Marmion

CANTO FIRST.

THE CASTLE

IDay set on Norham’s castled steep,And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,  And Cheviot’s mountains lone:The battled towers, the donjon keep,The loophole grates, where captives weep,                    5The flanking walls that round it sweep,  In yellow lustre shone.The warriors on the turrets high,Moving athwart the evening sky,Seem’d forms of giant height:                              10Their armour, as it caught the rays,Flash’d back again the western blaze,  In lines of dazzling light.IISaint George’s banner, broad and gay,Now faded, as the fading ray                                15  Less bright, and less, was flung;The evening gale had scarce the powerTo wave it on the Donjon Tower,  So heavily it hung.The scouts had parted on their search,                      20  The Castle gates were barr’d;Above the gloomy portal arch,Timing his footsteps to a march,  The Warder kept his guard;Low humming, as he paced along,                            25Some ancient Border gathering-song.IIIA distant trampling sound he hears;He looks abroad, and soon appears,O’er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,  Beneath a pennon gay;                                    30A 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,                                35That closed the Castle barricade,  His buglehorn he blew;The warder hasted from the wall,And warn’d the Captain in the hall,  For well the blast he knew;                              40And joyfully that knight did call,To sewer, squire, and seneschal.IV‘Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,  Bring pasties of the doe,And quickly make the entrance free                          45And bid my heralds ready be,And every minstrel sound his glee,  And all our trumpets blow;And, from the platform, spare ye notTo fire a noble salvo-shot;                                50  Lord MARMION waits below!’Then to the Castle’s lower ward  Sped forty yeomen tall,The iron-studded gates unbarr’d,Raised the portcullis’ ponderous guard,                    55The lofty palisade unsparr’d,  And let the drawbridge fall.VAlong the bridge Lord Marmion rode,Proudly his red-roan charger trode,His helm hung at the saddlebow;                            60Well by his visage you might knowHe was a stalworth knight, and keen,And had in many a battle been;The scar on his brown cheek reveal’dA token true of Bosworth field;                            65His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,Show’d spirit proud, and prompt to ire;Yet lines of thought upon his cheekDid deep design and counsel speak.His forehead by his casque worn bare,                      70His thick mustache, and curly hair,Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,  But more through toil than age;His square-turn’d joints, and strength of limb,Show’d him no carpet knight so trim,                        75But in close fight a champion grim,  In camps a leader sage.VIWell was he arm’d from head to heel,In mail and plate of Milan steel;But his strong helm, of mighty cost,                        80Was all with burnish’d gold emboss’d;Amid the plumage of the crest,A falcon hover’d on her nest,With wings outspread, and forward breast;E’en such a falcon, on his shield,                          85Soar’d sable in an azure field:The golden legend bore aright,Who checks at me, to death is dight.Blue was the charger’s broider’d rein;Blue ribbons deck’d his arching mane;                      90The knightly housing’s ample foldWas velvet blue, and trapp’d with gold.VIIBehind him rode two gallant squires,Of noble name, and knightly sires;They burn’d the gilded spurs to claim:                      95For well could each a warhorse tame,Could draw the bow, the sword could sway,And lightly bear the ring away;Nor less with courteous precepts stored,Could dance in hall, and carve at board,                  100And frame love-ditties passing rare,And sing them to a lady fair.VIIIFour men-at-arms came at their backs,With halbert, bill, and battle-axe:They bore Lord Marmion’s lance so strong,                  105And led his sumpter-mules along,And ambling palfrey, when at needHim listed ease his battle-steed.The last and trustiest of the four,On high his forky pennon bore;                            110Like swallow’s tail, in shape and hue,Flutter’d the streamer glossy blue,Where, blazon’d sable, as before,The towering falcon seem’d to soar.Last, twenty yeomen, two and two,                          115In hosen black, and jerkins blue,With falcons broider’d on each breast,Attended on their lord’s behest.Each, chosen for an archer good,Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood;                        120Each one a six-foot bow could bend,And far a cloth-yard shaft could send;Each held a boar-spear tough and strong,And at their belts their quivers rung.Their dusty palfreys, and array,                          125Show’d they had march’d a weary way.IX‘Tis meet that I should tell you now,How fairly arm’d, and order’d how,  The soldiers of the guard,With musket, pike, and morion,                            130To welcome noble Marmion,  Stood in the Castle-yard;Minstrels and trumpeters were there,The gunner held his linstock yare,  For welcome-shot prepared:                              135Enter’d the train, and such a clang,As then through all his turrets rang,  Old Norham never heard.XThe guards their morrice-pikes advanced,  The trumpets flourish’d brave,                          140The cannon from the ramparts glanced,  And thundering welcome gave.A blithe salute, in martial sort,  The minstrels well might sound,For, as Lord Marmion cross’d the court,                    145  He scatter’d angels round.