Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And, as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, **Or injured Constance, bathes my head?” ́ Then, as remembrance rose"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer!

I must redress her woes.

Short space, few words, are mine to spare;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!"

"Alas!" she said, "the while-
O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal;
She died at Holy Isle.'

Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents, from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!"-he said "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,

Might bribe him for delay.

It may not be!-this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand!"
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

"Avoid thee, Fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
O think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And-STANLEY! was the cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand above his head

He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

(FROM MARMION.)

Heap on more wood!-the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem'd the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer;
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer,
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round in brutal jest were thrown
The half-gnaw'd rib and marrow-bone,
Or listen'd all in grim delight
While scalds yell'd out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll'd,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night:

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open'd wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight,
And general voice, the happy night,

That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell,
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas-pie;
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roar'd with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.1

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurr'd his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.

1 Smaylho'me or Smallholm Tower, the scene of this ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks called Sandikow Crags. The tower is a high square building surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apart ments, as is usual in a Border keep or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days space
And his looks were sad and sour;
And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reached his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor
Ran red with English blood;
Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,
'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,
His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,-
But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,
He held him close and still;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,
His name was English Will.

"Come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young, and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.

"Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did thy lady do?"

'My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told.

stair; on the roof are two bartizans or platforms for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer, an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watchfold, and is said to have been the station of a beacon in the times of war with England. Without the tower court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath in the neighbourhood of Smaylho`me Tower.

This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's Tales of Wonder. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition.

2 The plate jack is coat armour: the vaunt brace or wam brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand;

The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,

For it scorch'd like a fiery brand.

The sable score, of fingers four,

Remains on that board impress'd; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist.

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower
Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk, who speaks to none--
That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay,
That monk the bold Baron.

THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. (FROM THE LORD OF THE ISLES,1)

The King had deem'd the maiden bright
Should reach him long before the fight,
But storms and fate her course delay:
It was on eve of battle-day,
When o'er the Gillie's hill she rode.
The landscape like a furnace glow'd,
And far as e'er the eye was borne,
The lances waved like autumn-corn.
In battles four beneath their eye,
The forces of King Robert lie.
And one below the hill was laid,
Reserved for rescue and for aid;
And three, advanced, form'd vaward-line,
'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's shrine.
Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh
As well might mutual aid supply.
Beyond, the Southern host appears,
A boundless wilderness of spears,
Whose verge or rear the anxious eye
Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy.
Thick flashing in the evening beam,
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam:
And where the heaven join'd with the hill,
Was distant armour flashing still,
So wide, so far, the boundless host
Seem'd in the blue horizon lost.

Down from the hill the maiden pass'd, At the wild show of war aghast;

The poem is now, I believe, about as popular as "Rokeby," but it has never reached the same station in general favour with the "Lay," "Marmion," or the Lady of the Lake."-John Gibson Lockhart,

And traversed first the rearward host,
Reserved for aid where needed most.
The men of Carrick and of Ayr,
Lennox and Lanark, too, were there,
And all the western land;
With these the valiant of the Isles
Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files,
In many a plaided band.
There, in the centre, proudly raised,
The Bruce's royal standard blazed,
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore
A galley driven by sail and oar.
A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made
Warriors in mail and plate array'd,
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid
By these Hebrideans worn;
But O! unseen for three long years,
Dear was the garb of mountaineers

To the fair Maid of Lorn!

For one she look'd—but he was far
Busied amid the ranks of war-
Yet with affection's troubled eye
She mark'd his banner boldly fly,
Gave on the countless foe a glance,

And thought on battle's desperate chance.

To centre of the vaward-line
Fitz-Louis guided Amadine.

Arm'd all on foot, that host appears
A serried mass of glimmering spears.
There stood the Marchers' warlike band,
The warriors there of Lodon's land;
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew,
A band of archers fierce, though few;
The men of Nith and Annan's vale,
And the bold Spears of Teviotdale;-
The dauntless Douglas these obey,
And the young Stuart's gentle sway.
North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine,
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, combine
The warriors whom the hardy North
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth.
The rest of Scotland's war-array
With Edward Bruce to westward lay,
Where Bannock, with his broken bank
And deep ravine, protects their flank.
Behind them, screen'd by sheltering wood,
The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood:
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance,
And plumes that wave, and helins that glance.
Thus fair divided by the King,
Centre, and right, and left-ward wing,
Composed his front; nor distant far
Was strong reserve to aid the war.
And 'twas to front of this array,
Her guide and Edith made their way.

Here must they pause; for, in advance
As far as one might pitch a lance,

The Monarch rode along the van,
The foe's approaching force to scan,
His line to marshal and to range,
And ranks to square, and fronts to change.
Alone he rode-from head to heel
Sheathed in his ready arms of steel;
Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight,
But, till more near the shock of fight,
Reining a palfrey low and light.
A diadem of gold was set
Above his bright steel basinet,
And clasp'd within its glittering twine
Was seen the glove of Argentine;
Truncheon or leading staff he lacks,
Bearing, instead, a battle-axe.
He ranged his soldiers for the fight,
Accoutred thus, in open sight

Of either host.-Three bowshots far,
Paused the deep front of England's war,
And rested on their arms awhile,
To close and rank their warlike file,
And hold high council, if that night
Should view the strife, or dawning light.
O gay, yet fearful to behold,
Flashing with steel and rough with gold,

And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front! for there

Rode England's King and peers: And who, that saw that monarch ride, His kingdom battled by his side, Could then his direful doom foretell!Fair was his seat in knightly selle, And in his sprightly eye was set Some spark of the Plantagenet. Though light and wandering was his glance,

It flash'd at sight of shield and lance.

Know'st thou," he said, "De Argentine, Yon knight who marshals thus their line?""The tokens on his helmet tell