Marmion. Walter Scott

       Though small our pomp, and mean our game,

       Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same.

       Remember’st thou my greyhounds true? 60

       O’er holt or hill there never flew,

       From slip or leash there never sprang,

       More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.

       Nor dull, between each merry chase,

       Pass’d by the intermitted space; 65

       For we had fair resource in store,

       In Classic and in Gothic lore:

       We mark’d each memorable scene,

       And held poetic talk between;

       Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70

       But had its legend or its song.

       All silent now-for now are still

       Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!

       No longer, from thy mountains dun,

       The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 75

       And while his honest heart glows warm,

       At thought of his paternal farm,

       Round to his mates a brimmer fills,

       And drinks, ‘The Chieftain of the Hills!’

       No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers, 80

       Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,

       Fair as the elves whom Janet saw

       By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh;

       No youthful Baron’s left to grace

       The Forest-Sheriff’s lonely chase, 85

       And ape, in manly step and tone,

       The majesty of Oberon:

       And she is gone, whose lovely face

       Is but her least and lowest grace;

       Though if to Sylphid Queen ’twere given, 90

       To show our earth the charms of Heaven,

       She could not glide along the air,

       With form more light, or face more fair.

       No more the widow’s deafen’d ear

       Grows quick that lady’s step to hear: 95

       At noontide she expects her not,

       Nor busies her to trim the cot;

       Pensive she turns her humming wheel,

       Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal,

       Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100

       The gentle hand by which they’re fed.

       From Yair,-which hills so closely bind,

       Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,

       Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,

       Till all his eddying currents boil,- 105

       Her long descended lord is gone,

       And left us by the stream alone.

       And much I miss those sportive boys,

       Companions of my mountain joys,

       Just at the age ’twixt boy and youth, 110

       When thought is speech, and speech is truth.

       Close to my side, with what delight

       They press’d to hear of Wallace wight,

       When, pointing to his airy mound,

       I call’d his ramparts holy ground! 115

       Kindled their brows to hear me speak;

       And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,

       Despite the difference of our years,

       Return again the glow of theirs.

       Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, 120

       They will not, cannot long endure;

       Condemn’d to stem the world’s rude tide,

       You may not linger by the side;

       For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,

       And passion ply the sail and oar. 125

       Yet cherish the remembrance still,

       Of the lone mountain, and the rill;

       For trust, dear boys, the time will come,

       When fiercer transport shall be dumb,

       And you will think right frequently, 130

       But, well I hope, without a sigh,

       On the free hours that we have spent,

       Together, on the brown hill’s bent.

       When, musing on companions gone,

       We doubly feel ourselves alone, 135

       Something, my friend, we yet may gain,

       There is a pleasure in this pain:

       It soothes the love of lonely rest,

       Deep in each gentler heart impress’d.

       ’Tis silent amid worldly toils, 140

       And stifled soon by mental broils;

       But, in a bosom thus prepared,

       Its still small voice is often heard,

       Whispering a mingled sentiment,

       ’Twixt resignation and content. 145

       Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,

       By lone Saint Mary’s silent lake;

       Thou know’st it well,-nor fen, nor sedge,

       Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge;

       Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150

       At once upon the level brink;

       And just a trace of silver sand

       Marks where the water meets the land.

       Far in the mirror, bright and blue,

       Each hill’s huge outline you may view; 155

       Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,

       Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,

       Save where, of land, yon slender line

       Bears thwart the lake the scatter’d pine.

       Yet even this nakedness has power, 160

       And aids the feeling of the hour:

       Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,

       Where living thing conceal’d might lie;

       Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,

       Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; 165

       There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess,

       You see that all is loneliness:

       And silence aids-though the steep hills

       Send to the lake a thousand rills;

       In summer tide, so soft they weep, 170

       The sound but lulls the ear asleep;

       Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude,

       So stilly is the solitude.

       Nought living meets the eye or ear,

       But well I ween the dead are near; 175

       For though, in feudal strife, a foe

       Hath laid Our Lady’s chapel low,

       Yet still, beneath the hallow’d soil,

       The peasant rests him from his toil,

       And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 180