grew tame,

       And trembled at the homely name

       Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;

       The same who left the dusky vale

       Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,

       Its dungeons and its towers,

       Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,

       And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,

       To fix his princely bowers.

       Though now in age he had laid down

       His armour for the peaceful gown,

       And for a staff his brand,

       Yet often would flash forth the fire

       That could in youth a monarch’s ire

       And minion’s pride withstand;

       And e’en that day, at council board,

       Unapt to soothe his sovereign’s mood,

       Against the war had Angus stood,

       And chafed his royal lord.

       XV

      His giant form like ruined tower,

       Though fall’n its muscles’ brawny vaunt,

       Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,

       Seemed o’er the gaudy scene to lower:

       His locks and beard in silver grew;

       His eyebrows kept their sable hue.

       Near Douglas when the monarch stood,

       His bitter speech he thus pursued:

       “Lord Marmion, since these letters say

       That in the north you needs must stay

       While slightest hopes of peace remain,

       Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,

       To say—return to Lindisfarne

       Until my herald come again.

       Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;

       Your host shall be the Douglas bold -

       A chief unlike his sires of old.

       He wears their motto on his blade,

       Their blazon o’er his towers displayed;

       Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,

       More than to face his country’s foes.

       And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,

       But e’en this morn to me was given

       A prize, the first-fruits of the war,

       Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,

       A bevy of the maids of Heaven.

       Under your guard these holy maids

       Shall safe return to cloister shades;

       And, while they at Tantallon stay,

       Requiem for Cochrane’s soul may say.”

       And with the slaughtered favourite’s name

       Across the monarch’s brow there came

       A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

       XVI

      In answer nought could Angus speak;

       His proud

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