Marmion. Walter Scott

       Dance by on wings of game and glee,

       While the dark storm reserves its rage, 110

       Against the winter of our age:

       As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,

       His manhood spent in peace and joy;

       But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,

       Call’d ancient Priam forth to arms. 115

       Then happy those, since each must drain

       His share of pleasure, share of pain,-

       Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,

       To whom the mingled cup is given;

       Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 120

       Whose joys are chasten’d by their grief.

       And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,

       When thou, of late, wert doom’d to twine,--

       Just when thy bridal hour was by,-

       The cypress with the myrtle tie. 125

       Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled,

       And bless’d the union of his child,

       When love must change its joyous cheer,

       And wipe affection’s filial tear.

       Nor did the actions next his end, 130

       Speak more the father than the friend:

       Scarce had lamented Forbes paid

       The tribute to his Minstrel’s shade;

       The tale of friendship scarce was told,

       Ere the narrator’s heart was cold- 135

       Far may we search before we find

       A heart so manly and so kind!

       But not around his honour’d urn,

       Shall friends alone and kindred mourn;

       The thousand eyes his care had dried, 140

       Pour at his name a bitter tide;

       And frequent falls the grateful dew,

       For benefits the world ne’er knew.

       If mortal charity dare claim

       The Almighty’s attributed name, 145

       Inscribe above his mouldering clay,

       ‘The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.’

       Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem

       My verse intrudes on this sad theme;

       for sacred was the pen that wrote, 150

       ‘Thy father’s friend forget thou not:’

       And grateful title may I plead,

       For many a kindly word and deed,

       To bring my tribute to his grave:-

       ’Tis little-but ’tis all I have. 155

       To thee, perchance, this rambling strain

       Recalls our summer walks again;

       When, doing nought,-and, to speak true,

       Not anxious to find aught to do,-

       The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160

       While oft our talk its topic changed,

       And, desultory as our way,

       Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.

       Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,

       No effort made to break its trance, 165

       We could right pleasantly pursue

       Our sports in social silence too;

       Thou gravely labouring to pourtray

       The blighted oak’s fantastic spray;

       I spelling o’er, with much delight, 170

       The legend of that antique knight,

       Tirante by name, yclep’d the White.

       At either’s feet a trusty squire,

       Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

       Jealous, each other’s motions view’d, 175

       And scarce suppress’d their ancient feud.

       The laverock whistled from the cloud;

       The stream was lively, but not loud;

       From the white thorn the May-flower shed

       Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180

       Not Ariel lived more merrily

       Under the blossom’d bough, than we.

       And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,

       When Winter stript the summer’s bowers.

       Careless we heard, what now I hear, 185

       The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

       When fires were bright, and lamps beam’d gay,

       And ladies tuned the lovely lay;

       And he was held a laggard soul,

       Who shunn’d to quaff the sparkling bowl. 190

       Then he, whose absence we deplore,

       Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,

       The longer miss’d, bewail’d the more;

       And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-,

       And one whose name I may not say,- 195

       For not Mimosa’s tender tree

       Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,-

       In merry chorus well combined,

       With laughter drown’d the whistling wind.

       Mirth was within; and care without 200

       Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

       Not but amid the buxom scene

       Some grave discourse might intervene-

       Of the good horse that bore him best,

       His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: 205

       For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care,

       Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

       Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game

       Of manhood be more sober tame,

       And though the field-day, or the drill, 210

       Seem less important now-yet still

       Such may we hope to share again.

       The sprightly thought inspires my strain!

       And mark, how, like a horseman true,

       Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew. 215