"But DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:—

* * * * *

'The hand of DOUGLAS is his own,

And never shall in friendly grasp

The hand of such as MARMION clasp.'"

* * * * *

"The hand of such as MARMION!" Ay!

Great Singer of the knightly lay,

Thy tale of Flodden field

Is darkened by unknightly stain.

That slackened arm and burdened brain

Of him found low among the slain,

Constrained at last to yield

To a mere "base marauder's lance;"

He, firm of front and cold of glance,

The dark, the dauntless MARMION.—

The days of chivalry are gone,

Dispraisers of the present say,

Yet men arm still for party fray

As fierce as foray old;

And mail is donned, and steel is drawn,

And champions challenging at dawn

Ere night lie still and cold.

Two champions here 'midst loud applause,

Have led the lists in a joint cause

On many a tourney morn,

Have fought to vanward in the field

Full many an hour, and, sternly steeled,

One banner forward borne.

And now—ah, well, as DOUGLAS old

On MARMION looked sternly cold,

So looks this Chieftain grey

On his old comrade, though the fight

Is forward now, and many a knight

Is arming for the fray.

As "the demeanour changed and cold

Of DOUGLAS fretted MARMION bold,"

Has this old greyhaired Chieftain's chill

Fretted that man of icy will?

Who knows—or cares to know?

At least he "has to learn ere long

That constant mind, and hate of wrong"

Than steely pride are yet more strong;

That shame can strike a blow

At comradeship more fatal far

Than any chance of fateful war

When faction howled with Cerberus throat,

When falsehood struck a felon stroke,

When forgery did its worst

To pull its hated quarry down,

To dim, disarm, degrade, discrown.

Against the array accurst

That ancient chief made gallant head,

Dismayed not, nor disquieted

At rancour's rude assault.

He shared opprobrium undeserved,

But not for that had courage swerved,

Or loyalty made default.

But now? The hand that reared hath razed;

And as old ANGUS stood amazed

At WILTON's shameful tale,

So fealty here must bend the brow,

And faith, though sorely tried, till now

Surviving, faint and fail;

As DOUGLAS round him drew his cloak,

So, saddened by unknightly stroke,

The ancient chief must draw;

Nor in mere pharisaic scorn,

But in the name of faith foresworn

And honour's broken law.

"'Tis pity of him, too!" 'Twas so,

The half-relenting ANGUS, low

Spake in his snowy beard.

"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:

I warrant him a warrior tried."

A foeman to be feared,

A leader to be trusted, seemed

This dark, cold chief, and few had dreamed

Of such strange severance.

And any not ignoble eye

In sorrow more than mockery

Aside will gladly glance.

'Tis pity of it! Right or wrong,

The Cause needs champions true as strong,

And blameless as they're bold.

"A sinful heart makes feeble hand,"

Cried MARMION, his "failing brand"

Cursing with lips grown cold.

Let vulgar venom triumph here,

And hate, itself from shame not clear,

Make haste to hurl the stone;

A nobler foe will stand aside,

And more in sorrow than in pride,

Not hot to harry or deride,

Like DOUGLAS in his halls abide,

But keep his hand—his own!