I would, the omen's truth to show,
That I could meet this elfin foe!
Blithe would I battle for the right
To ask one question at the sprite.
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea

To dashing waters dance and sing,

Or round the green oak wheel their ring.'
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

XXX

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,

And marked him pace the village road, And listened to his horse's tramp, Till, by the lessening sound,

He judged that of the Pictish camp

Lord Marmion sought the round. Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, That one, so wary held and wise,

Of whom 't was said, he scarce received
For gospel what the Church believed, -
Should, stirred by idle tale,

Ride forth in silence of the night,
As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Arrayed in plate and mail.

For little did Fitz-Eustace know

That passions in contending flow
Unfix the strongest mind;

Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee,

We welcome fond credulity,

Guide confident, though blind.

XXXI

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,

But patient waited till he heard
At distance, pricked to utmost speed,
The foot-tramp of a flying steed

Come townward rushing on; First, dead, as if on turf it trode, Then, clattering on the village road, In other pace than forth he yode, Returned Lord Marmion. Down hastily he sprung from selle, And in his haste wellnigh he fell; To the squire's hand the rein he threw, And spoke no word as he withdrew: But yet the moonlight did betray The falcon-crest was soiled with clay; And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, By stains upon the charger's knee And his left side, that on the moor He had not kept his footing sure. Long musing on these wondrous signs,

At length to rest the squire reclines, Broken and short; for still between Would dreams of terror intervene: Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark The first notes of the morning lark.

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

An ancient Minstrel sagely said,

'Where is the life which late we led?'

That motley clown in Arden wood,
Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,
Not even that clown could amplify
On this trite text so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell

Since we have known each other well,

Since, riding side by side, our hand

First drew the voluntary brand;

And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.

Away these winged years have flown,

To join the mass of ages gone;

And though deep marked, like all below,

With checkered shades of joy and woe,

Though thou o'er realms and seas hast ranged, Marked cities lost and empires changed,

While here at home my narrower ken

Somewhat of manners saw and men;

Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears
Fevered the progress of these years,

Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem
The recollection of a dream,

So still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day
Since first I tuned this idle lay;
A task so often thrown aside,
When leisure graver cares denied,

That now November's dreary gale,

Whose voice inspired my opening tale,
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore.
Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen
Have donned their wintry shrouds again,
And mountain dark and flooded mead
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,

Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly;
The shepherd who, in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen,
He who, outstretched the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,