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Perchance he wish'd his boon denied:
For, when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease
Which marks security to please;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain-
He tried to tune his harp in vain!
The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain,

He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls;

He had play'd it to King Charles the good,
When he kept court in Holyrood;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to try
The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his finger stray'd,
And an uncertain warbling made,
And oft he shook his hoary head.
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighten'd up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!

In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along:
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot:
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied:
And, while his harp responsive rung,
'T was thus the LATEST MINSTREL sung.

THE CAMP.

[From Marmion, Canto IV.]

[Marmion and Sir David Lindesay survey the Scottish Camp from Blackford Hill.]

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 it 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.

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.
To me they make a heavy moan,
Of early friendships past and gone.

But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:

Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down :—
A thousand, did I say? I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen,
That chequer'd all the heath between
The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular ;

Oft giving way, where still there stood
Some relics of the old oak wood,

That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed the glaring white with green:

In these extended lines there lay

A martial kingdom's vast array.

Far from Hebudes, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain,
And from the southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge;

From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank,
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank,
And charger's shrilling neigh;
And see the shifting lines advance

While frequent flash'd, from shield and lance,
The sun's reflected ray.

Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare
To embers now the brands decay'd,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war;

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven 1,
And culverins which France had given.
Ill-omen'd gift! the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;

Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol 2, there
O'er the pavilions flew.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The royal banner floating wide;

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,

Yet bent beneath the standard's weight
Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,
The ruddy Lion ramp'd in gold.

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,-
He view'd it with a chief's delight,—

Until within him burn'd his heart,

And lightning from his eye did part,
As on the battle-day;

Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.
'Oh well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay:

1 Seven culverins so called, cast by one Borthwick.

2 Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different rank of those

entitled to display them.

For, by St. George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine

In glorious battle fray!' Answer'd the Bard, of milder mood,— 'Fair is the sight,—and yet 'twere good, That Kings would think withal, When peace and wealth their land has bless'd, 'Tis better to sit still at rest,

Than rise, perchance to fall.'

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,
For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd.

When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red;

For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,

The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,

And all the deep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town!

But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
It gleam'd a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law;

And, broad between them rolled,
The gallant Frith the eye might note,

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