Marvell’d Sir David of the Mount; Then, learn’d in story, ‘gan recount Such chance had happ’d of old, When once, near Norham, there did fight A spectre fell of fiendish might, In likeness of a Scottish knight, With Brian Bulmer bold, And train’d him nigh to disallow The aid of his baptismal vow.‘And such a phantom, too, ‘tis said, With Highland broadsword, targe, and plaid And fingers red with gore, Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, Or where the sable pine-tree shade Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, Dromouchty, or Glenmore. And yet, whate’er such legends say, Of warlike demon, ghost, or lay, On mountain, moor, or plain, Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, True son of chivalry should hold These midnight terrors vain;For seldom have such spirits power To harm, save in the evil hour, When guilt we meditate within, Or harbour unrepented sin.’- Lord Marmion turn’d him half aside, And twice to clear his voice he tried, Then press’d Sir David’s hand,- But nought, at length, in answer said; And here their farther converse staid, Each ordering that his band Should bowne them with the rising day, To Scotland’s camp to take their way, Such was the King’s command.
XXIII.
Early they took Dun-Edin’s road, And I could trace each step they trode: Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, Lies on the path to me unknown.Much might if boast of storied lore; But, passing such digression o’er, Suffice it that their route was laid Across the furzy hills of Braid.They pass’d the glen and scanty rill, And climb’d the opposing bank, until They gain’d the top of Blackford Hill.
XXIV.
Blackford! on whose uncultured breast, Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,A truant-boy, I sought the nest,Or listed, as I lay at rest, While rose, on breezes thin, The murmur of the city crowd,And, from his steeple jangling loud, Saint Giles’s mingling din.Now, from the summit to the plain,Waves all the hill with yellow grain; And o’er the landscape as I look,Nought do I see unchanged remain, Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