‘Welcome to Norham, Marmion!  Stout heart, and open hand!Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,  Thou flower of English land!’                            150XITwo pursuivants, whom tabarts deck,With silver scutcheon round their neck,  Stood on the steps of stone,By which you reach the donjon gate,And there, with herald pomp and state,                    155  They hail’d Lord Marmion:They hail’d him Lord of Fontenaye,Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,  Of Tamworth tower and town;And he, their courtesy to requite,                        160Gave them a chain of twelve marks’ weight,  All as he lighted down.‘Now, largesse, largesse, Lord Marmion,  Knight of the crest of gold!A blazon’d shield, in battle won,                          165Ne’er guarded heart so bold.’XIIThey marshall’d him to the Castle-hall,  Where the guests stood all aside,And loudly nourish’d the trumpet-call,  And the heralds loudly cried,                            170-‘Room, lordings, room for Lord Marmion,  With the crest and helm of gold!Full well we know the trophies won  In the lists at Cottiswold:There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove                      175  ‘Gainst Marmion’s force to stand;To him he lost his lady-love,  And to the King his land.Ourselves beheld the listed field,  A sight both sad and fair;                              180We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,  And saw his saddle bare;We saw the victor win the crest,  He wears with worthy pride;And on the gibbet-tree, reversed,                          185  His foeman’s scutcheon tied.Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight!  Room, room, ye gentles gay,For him who conquer’d in the right,  Marmion of Fontenaye!’                                  190XIIIThen stepp’d, to meet that noble Lord,  Sir Hugh the Heron bold,Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,  And Captain of the Hold.He led Lord Marmion to the deas,                          195  Raised o’er the pavement high,And placed him in the upper place  They feasted full and high;The whiles a Northern harper rudeChanted a rhyme of deadly feud,                            200  ‘How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all,    Stout Willimondswick,      And Hardriding Dick,     And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o’ the Wall,    Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,              205And taken his life at the Deadman’s-shaw.’  Scantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook    The harper’s barbarous lay;  Yet much he praised the pains he took,    And well those pains did pay                          210For lady’s suit, and minstrel’s strain,By knight should ne’er be heard in vain,XIV‘Now, good Lord Marmion,’ Heron says,  ‘Of your fair courtesy,I pray you bide some little space                          215  In this poor tower with me.Here may you keep your arms from rust,  May breathe your war-horse well;Seldom hath pass’d a week but giust  Or feat of arms befell:                                  220The Scots can rein a mettled steed;  And love to couch a spear: -Saint George! a stirring life they lead,  That have such neighbours near.Then stay with us a little space,                          225  Our northern wars to learn;I pray you, for your lady’s grace!’-  Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.XVThe Captain mark’d his alter’d look,  And gave a squire the sign;                              230A mighty wassell-bowl he took,  And crown’d it high with wine.‘Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:  But first I pray thee fair,Where hast thou left that page of thine,                  235  That used to serve thy cup of wine,  Whose beauty was so rare?When last in Raby towers we met,  The boy I closely eyed,And often mark’d his cheeks were wet,                      240  With tears he fain would hide:His was no rugged horse-boy’s hand,To burnish shield or sharpen brand,  Or saddle battle-steed;But meeter seem’d for lady fair,                          245To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,Or through embroidery, rich and rare,  The slender silk to lead:His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,  His bosom-when he sigh’d,                              250The russet doublet’s rugged fold  Could scarce repel its pride!Say, hast thou given that lovely youth  To serve in lady’s bower?Or was the gentle page, in sooth,                          255  A gentle paramour?’XVILord Marmion ill could brook such jest;  He roll’d his kindling eye,With pain his rising wrath suppress’d,  Yet made a calm reply:                                  260‘That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,  He might not brook the northern air.More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,  I left him sick in Lindisfarn:Enough of him. – But, Heron, say,                          265Why does thy lovely lady gayDisdain to grace the hall to-day?Or has that dame, so fair and sage,Gone on some pious pilgrimage?’-He spoke in covert scorn, for fame                        270Whisper’d light tales of Heron’s dame.XVIIUnmark’d, at least unreck’d, the taunt,  Careless the Knight replied,‘No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt,  Delights in cage to bide:                                275Norham is grim and grated close,Hemm’d in by battlement and fosse,  And many a darksome tower;And better loves my lady brightTo sit in liberty and light,                              280  In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.We hold our greyhound in our hand,  Our falcon on our glove;But where shall we find leash or band,  For dame that loves to rove?                            285Let the wild falcon soar her swing,She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.’