Part 8 (1/2)

IX.

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 130 The air he chose was wild and sad; Such have I heard, in Scottish land, Rise from the busy harvest band, When falls before the mountaineer, On Lowland plains, the ripen'd ear. 135 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, Now a wild chorus swells the song: Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, As it came soften'd up the hill, And deem'd it the lament of men 140 Who languish'd for their native glen; And thought how sad would be such sound, On Susquehanna's swampy ground, Kentucky's wood-enc.u.mber'd brake, Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 145 Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again!

X.

Song

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, 150 Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow. 155

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; 160 There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never!

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! 165

XI.

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle, 170 Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap 175 O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; 180 Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never.

CHORUS.

Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

XII.

It ceased, the melancholy sound; And silence sunk on all around. 185 The air was sad; but sadder still It fell on Marmion's ear, And plain'd as if disgrace and ill, And shameful death, were near.

He drew his mantle past his face, 190 Between it and the band, And rested with his head a s.p.a.ce, Reclining on his hand.

His thoughts I scan not; but I ween, That, could their import have been seen, 195 The meanest groom in all the hall, That e'er tied courser to a stall, Would scarce have wished to be their prey, For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force, 200 Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse!

Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave!

Yet fatal strength they boast to steel Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 205 Even while they writhe beneath the smart Of civil conflict in the heart.

For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,- 'Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 210 Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, Such as in nunneries they toll For some departing sister's soul?

Say, what may this portend?'-- Then first the Palmer silence broke, 215 (The livelong day he had not spoke) 'The death of a dear friend.'