THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Though there but houseless cattle go

       To shield them from the storm.

       And, shuddering, still may we explore,

       Where oft whilom were captives pent,

       The darkness of thy massy-more;

       Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,

       May trace, in undulating line,

       The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.

       XII

      Another aspect Crichtoun showed,

       As through its portal Marmion rode;

       But yet ‘twas melancholy state

       Received him at the outer gate;

       For none were in the castle then,

       But women, boys, or aged men.

       With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,

       To welcome noble Marmion came;

       Her son, a stripling twelve years old,

       Proffered the baron’s rein to hold;

       For each man that could draw a sword

       Had marched that morning with their lord,

       Earl Adam Hepburn—he who died

       On Flodden, by his sovereign’s side

       Long may his lady look in vain!

       She ne’er shall see his gallant train

       Come sweeping back through Crichtoun Dean.

       ‘Twas a brave race, before the name

       Of hated Bothwell stained their fame.

       XIII

      And here two days did Marmion rest,

       With every rite that honour claims,

       Attended as the king’s own guest; -

       Such the command of royal James,

       Who marshalled then his land’s array,

       Upon the Borough Moor that lay.

       Perchance he would not foeman’s eye

       Upon his gathering host should pry,

       Till full prepared was every band

       To march against the English land.

       Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit

       Oft cheer the baron’s moodier fit;

       And, in his turn, he knew to prize

       Lord Marmion’s powerful mind, and wise -

       Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,

       And policies of war and peace.

       XIV

      It chanced, as fell the second night,

       That on the battlements they walked,

       And, by the slowly fading night,

       Of varying topics talked;

       And, unaware, the herald-bard

       Said, Marmion might his toil have spared,

       In travelling so far;

       For that a messenger from heaven

       In vain to James had counsel given

       Against the English war:

       And, closer questioned, thus he told

       A tale, which chronicles of old

       In Scottish story have enrolled: -

       XV

       Sir David Lindesay’s Tale

      “Of all the palaces so fair,

       Built for the royal dwelling,

       In Scotland far beyond compare,

       Linlithgow is excelling;

       And in its park, in jovial June,

       How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,

       How blithe the blackbird’s lay;

       The wild-buck bells from ferny brake,

       The coot dives merry on the lake;

       The saddest heart might pleasure take

       To see all nature gay.

       But June is, to our sovereign dear,

       The heaviest month in all the year:

       Too well his cause of grief you know,

       June saw his father’s overthrow,

       Woe to the traitors, who could bring

       The princely boy against his king!

       Still in his conscience burns the sting.

       In offices as strict as Lent,

       King James’s June is ever spent.

       XVI

      “When last this ruthful .month was come,

       And in Linlithgow’s holy dome

       The King, as wont, was praying;

       While, for his royal father’s soul,

       The chanters sung, the bells did toll,

       The bishop mass was saying -

       For now the year brought round again

       The day the luckless king was slain -

       In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,

       With sackcloth-shirt and iron belt,

       And eyes with sorrow streaming;

       Around him, in their stalls of state,

       The Thistle’s knight-companions sate,

       Their banners o’er them beaming.

       I too was there, and, sooth to tell,

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