-XVIII‘Nay, if with Royal James’s brideThe lovely Lady Heron bide,Behold me here a messenger,                                290Your tender greetings prompt to bear;For, to the Scottish court address’d,I journey at our King’s behest,And pray you, of your grace, provideFor me, and mine, a trusty guide.                          295I have not ridden in Scotland sinceJames back’d the cause of that mock prince,Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.Then did I march with Surrey’s power,                      300What time we razed old Ayton tower.’-XIX‘For such-like need, my lord, I trow,Norham can find you guides enow;For here be some have prick’d as far,On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;                          305Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,And given them light to set their hoods.’-XX‘Now, in good sooth,’ Lord Marmion cried,                  310‘Were I in warlike wise to ride,A better guard I would not lack,Than your stout forayers at my back;But as in form of peace I go,A friendly messenger, to know,                            315Why through all Scotland, near and far,Their King is mustering troops for war,The sight of plundering Border spearsMight justify suspicious fears,And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,                      320Break out in some unseemly broil:A herald were my fitting guide;Or friar, sworn in peace to bide;Or pardoner, or travelling priest,Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.’                      325XXIThe Captain mused a little space,And pass’d his hand across his face.-’Fain would I find the guide you want,But ill may spare a pursuivant,The only men that safe can ride                            330Mine errands on the Scottish side:And though a bishop built this fort,Few holy brethren here resort;Even our good chaplain, as I ween,Since our last siege, we have not seen:                    335The mass he might not sing or say,Upon one stinted meal a-day;So, safe he sat in Durham aisle,And pray’d for our success the while.Our Norham vicar, woe betide,                              340Is all too well in case to ride;The priest of Shoreswood-he could reinThe wildest war-horse in your train;But then, no spearman in the hallWill sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.                      345Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:A blithesome brother at the can,A welcome guest in hall and bower,He knows each castle, town, and tower,In which the wine and ale is good,                        350‘Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood.But that good man, as ill befalls,Hath seldom left our castle walls,Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,In evil hour, he cross’d the Tweed,                        355To teach Dame Alison her creed.Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;And John, an enemy to strife,Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.The jealous churl hath deeply swore,                      360That, if again he venture o’er,He shall shrieve penitent no more.Little he loves such risks, I know;Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.’XXIIYoung Selby, at the fair hall-board,                      365Carved to his uncle and that lord,And reverently took up the word.‘Kind uncle, woe were we each one,If harm should hap to brother John.He is a man of mirthful speech,                            370Can many a game and gambol teach;Full well at tables can he play,And sweep at bowls the stake away.None can a lustier carol bawl,The needfullest among us all,                              375When time hangs heavy in the hall,And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,And we can neither hunt, nor rideA foray on the Scottish side.The vow’d revenge of Bughtrig rude,                        380May end in worse than loss of hood.Let Friar John, in safety, stillIn chimney-corner snore his fill,Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:Last night, to Norham there came one,                      385Will better guide Lord Marmion.’-‘Nephew,’ quoth Heron, ‘by my fay,Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say,’-XXIII‘Here is a holy Palmer come,From Salem first, and last from Rome;                      390One, that hath kiss’d the blessed tomb,And visited each holy shrine,In Araby and Palestine;On hills of Armenie hath been,Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen;                          395By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,Which parted at the Prophet’s rod;In Sinai’s wilderness he sawThe Mount, where Israel heard the law,‘Mid thunder-dint and flashing levin,                      400And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.He shows Saint James’s cockle-shell,Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell;  And of that Grot where Olives nod,Where, darling of each heart and eye,                      405From all the youth of Sicily,  Saint Rosalie retired to God.XXIV‘To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,                        410For his sins’ pardon hath he pray’d.He knows the passes of the North,And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth;Little he eats, and long will wake,And drinks but of the stream or lake.                      415This were a guide o’er moor and dale;But, when our John hath quaff’d his ale,As little as the wind that blows,And warms itself against his nose,Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.’