‘The joyful King turn’d home again, Headed his host, and quell’d the Dane;But yearly, when return’d the night Of his strange combat with the sprite, His wound must bleed and smart; Lord Gifford then would gibing say, “Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay The penance of your start.”Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave, King Alexander fills his grave, Our Lady give him rest! Yet still the knightly spear and shield The Elfin Warrior doth wield, Upon the brown hill’s breast;And many a knight hath proved his chance, In the charm’d ring to break a lance, But all have foully sped; Save two, as legends tell, and they Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.- Gentles, my tale is said.’
XXVI.
The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong, And on the tale the yeoman-throng Had made a comment sage and long, But Marmion gave a sign: And, with their lord, the squires retire; The rest around the hostel fire, Their drowsy limbs recline: For pillow, underneath each head, The quiver and the targe were laid. Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, Oppress’d with toil and ale, they snore: The dying flame, in fitful change, Threw on the group its shadows strange.
XXVII.
Apart, and nestling in the hay Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen The foldings of his mantle green:Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, Of sport by thicket, or by stream, Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love. A cautious tread his slumber broke, And, close beside him, when he woke, In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, Stood a tall form, with nodding plume;But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, His master Marmion’s voice he knew.
XXVIII.
-‘Fitz-Eustace! rise,-I cannot rest; Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast, And graver thoughts have chafed my mood:
