THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

Some yeoman, wondering in his fear,

       Thus whispered forth his mind:-

       “Saint Mary! saw’st thou e’er such sight?

       How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,

       Whene’er the firebrand’s fickle light

       Glances beneath his cowl!

       Full on our lord he sets his eye;

       For his best palfrey, would not I

       Endure that sullen scowl.”

       VII

      But Marmion, as to chase the awe

       Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw

       The ever-varying firelight show

       That figure stern and face of woe,

       Now called upon a squire:

       “Fitz-Eustace, know’st thou not some lay,

       To speed the lingering night away?

       We slumber by the fire.”

       VIII

      “So please you,” thus the youth rejoined,

       “Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.

       Ill may we hope to please your ear,

       Accustomed Constant’s strains to hear.

       The harp full deftly can he strike,

       And wake the lover’s lute alike;

       To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush

       Sings livelier from a springtide bush,

       No nightingale her lovelorn tune

       More sweetly warbles to the moon.

       Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,

       Detains from us his melody,

       Lavished on rocks, and billows stern,

       Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.

       Now must I venture, as I may

       To sing his favourite roundelay.”

       IX

      A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,

       The air he chose was wild and sad;

       Such have I heard, in Scottish land,

       Rise from the busy harvest band,

       When falls before the mountaineer,

       On Lowland plains, the ripened ear.

       Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,

       Now a wild chorus swells the song:

       Oft have I listened, and stood still,

       As it came softened up the hill,

       And deemed it the lament of men

       Who languished for their native glen;

       And thought how sad would be such sound

       On Susquehana’s swampy ground,

       Kentucky’s wood-encumbered brake,

       Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,

       Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,

       Recalled fair Scotland’s hills again!

       X

       SONG

      Where shall the lover rest,

       Whom the fates sever

       From his true maiden’s breast,

       Parted for ever?

       Where, through groves deep and high,

       Sounds the far billow,

       Where early violets die,

       Under the willow.

       CHORUS

      Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, oh, never!

       CHORUS

      Eleu loro, etc. Never, oh, never!

       XI

      Where shall the traitor rest,

       He, the deceiver,

       Who could win maiden’s breast,

       Ruin, and leave her?

       In the lost battle,

       Borne down by the flying,

       Where mingles war’s rattle

       With groans of the dying.

       CHORUS

      Eleu loro, etc. There shall he be lying.

      Her wing shall the eagle flap

       O’er the false-hearted;

       His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

       Ere life be parted.

       Shame and dishonour sit

       By his grave ever:

       Blessing shall hallow it,

       Never, oh, never!

       CHORUS

      Eleu loro, etc. Never, oh, never!

       XII

      It ceased, the melancholy sound;

       And silence sunk on all around.

       The air was sad; but sadder still

       It fell on Marmion’s ear,

       And plained as if disgrace and ill,

       And shameful death, were near.

       He drew his mantle past his face,

       Between it and the band,

       And rested with his head a space

       Reclining on his hand.

       His thoughts I scan not; but I ween,

       That, could their import have been seen,

       The meanest groom in all the hall,

       That e’er tied courser to a stall,

       Would scarce have wished to be their prey,

       For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

       XIII

      High minds, of native pride and force,

       Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

       Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,

       Thou art the torturer of the brave!

       Yet fatal strength they boast to steel

       Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,

       Even while they writhe beneath the smart

       Of civil conflict in the heart.

       For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,

       And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said -

       “Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,

       Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,

       Such as in nunneries they toll

       For some departing sister’s soul;

       Say, what may this portend?”

       Then first the Palmer silence broke,

       (The livelong day he had not spoke)

       “The death of a dear friend.”

       XIV

      Marmion,