MARMION, A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD A Poem. IN SIX CANTOS. Alas! that Scottish maid should sing ΤΟ THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY, LORD MONTAGUE, &c. &c. &c. THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. ADVERTISEMENT. Ir is hardly to be expected, that an Author, whom the Public has honoured with some degree of applause, should not be again a trespasser on their kindness. Yet the Author of MARMION must be supposed to feel some anxiety concerning its success, since he is sensible that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any reputation which his first Poem may have procured him. The present Story turns upon the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and the causes which led to it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprise his readers, at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare them for the manners of the Age in which it is laid. Any historical narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale; yet he may be permitted to hope, from the popularity of THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unacceptable to the Public. The Poem opens about the commencement of August, and concludes with the the defeat of Flodden, 4th September, 1518. INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST. TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. NOVEMBER'S Sky is chill and drear, No longer Autumn's glowing red A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower To mute and to material things The mind, that thought for Britain's weal, Even on the meanest flower that blows; Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrines Deep graved in every British heart, Short, bright, resistless course was given, Rolled, blazed, destroyed,—and was no more, Nor mourn ye less his perished worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launched that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar; Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave; His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of power, Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strained at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, The pride, he would not crush, restrained, Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's [laws, Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power, A watchman on the lonely tower, Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, When fraud or danger were at hand; By thee, as by the beacon-light, Our pilots had kept course aright; As some proud column, though alone, Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne. Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill! Oh, think, how to his latest day, When Death, just hovering, claimed his prcy, Firm at his dangerous post he stood, Each call for needful rest repelled, With dying hand the rudder held, Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, The steerage of the realm gave way! Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around Copenhagen. |