Scotland receded from the view, And, on the far horizon blue, Faded her last, dear hills--the mew Screamed to its sea-isle near. As day-beams ceased the west to flout, Each after each the stars came out, Like camp-fires heaven's high hosts about, With lustre calm and clear. XIII. And on, through many a Saxon town Northumbrian, and of quaint renown, Before the morning star went down, With thunderous reel they hied; While from the lattices aloof, Of many an angled, gray-stone roof. Rose sudden heads, as sound of hoof And wheel to southward died. XIV. Like Hope's voice preaching to Despair, Sweetly the chimes for matin prayer Melted upon the dewy air From Hexham's holy pile; But, like the adder deaf, no sound, Or stern or sweet, an echo found 'Mid that dark squadron, as it wound Still onwards, mile on mile. XV. Streamers, and booths, and country games, And brawny churls, with rustic names, And blooming maids, and buxom dames,-- A boisterous village fair! On stage his sleights the jongleur shows, Like strutting cock the jester crows, And high the morrice-dancer throws His antic heels in air. XVI. Why pause at reel each lad and lass? A solemn awe pervades the mass; Wondering they see the travellers pass, The horsemen journey-worn, And, in the midst, that blinded van So hearse-like; while, from man to man, "Is it of Death"--in whispers ran-- "This spectacle forlorn?" XVII. Bright are thy shadowy forest-bowers, Fair Ashby-de-la-Zouche! with flowers; The wild-deer in its covert cowers, And, from its pine-tree old, The startled cushat, in unrest, Circles around its airy nest, As forward, on its route unblest, Aye on that waggon rolled. XVIII. And many a grove-encircled town, And many a keep of old renown, That grimly watched o'er dale and down, They passed unheeding by; Prone from the rocks the waters streamed, And, 'mid the yellow harvests, gleamed The reapers' sickles, but all seemed, Mere pictures to the eye. XIX. Behold a tournay on the green! The tents are pitched--the tilters keen Gambol the listed lines between-- The motley crowds around For jibe, and jest, and wanton play Are met--a merry holiday; And glide the lightsome hours away In mirth, to music's sound. XX. And hark! the exulting shouts that rise, As, cynosure of circling eyes, Beauty's fair queen awards the prize To knight that lowly kneels. "Make way--make way!" is heard aloud-- Like Red Sea waters part the crowd, And, scornful of that pageant proud, On grinding rush the wheels! XXI.