To bring my tribute to his grave:— ’Tis little—but ’tis all I have. To thee, perchance, this rambling strain Recalls our summer walks again; When, doing naught—and, to speak true, Not anxious to find aught to do— The wild unbounded hills we ranged, While oft our talk its topic changed, And, desultory as our way, Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, No effort made to break its trance, We could right pleasantly pursue Our sports in social silence too; Thou gravely labouring to portray The blighted oak’s fantastic spray; I spelling o’er, with much delight, The legend of that antique knight, Tirante by name, ycleped the White. At either’s feet a trusty squire, Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire, Jealous, each other’s motions viewed, And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. The laverock whistled from the cloud; The stream was lively, but not loud; From the white thorn the Mayflower shed Its dewy fragrance round our head: Not Ariel lived more merrily Under the blossomed bough than we. And blithesome nights, too, have been ours, When winter stript the summer’s bowers. Careless we heard, what now I hear, The wild blast sighing deep and drear, When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay, And ladies tuned the lovely lay; And he was held a laggard soul, Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl. Then he, whose absence we deplore, Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore, The longer missed, bewailed the more; And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, And one whose name I may not say— For not Mimosa’s tender tree Shrinks sooner from the touch than he— In merry chorus well combined, With laughter drowned the whistling wind. Mirth was within; and Care without Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. Not but amid the buxom scene Some grave discourse might intervene— Of the good horse that bore him best, His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest: For, like mad Tom’s, our chiefest care, Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. Such nights we’ve had; and, though the game Of manhood be more sober tame, And though the field-day, or the drill, Seem less important now—yet still Such may we hope to share again. The sprightly thought inspires my strain! And mark how, like a horseman true, Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew. CANTO FOURTH. The Camp. I.