Marmion

  Come town-ward rushing on; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode,                       
Then, clattering on the village road,- 
In other pace than forth he yode, 
  Return’d Lord Marmion.

Down hastily he sprung from selle, 
And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell; 

To the squire’s hand the rein he threw, 
And spoke no word as he withdrew: 
But yet the moonlight did betray, 
The falcon-crest was soil’d with clay;

And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,     
By stains upon the charger’s knee, 
And his left side, that on the moor 
He had not kept his footing sure.

Long musing on these wondrous signs, 
At length to rest the squire reclines,   
Broken and short; for still, between, 
Would dreams of terror intervene:

Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark 
The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 

An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 
‘Where is the life which late we led?’ 
That motley clown in Arden wood, 
Whom humorous Jacques with envy view’d, 
Not even that clown could amplify,              
On this trite text, so long as I.

Eleven years we now may tell, 
Since we have known each other well; 
Since, riding side by side, our hand 
First drew the voluntary brand;            

And sure, through many a varied scene, 
Unkindness never came between.

Away these winged years have flown, 
To join the mass of ages gone;

And though deep mark’d, like all below, 
With chequer’d shades of joy and woe;

Though thou o’er realms and seas hast ranged, 
Mark’d cities lost, and empires changed, 
While here, at home, my narrower ken 
Somewhat of manners saw, and men;   

Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 
Fever’d the progress of these years, 
Vet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem 
The recollection of a dream, 
So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

  Even now it scarcely seems a day, 
Since first I tuned this idle lay;

A task so often’ thrown aside, 
When leisure graver cares denied,           
That now, November’s dreary gale, 
Whose voice inspired my opening tale, 
That same November gale once more 
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.

Their vex’d boughs streaming to the sky, 
Once more our naked birches sigh,