–                  420XXV‘Gramercy!’ quoth Lord Marmion,‘Full loth were I, that Friar John,That venerable man, for me,Were placed in fear or jeopardy.If this same Palmer will me lead                          425  From hence to Holy-Rood,Like his good saint, I’ll pay his meed,Instead of cockle-shell, or bead,  With angels fair and good.I love such holy ramblers; still                          430They know to charm a weary hill,  With song, romance, or lay:Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,Some lying legend, at the least,  They bring to cheer the way.’–                          435XXVI‘Ah! noble sir,’ young Selby said,And finger on his lip he laid,‘This man knows much, perchance e’en moreThan he could learn by holy lore.Still to himself he’s muttering,                          440And shrinks as at some unseen thing.Last night we listen’d at his cell;Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,He murmur’d on till morn, howe’erNo living mortal could be near.                            445Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,As other voices spoke again.I cannot tell-I like it not-Friar John hath told us it is wrote,No conscience clear, and void of wrong,                    450Can rest awake, and pray so long.Himself still sleeps before his beadsHave mark’d ten aves, and two creeds.’-XXVII-‘Let pass,’ quoth Marmion; ‘by my fay,This man shall guide me on my way,                        455Although the great arch-fiend and heHad sworn themselves of company.So please you, gentle youth, to callThis Palmer to the Castle-hall.’The summon’d Palmer came in place;                        460His sable cowl o’erhung his face;In his black mantle was he clad,With Peter’s keys, in cloth of red,  On his broad shoulders wrought;The scallop shell his cap did deck;                        465The crucifix around his neck  Was from Loretto brought;His sandals were with travel tore,Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore;The faded palm-branch in his hand                          470Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.XXVIIIWhen as the Palmer came in hall,Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,Or had a statelier step withal,  Or look’d more high and keen;                            475For no saluting did he wait,But strode across the hall of state,And fronted Marmion where he sate,  As he his peer had been.But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;                    480His cheek was sunk, alas the while!And when he struggled at a smile,  His eye look ‘d haggard wild:Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,If she had been in presence there,                        485In his wan face, and sun-burn’d hair,  She had not known her child.Danger, long travel, want, or woe,Soon change the form that best we know-For deadly fear can time outgo,                            490  And blanch at once the hair;Hard toil can roughen form and face,And want can quench the eye’s bright grace,Nor does old age a wrinkle trace  More deeply than despair.                                495Happy whom none of these befall,But this poor Palmer knew them all.XXIXLord Marmion then his boon did ask;The Palmer took on him the task,So he would march with morning tide,                      500To Scottish court to be his guide.‘But I have solemn vows to pay,And may not linger by the way,  To fair St. Andrews bound,Within the ocean-cave to pray,                            505Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,From midnight to the dawn of day,  Sung to the billows’ sound;Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,                  510  And the crazed brain restore:Saint Mary grant, that cave or springCould back to peace my bosom bring,  Or bid it throb no more!’XXXAnd now the midnight draught of sleep,                    515Where wine and spices richly steep,In massive bowl of silver deep,  The page presents on knee.Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,The Captain pledged his noble guest,                      520The cup went through among the rest,  Who drain’d it merrily;Alone the Palmer pass’d it by,Though Selby press’d him courteously.This was a sign the feast was o’er;                        525It hush’d the merry wassel roar,  The minstrels ceased to sound.Soon in the castle nought was heard,But the slow footstep of the guard,  Pacing his sober round.                                  530XXXIWith early dawn Lord Marmion rose:And first the chapel doors unclose;Then, after morning rites were done,(A hasty mass from Friar John,)And knight and squire had broke their fast,                535On rich substantial repast,Lord Marmion’s bugles blew to horse:Then came the stirrup-cup in course:Between the Baron and his host,No point of courtesy was lost;                            540High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,Solemn excuse the Captain made,Till, filing from the gate, had pass’dThat noble train, their Lord the last.Then loudly rung the trumpet call;                        545Thunder’d the cannon from the wall,  And shook the Scottish shore;Around the castle eddied slow,Volumes of smoke as white as snow,  And hid its turrets hoar;                                550Till they roli’d forth upon the air,And met the river breezes there,Which gave again the prospect fair.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND

TO THE REV JOHN MARRIOTT, A. MAshestiel, Ettrick ForestThe scenes are desert now, and bareWhere flourish’d once a forest fair,When these waste glens with copse were lined,And peopled with the hart and hind.Yon Thorn-perchance whose prickly spears                    5Have fenced him for three hundred years,While fell around his green compeers-Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tellThe changes of his parent dell,Since he, so grey and stubborn now,                        10Waved in each breeze a sapling bough;Would he could tell how deep the shadeA thousand mingled branches made;How broad the shadows of the oak,How clung the rowan to the rock,                            15And through the foliage show’d his head,With narrow leaves and berries red;What pines on every mountain sprung,O’er every dell what birches hung,In every breeze what aspens shook,                          20What alders shaded every brook!  ‘Here, in my shade,’ methinks he’d say,‘The mighty stag at noon-tide lay:The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game,(The neighbouring dingle bears his name,)                  25With lurching step around me prowl,And stop, against the moon to howl;The mountain-boar, on battle set,His tusks upon my stem would whet;While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,                      30Have bounded by, through gay green-wood.Then oft, from Newark’s riven tower,Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power:A thousand vassals muster’d round,With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound;                  35And I might see the youth intent,Guard every pass with crossbow bent;And through the brake the rangers stalk,And falc’ners hold the ready hawk,And foresters, in green-wood trim,                          40Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim,Attentive, as the bratchet’s bayFrom the dark covert drove the prey,To slip them as he broke away.The startled quarry bounds amain,                          45As fast the gallant greyhounds strain;Whistles the arrow from the bow,Answers the harquebuss below;While all the rocking hills reply,To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters’ cry,                    50And bugles ringing lightsomely.’  Of such proud huntings, many talesYet linger in our lonely dales,Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow,Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.                      55But not more blithe that silvan court,Than we have been at humbler sport;Though small our pomp, and mean our game,Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.Remember’st thou my greyhounds true?                        60O’er holt or hill there never flew,From slip or leash there never sprang,More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.Nor dull, between each merry chase,Pass’d by the intermitted space;                            65For we had fair resource in store,In Classic and in Gothic lore:We mark’d each memorable scene,And held poetic talk between;Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,                        70But had its legend or its song.All silent now-for now are stillThy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!No longer, from thy mountains dun,The yeoman hears the well-known gun,                        75And while his honest heart glows warm,At thought of his paternal farm,Round to his mates a brimmer fills,And drinks, ‘The Chieftain of the Hills!’No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers,                        80Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,Fair as the elves whom Janet sawBy moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;No youthful Baron’s left to graceThe Forest-Sheriff’s lonely chase,                          85And ape, in manly step and tone,The majesty of Oberon:And she is gone, whose lovely faceIs but her least and lowest grace;Though if to Sylphid Queen ‘twere given,                    90To show our earth the charms of Heaven,She could not glide along the air,With form more light, or face more fair.No more the widow’s deafen’d earGrows quick that lady’s step to hear:                      95At noontide she expects her not,Nor busies her to trim the cot;Pensive she turns her humming wheel,Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal,Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,                    100The gentle hand by which they’re fed.  From Yair, – which hills so closely bind,Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,Till all his eddying currents boil, –                       105Her long descended lord is gone,And left us by the stream alone.And much I miss those sportive boys,Companions of my mountain joys,Just at the age ‘twixt boy and youth,                      110When thought is speech, and speech is truth.Close to my side, with what delightThey press’d to hear of Wallace wight,When, pointing to his airy mound,I call’d his ramparts holy ground!                        115Kindled their brows to hear me speak;And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,Despite the difference of our years,Return again the glow of theirs.Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,                        120They will not, cannot long endure;Condemn’d to stem the world’s rude tide,You may not linger by the side;For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,And passion ply the sail and oar.                          125Yet cherish the remembrance still,Of the lone mountain, and the rill;For trust, dear boys, the time will come,When fiercer transport shall be dumb,And you will think right frequently,                      130But, well I hope, without a sigh,On the free hours that we have spent,Together, on the brown hill’s bent.  When, musing on companions gone,We doubly feel ourselves alone,                            135Something, my friend, we yet may gain,There is a pleasure in this pain:It soothes the love of lonely rest,Deep in each gentler heart impress’d.‘Tis silent amid worldly toils,                            140And stifled soon by mental broils;But, in a bosom thus prepared,Its still small voice is often heard,Whispering a mingled sentiment,‘Twixt resignation and content.                            145Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake;Thou know’st it well, – nor fen, nor sedge,Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge;Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink                      150At once upon the level brink;And just a trace of silver sandMarks where the water meets the land.Far in the mirror, bright and blue,Each hill’s huge outline you may view;                    155Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,Save where, of land, yon slender lineBears thwart the lake the scatter’d pine.Yet even this nakedness has power,                        160And aids the feeling of the hour:Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,Where living thing conceal’d might lie;Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;                165There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess,You see that all is loneliness:And silence aids-though the steep hillsSend to the lake a thousand rills;In summer tide, so soft they weep,                        170The sound but lulls the ear asleep;Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude,So stilly is the solitude.  Nought living meets the eye or ear,But well I ween the dead are near;                        175For though, in feudal strife, a foeHath laid Our Lady’s chapel low,Yet still, beneath the hallow’d soil,The peasant rests him from his toil,And, dying, bids his bones be laid,                        180Where erst his simple fathers pray’d.  If age had tamed the passions’ strife,And fate had cut my ties to life,Here have I thought, ‘twere sweet to dwell,And rear again the chaplain’s cell,                        185Like that same peaceful hermitage,Where Milton long’d to spend his age.‘Twere sweet to mark the setting day,On Bourhope’s lonely top decay;And, as it faint and feeble died                          190On the broad lake, and mountain’s side,To say, ‘Thus pleasures fade away;Youth, talents, beauty thus decay,And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey;’Then gaze on Dryhope’s ruin’d tower,                      195And think on Yarrow’s faded Flower:And when that mountain-sound I heard,Which bids us be for storm prepared,The distant rustling of his wings,As up his force the Tempest brings,                        200‘Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,To sit upon the Wizard’s grave;That Wizard Priest’s, whose bones are thrust,From company of holy dust;On which no sunbeam ever shines-                          205(So superstition’s creed divines) -Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,Heave her broad billows to the shore;And mark the wild-swans mount the gale,Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,                210And ever stoop again, to laveTheir bosoms on the surging wave;Then, when against the driving hailNo longer might my plaid avail,Back to my lonely home retire,                            215And light my lamp, and trim my fire;There ponder o’er some mystic lay,Till the wild tale had all its sway,And, in the bittern’s distant shriek,I heard unearthly voices speak,                            220And thought the Wizard Priest was come,To claim again his ancient home!And bade my busy fancy range,To frame him fitting shape and strange,Till from the task my brow I clear’d,                      225And smiled to think that I had fear’d.  But chief, ‘twere sweet to think such life,(Though but escape from fortune’s strife,)Something most matchless good and wise,A great and grateful sacrifice;                            230And deem each hour, to musing given,A step upon the road to heaven.  Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease,Such peaceful solitudes displease;He loves to drown his bosom’s jar                          235Amid the elemental war:And my black Palmer’s choice had beenSome ruder and more savage scene,Like that which frowns round dark Loch-skene.There eagles scream from isle to shore;                    240Down all the rocks the torrents roar;O’er the black waves incessant driven,Dark mists infect the summer heaven;Through the rude barriers of the lake,Away its hurrying waters break,                            245Faster and whiter dash and curl,Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,Thunders the viewless stream below,Diving, as if condemn’d to lave                            250Some demon’s subterranean cave,Who, prison’d by enchanter’s spell,Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.And well that Palmer’s form and mienHad suited with the stormy scene,                          255Just on the edge, straining his kenTo view the bottom of the den,Where, deep deep down, and far within,Toils with the rocks the roaring linn;Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,                        260And wheeling round the Giant’s Grave,White as the snowy charger’s tail,Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.  Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung,To many a Border theme has rung:                          265Then list to me, and thou shalt knowOf this mysterious Man of Woe.