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ancient arms band banner bard battle beneath blood blood-hound bold bower Branksome brave breast brow Bruce called CANTO castle chief chivalry clan courser dark death deep Deloraine Douglas dread Earl Earl of Angus English fair falchion fame fear fell fight gallant glance glen grace gray hall hand harp hast hath head hear heard heart heaven Highland hill holy honour horse hound Isles James John king knight lady lake land Liddesdale light Loch Katrine Lord Lorn loud maid Marmion minstrel moss-troopers mountain ne'er noble Norham Note o'er pibroch pride Risingham rock Roderick round Saint scene Scot Scotland Scott Scottish seem'd Sir Walter Scott slain song sought sound spear Stanza steed stood Swinton sword tale tell thai thee thine thou tide tower wake warrior wave ween wild wind youth
Page 154 - He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing, When blighting was nearest.
Page 142 - Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Page 108 - O Woman ! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made, When pain and anguish wring the brow A ministering angel...
Page 104 - England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ! And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword) I tell thee thou'rt defied!
Page 108 - Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield: Edmund is down; my life is reft; The Admiral alone is left, Let Stanley charge with spur of fire- With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice? hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone to die.
Page 2 - 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, 'Twas thus the latest minstrel sung.
Page 166 - I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band !
Page 104 - Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried : " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.
Page 108 - 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.
Page 167 - Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintain'd unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ; No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed.