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XXXVII.

Less easy task it were, to show

Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. They dug his grave e'en where he lay, But every mark is gone;

Time's wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sybil Gray,
And broke her font of stone:
But yet out from the little hill
Oozes the slender springlet still.
Oft halts the stranger there,
For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry;
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
And plait their garlands fair;
Nor dream they sit upon the grave
That holds the bones of Marmion brave.-
When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune, and be still.
If ever, in temptation strong,

Thou left'st the right path for the wrong;
If every devious step, thus trod,
Still led thee further from the road;
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb;
But say, "He died a gallant knight,
With sword in hand, for England's right."
XXXVIII.

I do not rhyme to that dull elf,
Who cannot image to himself,

That all through Flodden's dismal night,
Wilton was foremost in the fight;

That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain,

"Twas Wilton mounted him again;

'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd,
Amid the spearman's stubborn wood:
Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall,
He was the living soul of all;
That, after fight, his faith made plair,
He won his rank and lands again;
And charged his old paternal shield
With bearings won on Flodden Field.
Nor sing I to that simple maid,
To whom it must in terms be said,
That King and kinsmen did agree
To bless fair Clara's constancy;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal's state;
That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke:
That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
And Catherine's hand the stocking threw :

And afterwards, for many a day,
That it was held enough to say,
In blessing to a wedded pair,
"Love they like Wilton and like Clare.

L'Envoy.

TO THE READER.

WHY then a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,
Who long have listed to my rede?
To Statesmen grave, if such may deign
To read the Minstrel's idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit,
And patriotic heart-as PITT!

A garland for the hero's crest,

And twined by her he loves the best;
To every lovely lady bright,

What can I wish but faithful knight?
To every faithful lover too,

What can I wish but lady true?
And knowledge to the studious sage;
And pillow to the head of age.

To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
Has cheated of thy hour of play,
Light task, and merry holiday

To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!

[graphic]

THE

LADY OF THE LAKE:

A POEM.

IN SIX CANTOS.

TO THE

MOST NOBLE

JOHN JAMES

MARQUIS OF ABERCORN,

ETC. ETC. ETC.

THIS

POEM IS INSCRIBED

BY

THE AUTHOR

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