Marmion

Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
The Captain pledged his noble guest, 
The 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; 
It 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.

XXXI.

With 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, 
On 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; 
High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 
Solemn excuse the Captain made, 
Till, filing from the gate, had pass’d 
That noble train, their Lord the last. 

Then loudly rung the trumpet call; 
Thunder’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;

Till 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. M.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 

The scenes are desert now, and bare 

Where 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 

Have fenced him for three hundred years, 

While fell around his green compeers- 

Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 

The changes of his parent dell, 

Since he, so grey and stubborn now, 

Waved in each breeze a sapling bough; 

Would he could tell how deep the shade 

A thousand mingled branches made; 

How broad the shadows of the oak, 

How clung the rowan to the rock, 

And 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, 

What 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,) 

With lurching step around me prowl,